The Devil has many faces. And many helpers, too.
There are reasons why Greece isn't known for its horror films. Exhibit A: 1976's Land of the Minotaur, a.k.a. The Devil's Men. The kind of film that can waste the talents of Donald Pleasance and Peter Cushing simultaneously, it's about a cult that worships an anatomically correct minotaur statue that emits flames from its nostrils. Like many films about cults, it features lots of scenes of people in colorful robes and hoods (mostly black, but also some blue and white, with red reserved for their leader), but director Kostas Karagiannis is unable to effectively marshal them to turn them into frightening figures. Heck, he doesn't even bother to keep their identities a secret since we know from the start that Cushing's Baron Corofax (originally from Carpathia, now living in exile) is the red-hooded high priest who presides over their ritual sacrifices. As they chant later on, "We cover our faces in sight of our lord." Well, how about doing that in sight of the audience? No? Okay, then. That's one opportunity for intrigue thrown away.
For his part, Pleasance plays Father Roche, a priest who's an expert on ancient religions, but is incredibly bad at convincing modern youths to stay away from the cursed village where Baron Corofax's cult operates. That's how three free-spirited archaeology buffs wind up in the cult's clutches and Laurie (Luan Peters), the perky blonde girlfriend one of them, shows up on Pleasance's doorstep and moves him to do battle with the forces of evil at the source. But first he has to summon skeptical private detective Milo Kaye (Kostas Karagiorgis, credited as Costa Skouras) from New York, which proves that time can't really be of the essence. Screenwriter Arthur Rowe must have felt the same way because there are plenty of scenes that do little to advance the plot, although he does give Karagiannis numerous opportunities to insert ominous close-ups of the grocer's daughter (credited only as Christina) that advance the notion that some little girls don't have to put much effort into being creepy.
If Land of the Minotaur is of interest to anyone today, it's probably on account of the fact that Brian Eno provided the music, but since some of it was also used in Paul Humfress & Derek Jarman's Sebastiane the same year (and later appeared on the Music for Films album), it can't be considered a proper score. Beyond that, the few things that stand out (apart from the scene where a few of the black-hooded fellows look in on Laurie while she's in the bath) are the tiresome runner about Milo's reckless driving (which Father Roche brings up at every opportunity) and the outlandish climax, where sprinkling holy water on the minotaur statue causes it to explode, followed rapidly by Baron Corofax and all those clad in black and blue, leaving the children in white to carry on without any parental supervision whatsoever. In light of how they were raised (you know, worshiping a fire-breathing minotaur and all), I'm sure that will work out just great.