Revisiting The Land That Time Forgot for its fiftieth anniversary, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia. This 1975 science fiction adventure film, based on Edgar Rice Burroughs' novel of the same name, has always struck a peculiar chord with me. It’s not a perfect film—far from it, really—but there’s something compelling about its mixture of pulpy escapism, audacious visual ambition, and quintessentially 1970s charm. Watching it today, it stands as a fascinating relic, both in its depiction of Burroughs’ timeless adventure and in its own cinematic craftsmanship.
Originally released in the United States on August 13, 1975 (after a November 1974 London premiere), The Land That Time Forgot was a product of Amicus Productions, a British company known primarily for its horror anthologies. This time, the studio veered into prehistoric terrain, securing the rights to Burroughs’ 1918 novel and entrusting director Kevin Connor with bringing it to life. Connor, in what was only his second feature film, helmed a story that begins during World War I, as a German U-boat and a British ship are locked in naval conflict. The survivors of both vessels find themselves reluctantly united aboard the submarine as they drift toward the mysterious lost world of Caprona, an uncharted island teeming with dinosaurs and primitive human tribes.
The production of The Land That Time Forgot was, by all accounts, ambitious given its relatively modest budget of $1 million. Shot largely at Pinewood Studios in Buckinghamshire, the filmmakers relied heavily on practical effects and hand-crafted miniatures to create the prehistoric world of Caprona. Of course, the dinosaurs, realised through a mix of puppetry and rudimentary stop-motion animation, were never going to rival the photo-realism of today’s CGI. Even at the time, the creatures were met with mixed reactions, their jerky movements and plasticine appearance betraying their limitations. Yet, it’s precisely this handmade quality that gives the film its peculiar charm. There’s an endearing earnestness to the way the filmmakers tackle Burroughs’ vision, pouring their resources into matte paintings, model submarines, and vividly coloured jungle sets.
The cast of The Land That Time Forgot is a blend of stoic professionalism and 1970s pulp sensibility. Doug McClure, an American actor who had found fame on television’s The Virginian, stars as Bowen Tyler, the dashing but pragmatic protagonist. McClure’s performance anchors the film, his rugged charisma offering a strong counterpoint to the high-concept absurdity unfolding around him. Opposite him, John McEnery plays the conflicted German captain, Von Schoenvorts, with a sense of gravitas that adds depth to what could have been a two-dimensional villain. The supporting cast, including Susan Penhaligon as the spirited Lisa Clayton, acquit themselves well, even when saddled with dialogue that veers toward the melodramatic.
Upon its release, The Land That Time Forgot received a mixed critical reception. While some reviewers appreciated its sense of adventure and its fidelity to the spirit of Burroughs’ novel, others derided its uneven pacing and unconvincing special effects. It was, however, a modest box-office success, earning enough to spawn a sequel, The People That Time Forgot, in 1977. Over the years, the film has gained a devoted cult following, celebrated by fans of vintage science fiction and adventure cinema. For many, it’s a comforting throwback to a time when genre filmmaking embraced its own limitations and delivered unabashedly imaginative stories.
From a 2025 perspective, the legacy of The Land That Time Forgot lies in its status as a snapshot of mid-1970s genre filmmaking. Watching it today, it’s impossible not to marvel at how far cinematic technology has come. The film’s effects, once cutting-edge in their ingenuity, now feel quaintly archaic, their seams visible to even the least discerning viewer. And yet, this very quality imbues the film with a certain magic. There’s a tactile, analogue quality to its craft that modern blockbusters, with their polished digital effects, often lack. It’s a reminder of an era when filmmakers had to think creatively within their means, conjuring wonder from rubber and paint rather than pixels.
Critically, the film occupies an intriguing middle ground. It’s neither a masterpiece nor an outright failure, but something in between: a film whose flaws are as endearing as its strengths. The pacing, for instance, can be maddeningly uneven. The early naval sequences are taut and engaging, but the middle act, set within the jungles of Caprona, meanders in a way that saps momentum. And yet, even in its slowest moments, the film never loses its sense of curiosity and wonder. Burroughs’ narrative conceit—a world where evolutionary processes occur at an accelerated rate, allowing dinosaurs and cavemen to coexist—is inherently compelling, and the film does a respectable job of capturing that.
Looking back, what strikes me most about The Land That Time Forgot is its sincerity. In an era increasingly dominated by irony and self-awareness, there’s something refreshing about a film that wears its heart so plainly on its sleeve. It’s a film that believes in its own fantastical premise and asks its audience to do the same. For all its creaky effects and dated performances, it’s hard not to be swept up in its earnest enthusiasm.
As I rewatched the film in preparation for this retrospective, I found myself smiling at moments that might once have elicited an eye-roll. The sight of a rubber dinosaur snapping at a clearly terrified McClure, or the melodramatic exchanges between the British and German crew members, now feel like part of the film’s charm rather than its shortcomings. It’s a reminder that cinema is as much about emotion as it is about technical execution. For all its imperfections, The Land That Time Forgot has a beating heart, and that counts for a great deal.
Ultimately, The Land That Time Forgot endures because it captures something fundamental about the power of storytelling. It’s an adventure in the truest sense, inviting viewers to lose themselves in a world of imagination and possibility. In revisiting it, I found not just a film, but a time capsule: a glimpse into the past, when cinema was a little rougher around the edges but no less wondrous for it.
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