Galaxy of Terror (1981) – Review

A doomed crew. A haunted planet. And the most awkward worm-related death scene in B-movie history. Step into a sci-fi nightmare where your fears kill you…not to mention your fashion sense as well. Brought to you by Roger Corman, intergalactic king of “What did I just watch?”

In the distant future (which suspiciously looks like a smoky soundstage), the crew of the spaceship Quest is sent on a rescue mission to the mysterious planet Morganthus, a dead world that eats space travellers for breakfast. The previous crew disappeared, and on the world of Xerxes, the Planet Master, someone whose face is obscured by an aura, wants answers or at least some gooey corpses to bring back for analysis.

“We need to send some very expendable people.”

The crew of the Quest is a varied and uneasy mix of spacefarers sent to a mysterious planet to investigate the fate of a missing crew. At the helm is Captain Trantor (Grace Zabriskie), a burned-out war vet who looks like she’s been surviving on rage and black coffee for the last decade. She’s afraid of fire. Guess what happens to her? That’s right, flambé Trantor, courtesy of a severe case of PTSD. Space HR should’ve seen this one comin’. Her second-in-command, Commander Ilvar (Bernard Behrens), is a calm and level-headed leader, balancing Trantor’s edge with rational authority. He is wise. Has a beard. He’s close to retirement. Immediately gets his face hugged by a space lamprey and dies like he’s in a deleted scene from Alien. He may have been in charge, but clearly not of his own survival. 

When hentai tentacles attack.

Next is Baelon (Zalman King), the aggressive and prideful team leader on the ground mission, basically, if toxic masculinity wore shoulder pads, that’d be Baelon. He barks orders, ignores good advice, and dies as he lived. Being a complete and utter dick. Next, we have Cabren (Edward Albert), who’s handsome, skeptical, and has the survival instincts of someone who’s read the script. We also have, of course, the prerequisite inexperienced crewman along for the ride, Cos (Jack Blessing), who is easily frightened and may as well have “Dead Meat” tattooed on his forehead. Then there is the mystic and stoic Quuhod (Sid Haig), a man of few words and even fewer facial expressions. He’s great with throwing stars, less great with existential dread. He ends up standing still and letting himself be killed because, deep down, he’s afraid of… killing? Not killing? It’s very Zen. And very dumb.

“I swear on this blaster, I will not be the first to die.”

Should we bring along an Empath? Sure, why not? Which would be Alluma (Erin Moran), who feels everyone’s feelings… which is a real drag when you’re surrounded by anxious redshirts. Despite her powers, she gets clobbered by invisible forces, kind of like a space poltergeist throwing a tantrum. Her death is sudden, random, and somehow still more dignified than most. Supporting them are the excitable cook and comic relief character Kore (Ray Walston), who harbours a secret. And finally, we have Dameia (Taaffe O’Connell), the ship’s tech and a capable crew member whose infamous death scene has become legendary in B-movie history. Yes, this is that movie. The one infamous for the notorious “giant maggot scene” that veers so far into exploitation it makes you question the meaning of cinema itself. It’s tasteless, uncomfortable, and somehow both baffling and predictable. Truly the Corman special.

“In space, no one can hear your therapist quit.”

Upon arrival, the crew discovers the wrecked ship and a pyramid-like alien structure that seems to be messing with their heads. It turns out the pyramid is alive (kinda?) and taps into each person’s deepest fears, and then kills them with those fears, sometimes with worm monsters, and sometimes with awkwardly Freudian metaphors that have no business being this vivid. Think “haunted house” meets “Freddy Krueger in space,” with less logic and more tentacles. As they go deeper and deeper into the pyramid, things briefly veer from terrifying to awe-inspiring.

“Was this place built by the Krell?”

One by one, the crew is picked off in gloriously goopy ways, until Cabren and Ranger make it to the heart of the pyramid to confront the truth: the pyramid is some kind of alien training ground or mind-test simulator left by an ancient race (or something) to evaluate human leadership and fear response. Eventually, Cabren faces off with the big boss — and the reanimated version of his dead crewmates — in a battle of wills and metaphysical nonsense. The pyramid’s testing ends, the horrors shut down, and Cabren… maybe becomes the new master of the pyramid? It’s vague, it’s philosophical, it’s very “we ran out of script, but it looks cool.”

