Certain films are so inextricably tied to the cultural and political climate of their moment that they could not have been made—or would have failed to resonate—outside of a specific historical window. 1968 was such a year, a period when the old world seemed to be collapsing under the weight of war, rebellion, and shifting social norms, while the new world remained uncertain and unformed. Amidst this chaos, science fiction cinema reached a zenith of creativity and influence, yielding two enduring masterpieces: Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and Franklin Schaffner’s Planet of the Apes. Yet another film emerged that year, equally influential but for wholly different reasons: Roger Vadim’s Barbarella, a Franco-Italian sci-fi spectacle that became infamous for its bold eroticism, psychedelic visuals, and unapologetic camp. While Kubrick and Schaffner tackled important themes with gravity, Barbarella revelled in excess, embodying the Sexual Revolution and the era’s embrace of hedonism. It was a film made possible only by the loosening of censorship standards and the zeitgeist’s fascination with pushing boundaries, yet its legacy lies not in prophecy or profundity but in its audacious celebration of sensory overload and taboo-breaking fantasy.
Adapted from Jean-Claude Forest’s 1962 comic series of the same name, Barbarella was rooted in a medium that had already broken new ground for adult audiences. Forest’s comics, among the first to cater explicitly to mature readers, blended science fiction with explicit eroticism, challenging the notion that graphic narratives needed to sanitise human desire. The series’ unapologetic sensuality and futuristic settings caught the attention of French director Roger Vadim, a filmmaker with a flair for provocative storytelling and a growing obsession with science fiction. Determined to translate the comics into a cinematic experience, Vadim enlisted his then-wife, the American actress Jane Fonda, to play the titular heroine—a choice that leveraged her star power and iconoclastic image as both a Hollywood heir and a rising sex symbol. To bolster the project’s credibility, Vadim recruited screenwriter Terry Southern, a wit renowned for his work on Dr. Strangelove, and producer Dino De Laurentiis, whose flair for grandiose spectacle would prove invaluable. The collaboration between these figures, united by a shared appetite for pushing creative limits, set the stage for a film that would defy expectations.
Set in the 41st century, Barbarella follows its titular protagonist (Fonda), a space explorer tasked by Earth’s president (Claude Dauphin) with retrieving Professor Durand Durand (Milo O’Shea), a scientist whose invention of a doomsday weapon has led to his disappearance. After crash-landing on the planet Tau Ceti, Barbarella becomes entangled in a labyrinthine world of political intrigue, surreal landscapes, and bizarre inhabitants. Rescued by the cynical hunter Mark Hand (Ugo Tognazzi), she navigates the city of Sogo, ruled by the tyrannical Black Queen (Anita Pallenberg, voiced by Joan Greenwood). Along the way, she allies with Dildano (David Hemmings), a bumbling revolutionary, and Pygar (John Phillip Law), a blind angel whose wings have atrophied. The plot, however, is secondary to the film’s visual and thematic ambitions. Barbarella’s mission to stop Durand Durand—a character whose name would later inspire the band Duran Duran—serves as a pretext for exploring the film’s true fascination: the intersection of technology, sexuality, and liberation.
Despite Terry Southern’s involvement, the script for Barbarella is a haphazard affair, shaped more by Vadim’s vision than any coherent narrative logic. Southern’s satirical wit is diluted by Vadim’s rewrites and contributions from uncredited screenwriters, resulting in a plot that is rudimentary at best. Characters are defined less by depth than by their function in the film’s thematic and visual conceits: Durand Durand is a bumbling mad scientist, the Black Queen a lesbian femme fatale, and Pygar a metaphor for lost idealism. Even Barbarella herself is a cipher, her motivations and personality left underdeveloped beyond her role as an object of desire. Yet the cast delivers with panache, turning one-dimensional roles into memorable performances. Fonda, in particular, imbues Barbarella with a mix of vulnerability and self-assurance, while Milo O’Shea steals scenes as Durand Durand with his hammy, almost farcical delivery. The script’s lack of complexity is forgivable given the film’s self-aware campiness, but it leaves little room for intellectual engagement.
