If you’ve ever watched a shaggy, shirtless man in a cape chant half-hearted spells in a public park and thought, “I need 90 minutes of this,” then congratulations: your cinematic messiah has arrived. His name is Simon Sinestrari, and he lives in a storm sewer. Yes, Simon, King of the Witches is the only film in history where the protagonist attempts apotheosis from a manhole cover. It’s not a metaphor. I wish it were.
Directed by Bruce Kessler in 1971 and starring Andrew Prine, the film was marketed like a Satanic orgy—possibly to trick audiences into thinking they were getting a sweaty Manson-inspired bloodbath. What they got instead was a talky, meandering exploitational anti-thrill ride about a homeless wizard with delusions of grandeur and the fashion sense of a Renaissance Faire roadie.
What follows is a journey into occult obscurity, polyester, goat rituals, and the inexplicable presence of Ultra Violet. There is very little blood, very little nudity, and very little reason for this movie to exist, other than to serve as an accidental parody of the counterculture it was clearly trying to critique—or worship. Or maybe both. It’s hard to tell. I suspect even the goat was confused.
Plot: The Sewer Mage Rises (Kinda)
Simon, played with haughty indifference by Andrew Prine, is a ceremonial magician with a bad attitude and worse real estate. He insists he’s not a Satanist, just a classic magician—one who prefers marble altars and Latin incantations but settles for rainwater runoff and the occasional garbage fire.
Simon sells spells and charms for cash to L.A. rich kids while living in a concrete drainage pipe like a wizard-themed Oscar the Grouch. He’s eventually befriended by Turk, a squeaky-voiced twink of a street hustler with the charisma of a cracked lava lamp. Turk introduces Simon to his world of drugged-out sex parties, goat-based rituals, and glamorous cult weirdos like Ultra Violet, who materializes like Warhol’s court jester on ketamine.
There’s also a subplot involving Linda, the daughter of the district attorney, who falls for Simon’s brooding pseudo-spiritual swagger. She’s either the most gullible woman in L.A. or suffering from a very specific form of Stockholm syndrome that only affects people exposed to cape-wearing sewer magicians.
Simon seduces her—possibly through magic, possibly through facial hair—and the two embark on a deeply unconvincing spiritual journey to become gods. Their romantic chemistry can best be described as “astrological malpractice.”
Characters: Hocus, Pocus, Hopeless
Andrew Prine commits fully to the role, though it’s never entirely clear whether he’s playing Simon earnestly or as a joke. He delivers his monologues about “cosmic planes” and “spheres of power” with such studied intensity you almost believe he believes. It’s like watching a man try to summon Satan using only a thesaurus and a thespians’ ego.
George Paulsin’s Turk is a wild card of questionable taste. He speaks in an irritating high-pitched drawl, struts around with an energy somewhere between boy-band roadie and pet ferret, and serves as the film’s unwitting mascot for “bad decisions made in alleyways.”
Brenda Scott, as Linda, is there mainly to be seduced and to hold Simon’s hand during magical rituals that look like rejected scenes from Dr. Strange Love Island. Her emotional arc is less a transformation and more of a flatline, but then again, so is the rest of the movie.
And of course, Ultra Violet shows up in a goat ceremony, because this movie is legally required to have a goat ceremony. Her job is to twirl, chant, and be vaguely unsettling while trying not to trip on her fringe.
Magic System: 1 Part Occult, 9 Parts Word Salad
The film’s approach to magic involves a lot of candle-lighting, heavy breathing, and Simon monologuing like he’s trying to impress the back row at an off-off-off-Broadway show. He insists he’s not a con man or a kook. He’s a magician in the classical sense—whatever that means.
Spells are cast by holding aloft various props (some possibly stolen from a Spencer’s Gifts), muttering cosmic gibberish, and staring blankly into the middle distance. Occasionally, Simon levitates, but this is achieved with such low-budget awkwardness it looks more like a man being slowly winched out of the shot due to back pain.
By the end, Simon claims he’s achieved some sort of transformation. Into what? A god? A metaphor? A tax-deductible charity case? It’s never explained. The film just ends, leaving viewers to ponder whether anything meant anything, or whether the whole project was an elaborate tax write-off by someone’s uncle.
Visuals and Sound: Earth Tones and Synth Moans
Visually, the film is a dated kaleidoscope of dusty sepia tones, indoor palm plants, and suspicious smoke. Most scenes take place in cramped apartments, dim occult bookstores, or that ever-romantic sewer lair. Simon’s sewer altar features candles, cobwebs, and the occasional rat cameo—truly the peak of mystic ambiance.
The soundtrack is a mix of half-hearted lounge jazz and synths that sound like they were programmed by a sleep-deprived mime. At one point, it transitions into a bongo-infused freakout that feels like a musical panic attack in bell-bottoms.
Marketing Madness: Not the Orgy You Were Promised
The poster screamed Satan! Sex! Sacrifice!, but what the audience got was a guy mumbling about metaphysical realms while wearing a cape and dodging rent. It’s like going to a Slayer concert and getting a spoken word performance by a philosophy major who just discovered incense.
The studio hoped to cash in on post-Manson moral panic, but the only thing Simon murders is pacing. There’s no gore, no explicit sex, and almost no nudity—unless you count the spiritual nakedness of a film trying to figure out what the hell it’s doing.
Final Verdict: Not So Much a King, More a Court Jester
Simon, King of the Witches wants to be a philosophical horror film, but it ends up as a meandering exploitation oddity wrapped in dollar-store mysticism. It’s a vibe more than a narrative—a hazy blend of occult name-dropping, shirtless pontificating, and the undeniable urge to change the channel.
It’s occasionally so bizarre that it becomes entertaining—but mostly it’s the kind of film you’d find playing at 3AM in an abandoned cultist’s VCR, next to an empty wine bottle and a robe that smells like regret.
½ star out of 4.
Recommended only for sewer-dwelling magicians, goat enthusiasts, or those completing a “How Did This Get Made?” bingo card.
