SUPERDYNAMATION! Where Ray Harryhausen Meets Reality
A great and revealing moment occurs at the end of one of Ray Harryhausen’s lesser films, The Valley of Gwangi (1969), that seems to crystallize his entire sensibility. A Tyrannosaurus Rex that has just chomped and stomped its way though a Mexican town is being burned alive inside of a museum where it has been trapped. The camera pans along the faces of the watching citizenry, and the adults are all filled with smug satisfaction. But then the shot moves down to the face of young boy, and he is crying. He had no real connection with the monster, but in Harryhausen’s world, children understand and appreciate the magic of monsters in a way that adults have forgotten. Harryhausen, who began his career by vowing to always remain a child at heart and maintain his love for his childhood interests, is, in a sense, the boy in this scene. The humans in his films are there primarily to torment or be tormented by the monsters he creates and animates with his own hands, and these creatures are the real stars of their respective films.
This final scene in Gwangi also typifies Harryhausen’s philosophy about the war between savagery and civilization. Unafraid of depicting violence and gruesome deaths, Harryhausen – a self-professed maker of “kid’s films” expresses the idea in almost all his films that we are all linked by a childlike primal nature that we learned and reveled in before a sense of morality and responsibility could take over. As a young boy, Harryhausen rooted for King Kong as the giant ape tore apart New York City, and lamented his death by machine-gun-equipped biplanes. So to does the boy in Gwangi mourn the violent execution of a mistreated animal. Even though the dinosaur has eaten or squashed a lot of his neighbors, the innocent boy still cries for it.
I was first exposed to the work of Ray Harryhausen when I went to see Clash of the Titans in 1981 when I was eight years old. I was heavily influenced by its evocation of a type of fantasy film that was, even then, long out of fashion, and by its bringing to life of Greek mythological characters. A lasting interest in mythology was kindled by the film, but more importantly, an interest in filmmaking was kindled, specifically the concrete art of animation, which reconstructs the essence of cinema by making us acknowledge the accumulation of still frames to create an illusion of life.
Clash of the Titans – not often reviewed (then or now) with much affection – was actually significant for several reasons. For one thing, most obviously, it was to be the final picture of the retiring Harryhausen, who, without self-pity, admitted that his aging hands could no longer keep up with the demands of modern special effects in movies. Additionally, Titans stood as a counterbalancing weight to all of the many other fantasy/adventure films that were taking over the kids’ market in the late 70s and early 80s – (Star Wars, Superman, and Raiders of the Lost Ark being the most emblematic of these). The difference was quite clear. The preponderance of the new special effects films were desirous of a achieving a convincing realism, and therefore employed ever enlarging teams of technicians to this end. Alone on the other side of the scale was Harryhausen, who represented the independent, hands-on artist with a completely different work ethic. Gone were the days when the single line “Special Visual Effects by….” could appear in a film’s credits, and when one man’s literal touch could be detected in the work he created. More than twenty-five years after his retirement, Harryhausen can still take pride in the fact that the industry that made him passé has never been able to reproduce the sense of personal creation and individual thought that made his many characters so memorable.
A brief overview of Harryhausen’s career shows how a life-long commitment to an art is its own reward. His conversion took place in 1933 when his parents took him to see King Kong. He was thunderstruck by the film’s scope and grandeur, and even more so by its method of bringing the character of Kong to life. The process was called stop-motion animation, which was the three-dimensional equivalent of drawn animation that people were already very familiar with in the 30s thanks to Walt Disney and the like. The animator behind King Kong was Willis O’Brien, whom Harryhausen began an apprenticeship with as soon as he was old enough. The two worked together on Mighty Joe Young (1947), which was a gentler update of the Kong theme of a misunderstood outsider being dropped into a foreign environment.
In the 1950s, Harryhausen formed a profitable partnership with producer Charles H. Schneer, who shared his desire to put grandiose sights on the screen, things the public had never seen before. At first, their films catered to the prevailing trends in that era’s science fiction flicks. Cheaply produced, they capitalized on fascinations with disasters, space invaders, atomic energy and overgrown animals. These films included The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms (1954), based on a story by Harryhausen’s lifelong friend, Ray Bradbury; Earth vs. the Flying Saucers (1955); It Came from Beneath the Sea (1956); and 20 Million Miles to Earth (1957). Harryhausen made his reputation by executing the mass-destruction of several major cities in these films, including New York, Washington D.C., San Francisco, and Rome. Increasingly, however, he longed to leave science fiction behind and apply his talents to well-told and romantic stories of fantasy and adventure.