Where Barbarella truly excels is in its production design and aesthetic daring. Vadim and his team—particularly art director Antonio Botta and costume designer Piero Tosi—crafted a visually overwhelming universe that epitomised the era’s psychedelic experimentation. The film’s set pieces, from the labyrinthine catacombs of Sogo’s outcasts to the Black Queen’s cavernous lair, are steeped in surrealism and colour, evoking the feverish imagination of the 1960s counterculture. The costumes, in particular, are a feast for the eyes: Barbarella’s iconic plastic bodysuit, the Black Queen’s metallic gowns, and Dildano’s mismatched attire all blend futurism with eroticism. Even the film’s dated special effects—such as the jerky zero-gravity sequences—add to its retro charm, reinforcing its status as a time capsule. The production’s campy excess is not a flaw but its essence, inviting viewers to revel in its over-the-top spectacle rather than scrutinise its technical shortcomings.
The film’s most notorious element is its explicit eroticism, particularly the opening scene where Barbarella performs a zero-gravity striptease, shedding her spacesuit to reveal her nude body. Though brief, this sequence set the tone for the film’s treatment of sexuality, which oscillates between titillation and satire. Fonda’s nude scenes—and those of supporting cast members like John Phillip Law, who appears semi-nude throughout—were revolutionary at the time, challenging Hollywood’s puritanical norms. For all its notoriety, however, the film’s erotic content is never truly exploitative; instead, it functions as a playful critique of male desire, with Barbarella retaining agency even as she becomes an object of fascination. Fonda’s dual persona as both a sex symbol and a respected actress was cemented here, a rare feat that allowed her to navigate the rest of her career with confidence.
Vadim’s decision to include male nudity, notably Law’s semi-clad angel Pygar, adds a layer of irony to the film’s gender dynamics. While critics might accuse the film of objectifying women, the inclusion of male vulnerability—a rarity in 1960s cinema—subverts traditional power structures. This self-aware campiness, combined with the film’s irreverent tone, allows it to sidestep accusations of misogyny. Scenes like the “meat grinder” torture device, which parodies both sci-fi gadgetry and sexual violence, underscore the film’s satirical intent. By treating its own excesses with tongue-in-cheek nonchalance, Barbarella becomes a meta-commentary on the absurdity of both censorship and exploitation.
The film’s irreverent humour and speculative takes on future sexuality further cement its place as a product of its time. Barbarella’s casual approach to polyamory and “safe” sex via pills and rituals reflects the era’s exploration of non-traditional relationships. The dialogue, peppered with Southern’s deadpan wit, oscillates between highbrow philosophy and slapstick, creating a dissonance that amplifies the film’s surreal tone. This blend of satire and earnestness makes Barbarella feel both dated and ahead of its time, a paradox that fuels its enduring appeal.
Upon release, Barbarella divided critics: some dismissed it as shallow and vulgar, while others praised its audacity and visual innovation. Its commercial success, however, was undeniable, grossing over $25 million worldwide—a significant feat for a European co-production. While its influence on cinema remains niche compared to 2001 or Apes, its impact on pop culture is vast. The character of Durand Durand became the namesake of the band Duran Duran, who even invited Milo O’Shea to reprise his role in a 1985 concert. Kylie Minogue’s 1994 music video for Put Yourself in My Place reimagined the opening striptease, proving the film’s imagery had seeped into the collective consciousness. Barbarella also inspired a wave of similarly flamboyant sci-fi spectacles, most notably Flash Gordon (1980), though few matched its cultural staying power.
Numerous attempts to revive Barbarella have come and gone, the latest proposed reboot starring Sydney Sweeney. None have materialised, likely because the film’s magic lies in its unrepentant anachronism. Any remake would inevitably sanitise its excess or dilute its campy charm, reducing it to a hollow pastiche. Like its titular heroine, Barbarella is best left as a monument to 1968’s contradictions: a film that simultaneously embodied liberation and kitsch, seriousness and silliness. Its refusal to take itself too seriously, coupled with its fearless embrace of the era’s rebellious spirit, ensures its status as a cult classic. To remake it would be to rob it of its most vital quality—its unapologetic authenticity as a product of its moment.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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