“Farewell! I leave you, and in you, the last of funkykind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Black Frankenstein! If thou wert yet jive and yet cherished a desire of smooth mama jamma revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction, you dig?” Thus ends the tale of Blackenstein, the 70s answer to the question “What if Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley wrote her seminal tail in the vein of such (horrific is the best word, literally) classic blaxploitation films like J.D.’s Revenge, Hell Comes to Harlem, and Blacula (the very legacy Bram Stoker wanted to sink his teeth in as he lay upon his deathbed). After the box office success of Blacula, Sam Arkoff at American International Pictures dusted off his library card and tried to see if he could jolt some life into some other terrifying literary classics, but when the film was smashed critically, he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon, these burning box office receipts will live on (in infamy on VHS and Beta)!”
Blackenstein (or known on some prints for maddening reasons as The Black Frankenstein) was a large disappointment when released in the summer of 1973, making almost two million on an eighty thousand dollar investment, yet two things bug me about this cinematic stitch (just two?). One is the very assumption in the world that their first attempt at this, Blacula, is a parody or a bad movie. It is a strongly plotted structure, and William Marshall’s Shakespearean performance (To bite or not to bite? That is the question.) makes the film rise (from the grave) above other blaxploitation and horror films in general. Yet Arkoff seemed to have looked past its novel approach and view it the only way he could: as novelty. In reverse order, as Shelly begat Stoker, so too did Blacula begat Blackenstein, but was executed (like strangers in a comedy store’s back alley) poorly, using satire and the ridiculousness of the title to sell the audience. The truth is that the poster and title are assuredly the best part of the film and the reason people monster-mashed to the drive-ins, but it still feels like a missed opportunity. It’s nothing against actor Joe De Sue, who fills the boots well, but it’s like AIP switched the role of Sir Laurence Oliver’s Hamlet with matinee understudy Jerry Lewis (The ladddddddiiiiiieeee protests too much!). Two is the bane of every English teacher who made their students read Shelly’s legendary book: THE MONSTER IS NOT FRAKENSTEIN! FOR THE FIVE THOUSANDTH TIME! FRANKENSTEIN IS THE SCIENTIST! The title to this movie makes no sense if you are following the plot (which, if you are, I don’t know why after the title). In the flicker, veteran actor John Hart (with the best mustache and seventies-quaffed white hair ever) plays Dr. Stein, so the title would only rationalize in our (ab)normal brains if the doctor were the one who turned into the creature. Of course, the title would have to be changed to… well, let’s not go there (but let’s MARA: Make America READ Again!).
Loosing both his arms and legs after stepping on a landmine, Vietnam veteran Eddie Turner hasn’t been having a great wonderful life, but his girlfriend Winifred stands by her man. She also stands by her boss Dr. Stein, a Nobel prize-winning (nerd) physicist whose recent work with DNA is helping him help others like Eddie. When Winifred asks her boss to help Eddie, his assistant, Dr. Malcomb, who has developed a little love potion #9 on her, gets a little upset and contaminates the formula that will save Eddie’s life. When the good doctor performs a little bad medicine on Eddie, he reacts in the worst way possible – he becomes Dr. Stein’s Monster (see, I’m labeling it properly). Bee-Gee-ing loose on the jungle streets of Los Angeles, it’s hard to keep Eddiestein (that’s better) from making tragedies on the various woman he stops from (ah, ah, ah) staying alve, staying alive! Will Dr. Stein and Winifred stop her monstrous boyfriend from destroying everything in its path, or will Eddiestein (neck)bolt from a cabin window and get lost in darkness and distance by the cement viaducts?
Peariling your way at a hodgedpodged seventy-eight minutes (there was some ten minutes left in the meat wagon), and directed William A. Levey (who went on to such fowl turkeys as Wam, Bam, Thank You Spaceman and The Happy Hooker Goes to Washington), a supposed sequel was once in the works under the title The Black Frankenstein Meets the White Werewolf but was cancelled when the film didn’t suck as much (revenue) as Blacula. The film can be found on streamers like Tubi, but try to get your (re-attached) hands on Severin Films’ Blu-Ray edition, featuring two versions of the film and cast interviews. So if you are taking a smoke break from the night club job (that joke is a killer bow-wow, though) and see a giant shadow of Dr. Stein’s Eddiestein, just wait till it says “The discolight of that conflagration will fade away and my soul(train) will sleep in peace, you dig, or if it thinks, it will not surely think that Black Frankenstein is not the name of the monster. Farewell, my brother!”
