Slipstream (1989)

Slipstream is the kind of scrappy, idea-rich science-fiction adventure that feels like it was built from pure imagination and a gust of desert wind: a ruined Earth, a world-spanning current that’s practically a character, and a chase story that keeps opening into stranger, more soulful territory. Steven Lisberger gives the film a vivid, lived-in look—part dustbowl myth, part punk futurism—while Mark Hamill brings a weary, human edge that grounds the high-concept weirdness. It’s an enjoyable romp with flashes of the sublime, where poetry, machines, and survival share the same sky, and you can feel the movie reaching beyond its budget toward something grander. Fair warning: it’s proudly offbeat and uneven in that late-’80s way, but if you like ambitious sci-fi that swings for wonder instead of polish, this one’s easy to root for.

Slipstream is clearly aiming for a dusty, post-apocalyptic adventure with big ideas about humanity, faith, and technology, and you can feel Steven Lisberger trying to build a mythic world out of wind-swept ruins. The problem is it often plays like a patchwork of scenes rather than a story with momentum, with choppy pacing and a “things just happen” quality that screams production and post-production trouble. Mark Hamill brings some likable presence, and the premise has a pulpy, oddball charm if you enjoy B-movie sci-fi curiosities. If you need coherent world-building, consistent tone, and a satisfying narrative payoff, this will likely feel more like a rough draft than the epic it wants to be.