NOTE: There is no note.
The Native American burial ground...it's a fixture that we're all familiar with as horror hounds. It's a common appurtenance. It's genre gingerbread. It's terror tinsel. Man, I need to watch myself; I'm only allowed so much alliteration per review, and I fear that I may have already burned through my annuity. My gratuitous gratuity? Knock it off, brain. So! Dead Indians. There is a weird little clique of movies that makes use of evil redskins. Eek, can I say that? It feels racist, but if it were truly offensive, Robert Griffin III would be a Washington Polecat or a Washington Tree Apron. Anyway, this caste of cinematic tomahawks (I'm uncomfortable) includes 1980's Ghost Dance, 1975's Johnny Firecloud, 1978's The Manitou and 1983's Scalps among others. You could even toss in 1990's Grim Prairie Tales, if you were so inclined. In terms of plot, 1988's Demon Warrior is most comparable to Scalps.
Incidentally, I haven't seen Scalps. What's up with that? In the context of this campfire story, a "demon warrior" is an ancient spirit deputized to pay a visit to an explicit strip of land every ten years. It has to do with a curse placed on the property in response to the plundering ways of our main character's grandfather. Goddamn white people. The grandson decides to be typical and invites his buddies (both fuck and platonic) to go hunting on the hexed tract. Would you believe that it's the tenth anniversary of his uncle's insoluble death? You would? Would you believe that I have a penis for sale? It's the size of a pony truss bridge. Er, I didn't tell that joke correctly. Something about selling a bridge or exchanging gullible genitals for money. A gangplank maybe?
Needless to say, the cracker youths (I'm still uncomfortable) are executed one by one. The weapon of choice is a bow and arrow. That's pretty nifty. I can roll with it, but the kill sequences are disagreeably edentate. With the exception of a near-obligatory scalping, there is a shortage of gore. Nada. Zot. Nada and zot. I'm cool with the titular villain, though. Motherfucker is built, and that mask is begging to be stocked at Spirit Halloween. I expected to drown in boredom at some point, but the pace was industrious enough to keep me cognizant. If I'm being honest, the acting was passable, too. Remember, this is a film called Demon Warrior. Standards have been adjusted to fit your screen.
The ending is beyond goofy. If you don't want it spoiled (wtf lmao), stop reading...now. Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat's doppelganger enters a trance state to dovetail and synchronize with an electrical storm. Telepathically, he fries the devilish spirit slicker via controlled bursts of lightning. And that's how Demon Warrior wraps itself up. Hey, if you chance upon the tape at a flea circus (a flea market will work as a stand-in), swipe it. It's as sharp as a haversack of wet leather, but when it comes to b-fuckery, I've weathered worse. Robert Z'Dar says, "The bitch who plays the callgirl. With the tits. If I were her father, my soul would be burning right now."