Beginning in 1957, Harryhausen and Schneer embarked on a string of films that would be their most successful and most beloved. The first four, in particular, The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (1958), The 3 Worlds of Gulliver (1960), Mysterious Island (1961) and Jason & the Argonauts (1963), epitomize the very best of their work. They were Harryhausen’s first films in color and his first to utilize a new process he called – in typically flamboyant fashion – “Superdynamation!,” which brought actors, matte drawings, and animated creatures all together in a much more seamless way. (The use of lavish Technicolor was significant because children’s films – science fiction, westerns, etc. – were almost always in black-and-white due to their low budgets.) All four films also featured tremendous musical scores by the great Bernard Herrmann; so good, in fact, that they make one wish the Harryhausen/Herrmann collaboration had continued much longer.
From the mid-60s on, the Schneer-Harryhausen films continued to satisfy both undiscriminating children and the loyal following Harryhausen had earned, but they were clearly inferior to the team’s best work of the late 50s and early 60s. For the most part, they seemed more and more anachronistic in a pop film world concerned primarily with spies, beach parties, and space operas. Nevertheless, Harryhausen was able to realize some his longest-held dream projects during this period. These included adapting H.G. Wells’ First Men in the Moon (1964), a remake of One Million Years B.C. (1966), and the genre-busting The Valley of Gwangi (1969). The 70s saw only two films, both Sinbad sequels; The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1974) and Sinbad & the Eye of the Tiger (1977), which were somewhat successful but also tended to remind viewers of the superiority of Harryhausen’s output during his heyday.
Finally, there was Clash of the Titans in 1981, which amalgamated many of the unused monster ideas and Greek legends that Harryhausen had hoped to incorporate into a picture for decades. It was popular and unmistakably stood apart from the other fantasy films of the time, which tended towards speculations about a bleak future instead of celebrating an unabashedly adventurous and mythical past. Titans certainly marked the end of an era, because hereafter, the creators of special effects films chose either to rely on computer graphics, as in Tron (1982) and The Last Starfighter (1983), or reverted back to rubber monsters and men in suits, as in the trashy Conan the Barbarian (1982) and Beastmaster (1983), etc. The animation style of Harryhausen may have been rejected by the film world, but I hope he always took pleasure in the fact that, while being less surrealistic, the newer fantasy films were also less satisfactory.
What must be addressed first of all is the conflict between new styles of special effects and Harryhausen’s, which was not typical or considered state-of-the art in any decade, but instead were always a conscious choice of technique. In other words, the conflict is not between old and new, necessarily, but between two philosophies towards the creation of the impossible – one being realistic and one being, according to Harryhausen himself, surrealistic. I imagine that even first-time viewers of King Kong in 1933 were not irreversibly convinced that there was a real, live gigantic ape on the screen as much as they were simply overwhelmed by the unprecedented spectacle of it all and the effective combination of visual tricks to create a cinematic reality.
This takes us to the heart of stop-motion animation as an art. The issue with it has never been to put real-looking monsters into movies. What it is concerned with is satisfying the desire to see the lifeless acquire motion. In this sense, it is irrelevant how realistic something looks or does not look because the fascination of seeing still things move is the entire purpose of animation. (Perhaps this is why the statues and skeletons that come to life in his films are often the most pleasing creations of all.) The mind accepts this fabrication, this illusion, because it enjoys it and wants to, never because it is tricked or convinced. Thus, animation is much more participatory on the part of the viewer than entirely presentational fantasy films, which are forever dating themselves by struggling so hard to remain modern. (Harryhausen’s work, by contrast, while certainly developing over time, looks essentially the same in his 1940s films as in his 1970s films.) The earliest film theorists in the first three decades of the 20th century always understood that the magic of cinema lie not in telling stories, which many art forms can do, but in presenting an acknowledged illusion through an alliance between art and technology.
