KING OF THE ZOMBIES (1942)

In the classic Hollywood era, the old-style horror movie zombie (of enslaved voodoo origins) could sporadically be spotted shuffling disconsolately through release schedules, but only as the slave of very low-budget masters. Horror films as a whole had become increasingly marginalised into being the province of the cheaper Poverty Row studios (Republic, PRC, Mascot, Grand National and most infamously Monogram) whose output was less prestigious than the A and B features but slightly better than pure exploitation movies. They managed a precarious living by operating on a micro-budget level that allowed them to turn a profit on the expectedly meagre returns (on average $1,932,12 per film).

Monogram is the most well-known of the Poverty Row studios chiefly because of what became known as the notorious Monogram Nine, a collection of films all starring the impoverished Bela Lugosi such as The Ape (1940)  Black Dragons (1942) and 1944’s Voodoo Man. These may have garnered an ironic fan-base like Ed Wood for their sheer awfulness of execution and yet Tom Weaver points out in the introduction to his book Poverty Row Horrors! that amongst their total roster “a number of them came awfully close to being halfway decent, all they needed was a bit more production polish and a good writer..”. Unfortunately they simply didn’t have the resources.

It was Monogram that figured they could mine the deathly shambling human resource of the living dead in 1941 with King of the Zombies. The producer-director duo of the Halperin Brothers had paved the rotting way first with Bela Lugosi calling the hypnotic shots in the so-so White Zombie (1932) and the cunning cash-in Revolt of the Zombies (1936), both of whom . The most effective recent depiction of a zombie had been Noble Johnson’s very creepy portrayal in The Ghost Breakers as we have discussed (see 4/11 review). Now it was Monogram’s turn to conjur up the voodoo hoodoo, inspired more by Bob Hope comedy quips in tone than haphazard Halperin seriousness.

King of the Zombies was one of the many cheapjack B-pictures churned out by the studio, and at least was helmed by a director whose background in comedy alternated and crossed streams with horror in a busy run through the 1940s. Jean Yarbrough had already ably directed Bela Lugosi in 1940’s The Devil Bat for Monogram competitor PRC (Producers Releasing Corporation). Here, he does what he can to convince us of a far-flung exotic jungle setting but with no location footage, relying solely on cost-cutting studio interiors. To get us there, we begin in the air as pilot ‘Mac’ McCarthy and his passengers struggle to get their bearings in a heavy storm over the Caribbean. Dick Purcell plays Mac with the All-American stoicism that would see Republic casting him in the Marvel Captain America serial in 1944. Bill Summers (John Archer) and his black servant Jeff (Mantan Moreland) sit helplessly by until he picks up a crackly radio transmission. It’s spoken in a ‘new lingo’ to Mac – a worrying observation to make during WWII considering it’s German.

The party of three crash-land in a clearing on a remote Caribbean island and soon make their way to a forebidding-looking mansion. This is where Moreland begins to command our attention as the comic relief of the movie: his saucer-eyed cowardly jabberings go into reflexive over-drive at any potential fearfulness. Whilst this demeaning racial relegation is always dispiriting and a perennial bug-bear of mine in this period, he does at least gain a lot of screen time as one of the lead protagonists. One just has to ignore such dreadful self-denigrating dialogue as “I thought I was a little off-colour to be a ghost”.

Initially, the trio welcome the arrival of the owner, Viennese émigré Dr Miklos Sangre (Henry Victor), who after descending the staircase in unsettling candle-light from below, genially offers them a warming brandy. He seems charming - although isn’t that surname another word for blood? We shrug and listen as he blithely offers local survival tips: “They say that evil spirits lurk here waiting to prey…on the injured”. Sangre’s own black man-servant Momba (Leigh Whipper) hovers as a sombre presence befitting the house.

If Dr Sangre’s poise and lines seem an ideal vehicle for Bela Lugosi, that’s because originally they were. The Hungarian star wasn’t free and neither was second choice Peter Lorre. Victor makes an enigmatic enough choice though and it’s a good thing that Sangre seems the perfect host as the threesome learn they must wait two weeks for a boat out of there.

