Star Crystal

An alien beast slaughters a space crew in 2035, but then reads the Bible, repents, and sings a soft-rock ballad in this wild 80s sci-fi. Prepare for the strangest plot twist in sci-fi history. Read our Gonzo-style review of the 1986 space-slasher-turned-religious-ballad cult film Star Crystal.

We were somewhere on the edge of a plastic-covered mattress, choking on the fumes of a dying VCR and a lukewarm can of malt liquor, when the screen detonated with the glorious, low-rent majesty of Star Crystal (1986). This is not just a film; it is a profound psychological experiment in cosmic whiplash. Directed by Lance Lindsay on a budget that probably wouldn’t cover the catering bill on a Spielberg set, this movie starts as a shameless Alien clone and ends up in a place so deeply weird, so spiritually disorienting, that it will leave you questioning the very nature of human existence.

It is a beautiful, glowing artifact of the mid-80s direct-to-video boom, back when anyone with a camera, a roll of silver duct tape, and a dream could build a spaceship in their garage and sell it to unsuspecting teenagers at the local rental shop.

The Blood-Drenched Corridor Trap of 2035

The madness begins in the far-flung future of 2035. Two research ships on Mars mysteriously explode after discovering a glowing, crystal-embedded rock. Naturally, a salvage crew is sent to investigate, and they bring the rock back aboard their station. Before you can say “copyright infringement,” the rock hatches a slimy, gelatinous egg that grows into a hideous, tentacled brain-beast with a single, glaring eyeball.

For the first forty-five minutes, the film is a gloriously cheap, claustrophobic slasher. The crew gets systematically hunted through corridors constructed from painted plywood, dryer vents, and flashing Christmas lights. The creature—which looks like a wet, angry pile of liver—dissolves faces with acid slime, snaps necks, and behaves with the mindless, predatory cruelty we’ve come to expect from deep-space stowaways. The synth score bleeps and bloops in a state of high panic. It is a solid, greasy, late-night creature feature. But then, the movie takes a hard left turn into absolute, unfiltered lunacy.

Gar the God-Fearing Space Octopus

Just when you think the two remaining survivors—Roger and Sherri—are doomed to become alien fertilizer, the monster, whose name is apparently Gar, does something unprecedented. He doesn’t eat them. Instead, he plugs his slimy tentacles into the ship’s computer terminal and begins to read. Gar consumes the entirety of human history, literature, and most importantly, the Holy Bible.

In a sequence that must be seen to be believed, the giant, murderous space-squid is overcome with profound, existential guilt. He realizes that killing the crew was a sin. Gar literally begins to weep—glowing, slimy alien tears—and uses a built-in voice synthesizer to apologize to the survivors in a polite, gentle, electronic voice. “I am sorry I killed your friends,” the monster essentially says, leaving both the characters and the audience in a state of sheer, jaw-dropping disbelief. Suddenly, the terrifying space slasher transforms into a Sunday school lesson in forgiveness.

Soft-Rock Redemption in the Void of Space

Once Roger and Sherri realize their mutated stalker has found religion, the film abandons all pretense of horror. They become roommates. They share freeze-dried space rations, talk about peace and love, and Gar politely helps them repair the ship’s navigation systems so they can return to Earth. The tension evaporates into a warm, fuzzy cloud of intergalactic fellowship.

The ultimate coup de grâce is the film’s closing theme, a soft-rock power ballad called “Crystal of Stars” that plays over the credits while we watch the spaceship float peacefully through the void. It is a song of such pure, unironic, eighties-keytar cheesiness that it will permanently alter your brain chemistry. Star Crystal is a magnificent, logic-defying triumph of independent cinema—a movie that dared to ask, “What if the monster from Alien just needed to read the Good Book?” Buy the ticket, take the ride, and prepare to have your soul cleansed by a rubber octopus.