In a recent interview, Harryhausen said that for him, animation was appropriate to fantasy films precisely because it is obviously non-realistic. He said his desire was never to make creatures that seemed real, because fantasy was inherently surrealistic. If the movement of his creations did not look smoothly realistic, the form of reality that came through in his work had to do with the painstaking attention to character in every creature he animated. With his hands, (in concert with a mind that was always required to anticipate hundreds of frames ahead), he imbued his characters with innumerable emotions that, in many cases, if not most, made them better actors than their human co-stars. (Predating method acting, his strict vegetarian diet during the making of Might Joe Young, to help him identify with the titular ape, bears this out). His development of “Superdynamation,” furthermore, is interesting because it improved the realism of actors and monsters interacting in the same shot, even though it did not increase the realistic appearance of movement in the monsters themselves. The conduciveness of animation to surrealist concepts is confirmed absolutely, if it needs to be, in the art form’s embrace by Czechoslovakian filmmaker Jan Svankmajer.
Whereas the vast teams of effects artists working on fantasy and science fiction movies today remain deferential to a supervisor or to the team itself, Ray Harryhausen was the driving force behind all of the films he worked on. He was not brought in to help with the special effects on other peoples’ movies. He made what he wanted to see on the screen and then built a feature film around it. This may be controversial, but I feel he could rightfully have taken the director’s credit on most of his films, but as it is, the directors of his films are all just barely competent at best, and hacks at worst. We don’t think of any of his films as the work of their screenwriters or directors, but as Harryhausen films only.
He could have claimed the title ‘director’ for several reasons. First, the planning for effects shots required exact storyboards, showing precisely what would be seen in the final film. Therefore, he directed all the animation sequences himself before a shot of film was ever taken. Second, by forming and shaping his characters during the animation process, he also became a director of a form of acting, responsible for making the creatures convey emotions in response to other creatures or human characters. And third, along with partner Charles Schneer, he was so completely involved in the choice and preparation of all his stories that he actually wielded more power over a film than either the director or the screenwriter. On one hand, this accounts for the noticeable, and unfortunate, lack of artistic directing, dialogue and acting in his films; but on the other, it proves that he was able to single-handedly defy the Hollywood convention that the producers, writers, directors and actors are the key people in making motion pictures. While admiring the force of his will and his desire to keep his ideas pure, one also has to wonder what masterpieces could conceivably have resulted from him collaborating with serious A-level directors or writers.
Harryhausen’s influence on the plots and choice of material produced is undeniable. He and Schneer jointly selected projects that they believed would 1) conform to their aesthetic interests, 2) benefit from the application of stop-motion animation as the primary effects device, and 3) hopefully turn a profit by providing sheer adventure to kids and adults alike.
His audacity in tinkering with his subject matter to suit his whims is notorious, (offensive to some), and, in the end, essential to appreciating his work. A devotee of myths and legends himself, he was perhaps confident enough to bend the rules here and there in terms of literary and historical sacred cows, yet still retain the spirit of his source material. Some people think that any change to an existing text is a shameful violation, but Harryhausen, a student of both paleontology and mythology, understood that the myths had been passed down from mouth to ear for generations before ever being written down conclusively. This simple fact, along with the fantastic nature of the myths themselves, and his comfort in dealing with fantasy, encouraged him to play fast and loose with a variety of genres and cultures in his personal fusion of the world’s history and man’s imagination.
Some of the greatest examples of Harryhausen’s playing about with myths and facts, all of which he admits with pleasure, include the giganticized Cyclops and Talos in The 7th Voyage of Sinbad and Jason & the Argonauts, respectively. He was entranced by enormous contrasts in size, (manifested most tellingly in The 3 Worlds of Gulliver), especially within a single shot, and whenever he could magnify a character’s size, he would not hesitate to do so. In The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, he put a wooden figurehead on the mast of a ship, specifically so he could make it come to life and wreak havoc, even though the Muslim religion would never have allowed the use of such an icon. In adapting Jules Verne’s novel Mysterious Island, Harryhausen immodestly declared that “certain elements” had to be added to make it appealing to he and his audience. The book had been chosen specifically because Charles Schneer had learned that it was the most looked at book in the New York Public Library at that time, and yet, despite so many peoples’ obvious familiarity with the novel, Harryhausen lost no sleep over injecting it with overgrown beasts and prehistoric monsters. One of the most joyously shameless instances of his tampering with genres was The Valley of Gwangi, which to this day must be the only film where you can see old west cowboys rounding up dinosaurs. His rationale: kids love cowboys and kids love dinosaurs – why not give them both?
