“There’s no way, there’s no goddamn way. There’s something screwy here.”

Shady things are afoot at an in-construction Barcelona skyscraper designed by architect Carolyn Page (Jenny Agutter). Nothing too much to worry about, of course… a window cleaner headbutts a freshly-cleaned window and then falls to his death. A security guard messily explodes in an otherwise empty elevator. Another bloke goes mad in the lobby and guns down a group of people as they exit the same elevator, before being shot himself. It may be possible to chalk these up to lax Spanish health and safety. After all, no-one seems all that bothered. The bodies get scraped up and carted off, and things go immediately back to normal, it seems. Which of course has nothing at all to do with poor film making or plot expediency.

What WE in the audience know is that there’s spooky shit going on. The security guard and lone gunman saw SOMETHING TERRIFYING in the elevator before their respective demises. And although the window cleaner was treated to the (presumably more appealing) sight of Carolyn wandering around her office in her undies (like you do in the workplace), he was then fatally sucked off (careful, we’re better than that) his platform by an unseen force. And THEN magically turned into an unrealistic dummy, mid-downward trajectory.

Aha, you’re thinking. It’s THAT kind of film. And yes, it is.

What we need to sort all this out is some kind of lower-tier Hollywood actor who is the proud owner of a selection of brown corduroy jackets and grey knitwear. Step forward Michael Moriarty. Michael, who has clearly been told not to try very hard (or has realised just what kind of a mess he’s got himself involved in, and has gone on strike) is Dennis Randall, some kind of vacationing-American-cum-police-officer-for-hire. He’s also irresistible to women who, let’s be fair, are somewhat above his limited appeal (unless the male aesthetic ideal was very different in 1989). Randall takes the case, whatever the fuck the case is supposed to actually be, and immediately starts lusting after Carolyn and having premonitions about her being terrorised and chased around her own skyscraper. Investigating further, he bangs away on a computer keyboard and mumbles ideas about the green-on-black text files he brings up. For what seems like about 10 minutes.

He also takes a break and wanders out onto the riverside balcony of his office/flat, to look enigmatic. In exactly the kind of clumsy way an actor who doesn’t give a shit would do it if asked to by a director who is quickly losing the will to live.

Starting the investigation proper, Randall is informed that Carolyn’s husband was originally in charge of the creation of the building. But he disappeared in mysterious circumstances, a random woman being extremely vocal about what a bastard he was. Randall takes himself off to see a parapsychologist, Max Gold (Theodore Bikel). And Randall is extremely pleased with himself when he discovers he has better “psychic powers” (or: guessing what colour is on a hidden card) than the child Gold is testing. Gold is brought in to Randall’s crack investigation team (now numbering two). And on entering the building Gold immediately begins a discussion – ostensibly with himself – after a minor fall of dust appears to convince him that the place is genuinely haunted. To be fair, things take a turn for the slightly more serious when shards of sharp metal are flung at him by an unseen force, but he seems remarkably unrattled by this. And when he too is exposed to the still-unseen thing in the lift, he somehow comes out neither exploded or suddenly murderous.

Realising the merry band of two are no match for whatever is going on (which is still very unclear), Gold now enlists Sergei (Kevin McCarthy), a grizzled drunk with a predilection for berets.

The merry trio now beginning to make headway, as everything in Carolyn’s office explodes around her, prompting an extended chase through the building. Randall realising his visions of the future are coming true, and we in the audience understanding exactly why we’ve been treated to seemingly random footage of Jenny Agutter in various states of undress running away from the camera with a vaguely concerned look on her face throughout the film.

Next up, a frankly bonkers-looking zombie appears, which is clearly supposed to be the “terrifying thing” everyone’s been seeing off-camera, as we learn that Carolyn may not be as squeaky-clean as first thought (well, der).

Dark Tower has much to recommend it, as long as you’re not looking for recommendations regarding its artistic merit, mould-breaking acting performances or zingy writing. All of which are, frankly, rubbish. But if you’re looking for 90 minutes of nonsense, where things happen for no reason, nothing at all happens more often than not, and everyone looks like they’re phoning it in (including whoever was responsible for the scene-setting shots of Barcelona), then you’re in for a treat.

(Apparent) director Freddie Francis’ CV was patchy at best – for every Elephant Man or Cape Fear there were a LOT of Trogs and Son Of Draculas (it is probably safe to say that he was a better cinematographer than director). But even by his low bar this one’s an absolute stinker – so much so that even HE disowned it, with the film coming out as directed by his pseudonym Ken Barnett. Which, if you’re anything like me, will attract you even more to seeking out the amiable mess that is Dark Tower.