-Celluloid Dimension’s most unapologetic section, where we share the best of the worst. Bringing bad movies the love they deserve.
Directed by James Glickenhaus
Written by James Glickenhaus
Starring:
- Bob Byrd as Alexei Abarnel
- Monica Tidwell as Kate Abarnel
- Mark Buntzman as Kajerste
- Al Narcisse as Congressman Joe Harwell
- Alison McCarthy as Rhav
- Julie Raggio as The Child
- Anahid as Mother Bogarde
Rating: 
There’s a moment where a fortune teller just flat-out tells someone to strip—no prophecy, no preamble, just “take off your clothes to find your true self.” No idea what horoscope that’s based on, but it’s totally on-brand for Glickenhaus’ batshit debut: intense, absurd, and falling apart the second you start asking questions. But by then, it’s already got you. The Astrologer, aka Suicide Cult, is a psychogenic muddle that plays like a celluloid manifestation of hippie schizophrenia. Its conspiracy-driven mysticism—ranging from zodiac charts to quasi-theological prophecy—intensifies this delirium even further with the arrival of Kajerste (Mark Buntzman), the piercing-eyed leader of an esoteric Indian cult. Think of him as an exotic Charles Manson, but with a supernatural edge.
As the cult spirals into mass suicides, infant corpses, and ritual sex mayhem, a covert American agency starts digging into the cosmic riddle of the zodiac—convinced it’s tied to the second coming of Christ. It turns out that both the unhinged cult leader and the U.S. government’s secret mystic division are pursuing the same goal: a virgin destined for divine impregnation. The film’s descent into narrative delirium is relentless, turning what might have been visionary into a clunky, scatterbrained ordeal—albeit one with its share of absurd comic payoff. Glickenhaus jams the film with non-stop star-chart nonsense, rather than build momentum he opts for wall-to-wall astrological exposition; trades action for a flood of celestial monologues—astro-babble delivered like gospel from a stoned prophet.
After countless exclamations of “Zodiacal Potential!” and “Zodiacal Configuration!” during what feel like endless pseudo-scientific rants, The Astrologer ends up with no zodiacal potential at all—only absurd potential, and plenty of it. It’s all mental fuckery in the best way. An overwhelming case study in dysfunctional cinema tossing out wild ideas it has no clue how to execute. The film ends on a chilling note, but I just can’t take any of it seriously when they won’t stop hammering me with their zodiacal hogwash.