Represented by the four quintessential films mentioned previously – (The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, The 3 Worlds of Gulliver, Mysterious Island, and Jason & the Argonauts), the typical Harryhausen scenario involves a journey, often but not always a quest, undertaken by a reluctant hero. The worlds he creates are extremely dangerous and full of violent deaths for men and monsters alike. Nearly every fantastic creature that pops up in these films is quickly dispensed with in some merciless way. For Harryhausen, this is not just sadism, though the pandering to violence is certainly present, as much as it is a documentation of the world (both of men and nature) as it often is. Whether in the Arabian Nights, ancient Greece, or the United States Civil War, life is lost quickly and cheaply, and Harryhausen’s characters inhabit these environments unapologetically. Put in life and death situations, they are often forced to kill.
Completely absent from all of Harryhausen’s major films is the influence of law, government, religion, or philosophy. And yet the films somehow attain a spiritual purity through the strength of individual conviction and moral resolve. Universally present in these films, however, are villainous sorcerers, vengeful and petty gods, thieving malefactors, superstitious villagers, temptresses, and mindless monsters all bent on greed, power, revenge and destruction. In other words, it is humanity and nature – both run rampant – that Harryhausen studies, not the conventions of society. The one exception is in Gulliver, which remarkably preserves Jonathan Swift’s scathing satire on government and the short-sighted nature of parochial thinking.
In all four films, the ocean is present as a symbol of malevolent nature. More specifically, considerable action, (predominantly in Mysterious Island), takes place on hostile, isolated islands in the middle of the ocean. Important battles take place right on the beaches of these islands. The voyage is a staple of adventure stories, but the ocean voyage, in particular, is important because it separates the heroes, literally as well as symbolically, from the stability and comfort of land and home, and by extension, law and order. In Harryhausen’s world, men prove themselves by combating the elements, without the safety net of society. At the end of The 3 Worlds of Gulliver, Gulliver warns,
"They’re always with us; giants and Lilliputians, inside us; their terrible world waiting to take our lives, waiting for us to make a mistake – to be selfish again."
This expresses Harryhausen’s belief in the natural world as a vengeful watchdog of humanity, and it is an outlook far removed from the obsession with politics and policy that characterized the times he lived in.
The 7th Voyage of Sinbad was the unexpected sleeper hit of 1958, and it stoked new interest in the Persian adventurer’s exploits, as evidenced by the many spin-offs that followed, none of the them stop-motion animated, until Harryhausen returned to the character with 1974’s The Golden Voyage of Sinbad. Backed by Bernard Herrmann’s alternately baroque and bombastic score, the film tells of Sinbad’s battles with the evil Sorcerer Sakura, who has shrunk a princess to about 6-inches high in order to force the Sultan and Sinbad to help him get to retrieve his treasure from an island populated by a race of gigantic Cyclops.
Highlights of the story include Sakura’s ill-fated conjoining of a courtesan woman with a snake, a battle between Sinbad’s crew and an enormous two-headed roc, and a climactic showdown between a Cyclops and the dragon that guards Sakura’s lair. But surely the quintessential image from the film is the skeleton brought to life by Sakura’s magic to test its swordsmanship against Sinbad’s. The entire sequence is dazzling from start to finish, and is considered by many to be Harryhausen’s masterpiece.
In Mysterious Island, a merciless hurricane sweeps a band of Union POWs from the United States to an uncharted island in the middle of nowhere. Here they fight for survival not only against the elements, but against a disturbing number of giganticized animals, including crabs, bees, and the thought-to-be extinct dodo bird. The mind behind these terrifying sights turns out to be Captain Nemo himself, having survived the sinking of the Nautilus in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea to continue his aggressive form of philanthropy. How he ensures that none of his oversized creations ever escape the island is never addressed. Nemo watches with amusement as the castaways battle his monsters, comparing their struggle to his life’s thesis that mankind is unworthy of the salvation he offers it if human beings are incapable of taking their sustenance by force.