Who needs things to make sense?

Stray Observations:

• Captain Trantor launches her ship without proper time for her crew or cargo to be properly secured, and she ignores the computer preset coordinates for hyper-jump. Does this make her a badass or grossly negligent and possibly insane?
• Alluma is the ship’s empath, a career position and annoyance factor similar to that of Deanna Troi on Star Trek: The Next Generation.
• A bloody corpse drops from the ceiling of the crashed ship our heroes are exploring, and their first reaction is to throw a crystal shuriken into it and then set it on fire with a flame thrower. These are not ideal actions for a supposed search and rescue operation.
• While climbing an ancient alien pyramid, Commander Ilvar takes a break from feeling overwhelmed by his surroundings to hit on Dameia. He must have gone to Captain Kirk School of Command.
• We never see Ranger die, yet Cabren never looks for him, nor do we ever see Ranger again. Did he leave that poor guy behind?

“I’ll haunt your dreams for this, Cabren!”

Directed by Bruce D. Clark and produced by the legendary Roger Corman, this film exists at the intersection of science fiction, psychological horror, and unabashed exploitation cinema. Though often dismissed for its lurid content and derivative structure, Galaxy of Terror deserves a closer look for the way it reflects the anxieties of its time and showcases the ingenuity (and excess) of B-movie filmmaking in the early 1980s. The setup is reminiscent of Ridley Scott’s Alien, and the parallels are obvious: claustrophobic space corridors, a team dynamic fraught with tension, and a creeping, unknowable menace. 

“If anyone comes across large egg-like things, do not look inside.”

However, Galaxy of Terror is more philosophical in its horror (if less subtle), drawing from psychological terror as much as monster mayhem. It postulates that fear itself is the enemy, manifesting each crew member’s personal trauma or dread into fatal, often grotesque scenarios. While the film lifts heavily from its more prestigious predecessors, it also taps into the existential dread popular in science fiction at the time: that the universe is not only indifferent but actively hostile, and that technology and reason are no match for the chaos within the human psyche. These ideas are wrapped in garish special effects and exploitative imagery, but they are there, lurking beneath the surface, like the very monsters the film depicts.

Could one of these people be the true monster?

What Galaxy of Terror lacks in narrative finesse, it compensates for with striking visual ambition. The film’s sets, many of which were overseen by a young James Cameron, are surprisingly atmospheric given the limited budget. Harsh lighting, coloured gels, and fog machines are used to disorient the viewer, enhancing the hallucinatory tone of the story. The alien structures are bio-mechanical in appearance, evoking a sense of decay and malevolence that enhances the film’s themes of fear and the unknown.. There’s genuine ambition here, even if it stumbles over itself trying to be profound, scary, and sleazy all at once. It’s less “science fiction” and more “space horror funhouse ride”—one that’s equal parts cool and cringeworthy.

“They wouldn’t kill off the love interest, would they?”

The ensemble cast provides performances that are functional rather than compelling, with many characters existing more as archetypes than individuals. Yet, there is a certain earnestness in the acting that grounds the more absurd moments. Robert Englund, in particular, brings a nervous energy to his role, hinting at the screen presence he would fully develop later in his career as the infamous Freddy Krueger. The characters are less defined by dialogue or development and more by the specific fears that destroy them. This reduction serves the plot’s focus on psychological horror, but limits our investment. As a result, Galaxy of Terror often feels more like an anthology of gruesome deaths than a cohesive character-driven narrative.

When gore trumps plot.

In conclusion, Galaxy of Terror isn’t a good movie in the traditional sense, but it’s a fascinating one. It’s a 1980s VHS fever dream filled with guts, latex, and deeply questionable decisions. As a product of Roger Corman’s genre factory, it embodies both the strengths and weaknesses of exploitation cinema: the ability to provoke, to disturb, and occasionally to illuminate. So, if you’re a fan of midnight movies, cheap thrills, or just want to see what a Corman budgeted version of Alien would look like, you’ve found your cult classic.