Another uncomfortable segregation reminder occurs when Jeff is asked to lodge in the servants’ kitchen quarters rather than a guest bedroom like Mac and Bill as supposedly it sets a bad example to the other staff. The master needn’t worry; his employees’ attention is taken by other matters, like the zombie slaves who wander in when summoned by the clapping of hands. They have the drone-like movement and sightless staring eyes we expect, which is news to the terrified Jeff, yet seemingly business as usual to Marguerite Whitten’s maid Samantha and the brooding cook Tahama (Madame Sul-Te Wan) who deny all knowledge of the zombies when questioned by Sangre and Jeff’s friends.

It’s worth noting the irony that, despite the racism on show, this film’s two most malevolent characters are played by black actors who broke historic ground in the profession. When Madame Sul-Te Wan, born Nellie Colley, signed up with Fine Arts, she was the first African-American actress to be contracted by a major film studio. Leigh Whipper’s dignity was recognised as the first African-American member admitted to the Actors Equity union in 1913 and set up the Negro Actors Guild in 1937.

Back in the land of the quasi-living, our trio meet Sangre’s wife Alyce (Patricia Stacey) who is in as unreachable a hypnotic state as the zombies. Sangre claims he is trying to help her as victim of ‘a strange malady’. We are also introduced to his niece Barbara Winslow (Joan Woodbury), who corrects herself suspiciously after she at first refers to him as the Doctor rather than her uncle. The plot gets even murkier after the revelation that a previous airplane on official Navy business disappeared in the same area carrying an Admiral Wainwright. Now we understand that Bill too was on a secret services mission.

Gradually, supernatural elements take over. Jeff is attacked by two zombies who try to grab him as he sleeps in the kitchen, and after taking refuge in his friends’ bedroom he’s plagued even further by a spectral visit from Madame Sangre who appears to materialise through the wall to look over Bill. If it wasn’t for her dropping of an ear-ring no-one would believe him. He’s rewarded for his interference though by Sangre putting him into a zombified trance. Here, a comic aspect is applied to render the overcrowding of implausibilites more palatable – though Jeff is under a spell there are enough vestiges of him to deliver one-liners. “Move over boys. I’m one o’ the gang now,” he says as he takes his place among the drones. This at least beats the audience to the critical brickbats by getting there first.

Sadly, Mac joins the choir invisible when he staggers back from the jungle having contracted a rare jungle fever according to the Doctor. Whilst a second opinion would be advisable, it comes from a peculiar Indian colleague of his called Dr Cree who after the briefest of examination concludes that Mac is already dead. How laymen like our heroes couldn’t reach that conclusion without him is disturbing in itself.

The climax is a rush-job where Bill and a quickly-awakened Jeff are alerted by distant drums - “It don’t sound like Gene Krupa”. They stumble upon Dr Sangre about to perform the Rites of Transmigration in which he attempts to transfer top-secret military information from Wainwright (his prisoner all along) into the brain of Barbara for easier access. Mac has been revived into slavery but with a swift prompt from Bill backs his master into a fiery pit death. This dismissive resolution feels very much like a serial from Monogram’s competitor Republic, trying to put away clumsily the clutter of the various plot toys that have been unpacked.

King of the Zombies was slanted heavily toward black moviegoers in its publicity. Since Moreland effectively dominates the film and dilutes any bid for real horror, Monogram desperately pushed cinema owners in black districts to display photos of him with Whitten. “Do everything possible to star them coming, for once they see the show, the word-of-mouth will be sensational”. Another over-optimistic gambit was their follow-on entitled Revenge of the Zombies was made by the studio in 1943, its only connection being the Manton Moreland returning as Jeff and Madam Sul-Te Wan playing a new role.

Jean Yarbrough would go on to vary Poverty Row output with higher-grade Universal contracts, the non-horror Abbott & Costello features The Naughty Nineties (1945) and Lost in Alaska (1952), twice with the short-lived Rondo ‘The Brute Man’ Hatton and a couple of Bowery Boys pictures such as the horror spoof Master Minds (1949) amongst others.

Incidentally, the premise of the film was recycled recently in the Playstation/XBOX console game series How to Survive I & II (2014-present) in which your humble correspondent voices the evil Russian Kovac, similarly ensnaring desperate aircraft via radio broadcasts to land on his dead-infested island and become zombie food for his homicidal amusement.