Jason and the Argonauts is sometimes cited by fans as Harryhausen’s greatest film, although personally I would give that honor to The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. Argonauts brings to life Greek mythology like no other film before or since. In remaining as faithful as it is to the original myths, it puts to shame the slew of Hercules “muscle” films coming from Italy during the same period, hardly any of which incorporated any of mythology’s fantastic creatures. Continuing Harryhausen’s discourse on why men should look earthward, not skyward, his Jason at one point curses the gods of Olympus for their cruelty and prophecies a day when mankind will no longer need them. Almost certainly, Harryhausen created the final melee with a whole team of revived skeletons with the intention of topping the finale of The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, and he almost succeeds.
In almost all of his films, Harryhausen consciously pays homage to his roots, his original inspirations for becoming an animator, by evoking the King Kong theme of a sympathetic giant being punished for the error of confronting mankind. This is seen in The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, with its lonely monster brought ashore by a lighthouse and foghorn; and the ‘Emir’ in 20 Million Miles to Earth, a stranded alien who also meets his end atop an architectural landmark (the Coliseum of Rome, replacing Kong’s Empire State Building). Though accepting the fate of his creatures as inevitable, he nevertheless imbues them with a benevolent humanity that is usually absent in the actual humans they meet. This is seen with the hapless Cyclops in Sinbad, who, just because he is an obstacle on the quest, not really an aggressor, is blinded, scorched, stabbed, and dropped off a cliff to his death, and the Tyrannosaurus Rex in The Valley of Gwangi, who is taken from his environment (like Kong from his island) and burns to death in a museum – the very place where his skeleton will probably end up for the amusement of his murderers. (The Valley of Gwangi was a labor of love for Harryhausen because it had been conceived by his mentor, Kong-creator Willis O’Brien, back in 1942.) All these cases speak not only to Harryhausen’s sympathy with animals, but his resentment of man’s reflexive destructiveness towards the unknown and especially towards the natural world.
Complementing the surrealistic impression of Harryhausen’s stop-motion animation work in his films, many specific images themselves are so striking that they make up the bulk of the sensory impact of many films. As in the Surrealist movement itself, the effect often has to do with contrasts. The 7th Voyage of Sinbad is full of them, as with the first appearance of the Cyclops, whose orange-hued skin against a bright blue sky - according to filmmaker Henry Selick - had an indelible impact on young viewers still awed by Technicolor in 1958.
The breaking of certain taboos is also a Surrealist’s delight - and hints of the practice can be seen throughout the film: in the defilement of human remains (the sword-fighting skeleton animated by the magician Sokura); cannibalism (the humanoid Cyclops roasting a live human on a spit); the bestowal of an adult awareness onto a child (the ageless genie of the lamp appears as a young boy); the complete breakdown of camaraderie under stress (Sinbad’s crew betrays him several times); and the impairment of vision (Sinbad blinds the Cyclops with a torch).
These surreal and slyly perverse flourishes continue in other films too – from the giant dolls on the beach that are mistaken for people by Gulliver, and the eagerness of the newlywed Gullivers to find some privacy, in The 3 Worlds of Gulliver to the sight of a beheaded female statue’s face coming to life and speaking in Jason & the Argonauts, and Captain Nemo’s amoral use of murder to ‘benefit’ mankind in Mysterious Island. So, in both form (animation) and subject matter (startling images and controversial themes), these were Harryhausen’s subconscious ways of bringing Surrealism to young people all across America beneath a veneer of adventure and excitement, much as Rod Serling was doing at the same time on televisions with The Twilight Zone.
The adequacy of special effects, past and present, is something that must also be discussed in studying Ray Harryhausen. Harryhausen was the pre-eminent stop-motion animator of his time, but he was never considered a pioneer in state-of-the-art special effects. If that had been his goal, he would have abandoned animation as early as the 50s, because already there were more satisfactory alternatives for creating monsters than by using the time-consuming process of clay animation. Instead, he remained loyal to his chosen craft, and worked to improve himself within that sphere, allowing everyone else to stumble over each other in the quest for realism.
The only constant in special effects since the beginning of film has been the fact that every few years, there’s always something better-looking out there, and everything preceding it seems dated by comparison. Once, Star Wars and Superman were considered the absolute zenith in special effects work. Then, Terminator 2 (1991) and Jurassic Park (1993) represented another great leap forward. More recently, the second Star Wars trilogy and the Matrix and Lord of the Rings trilogies are deemed the ultimate accomplishments in movie special effects. In ten years, the effects in these films will undoubtedly seem lacking and derisory to us. There is nothing wrong with filmmakers pushing boundaries, but the unfortunate result of this constant race with time, and competition with themselves, is that we demean the work of the past as out-of-date and passé, or, when feeling generous, “good for its time”.
The difference in Harryhausen is that his films are not just good for their times, they are good for any time because they would probably look exactly the same if he made them today. It is a very specialized form of animation that he was concerned with, and that is why his films will always last and be of interest to animators and fantasy film lovers. Ironically, he has proven himself most creative, even by today’s standards, by confining himself to simple methods. For example, in Gulliver, there are several shots in which the hero and the tiny Lilliputians talk to each other. Today, special effects teams would not think twice about achieving this through process shots or computer-aided inserts. Harryhausen, however, did not use one special effect to get the shot he wanted. Using “forced perspective,” he merely had the actor playing Gulliver stand close to the camera, and the little people stand far off in the distance. The effect works brilliantly and is more seamless than if the image had been tampered with in post-production. No one can tell it is a forced perspective shot unless they are told.
The claims of modern special effects films that they are more “realistic” is questionable at best, and actually a bit arrogant. The effects are dazzling because they are new, innovative, and yes, well-handled. But they are not exactly realistic. Even the very best of them are quite transparently superimposed onto the live-action footage, and look exactly like what they are – digitally drawn and manipulated images, and they are never allowed to be still for very long because they look blurry and cheap. Ray Harryhausen’s creations, in contrast, are very solidly three-dimensional – an achievement digital effects have yet to match – and you can stare at a frozen frame of any of them and see that it really was a concrete object that was filmed by the camera.
The influence of Harryhausen upon the modern film world can be felt not in the technology behind special effects, but in the tone and appearance of certain fantastic creatures and situations. Tim Burton, for example, who began making movies just a few years after Harryhausen’s retirement, was nevertheless intent on utilizing stop-motion animation in a number of films. He liked its distinctive surrealistic look, and he even exaggerated it to make it more fanciful and bizarre. His short film Vincent (1983) is animated with stop-motion, and sequences of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure (1985) and Beetlejuice (1988) also use it. Finally, he produced a completely stop-motion feature with The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993). George Lucas, a pioneer of computer and digital special effects for the past 25 years, also betrays an affection for Harryhausen in several sequences in his films. In the first Star Wars film, a three-dimensional board game includes characters that are stop-motion animated, and some shots of the tauntauns in The Empire Strikes Back (1980) are animated as well. In Attack of the Clones (2002), when the heroes are forced to battle gigantic monsters in an arena, it is impossible not to recall the many similar instances in Harryhausen’s films. The composition of the shot of Obi-Wan Kenobi jabbing a spear at a big, crab-like creature seems taken directly from Mysterious Island.
Curiously, Ray Harryhausen stands apart from all his students and detractors in his merciless treatment of human foibles and organic savagery. It is by no accident that Zeus, the father of all the gods of Olympus in Clash of the Titans is portrayed as petty and lecherous. He demolishes an entire city for a single offence. The goddess Thetis, in the same film, expresses the underlying theme of much of Harryhausen’s work in her ominous speech to a statuette of the naïve Perseus:
"Time you saw something of the world, Perseus. Time you came face to face with fear. Time to know the terrors of the dark and look on death. Time your eyes were opened and face grim reality."
Sometime recently, actor Harry Hamlin, whose first role was playing Perseus in Clash of the Titans, appeared on the Tonight Show, and its host, Jay Leno, played a clip from the film in order to embarrass him. It worked and Hamlin disowned the film as the type of compromise a striving young actor would make. This is sad, first because he has no conception of what a landmark work it was in its own genre, and also because, in the long run, Titans will be more seen than any other movies Hamlin has appeared in so far, any of which I cannot recall at the moment.
The Valley of Gwangi
The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms
One Million Years B.C.
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad
The 3 Worlds of Gulliver
The 7th Voyage of Sinbad
Jason & the Argonauts
Jason & the Argonauts
Clash of the Titans