ISLAND OF THE DOOMED
1967, Mondo Macabro (BD ABC), 88m 13s
aka LA ISLA DE LA MUERTE (Spain), MANEATER OF HYDRA (US TV), THE BLOODSUCKERS (UK), BARON VAMPIRE (France)
Actor Mel Welles, primarily known for his 1950s work with Roger Corman and Lord Buckley, migrated with his family to Italy in the early 1960s, where he acted in films, more lucratively became a dubbing director. and later served as an assistant director to the young Michael Reeves on his debut feature THE SHE BEAST (1965). He also got the opportunity to direct a handful of films in Italy and Spain, but the only one much seen prior to 1972 was this delirious Spanish horror/science fiction hybrid, theatrically released in America by Allied Artists. It then became part of a widely syndicated AIP-TV package under the new title MANEATER OF HYDRA. Though badly cropped and miserably panned-and-scanned from its original 2.35:1 Techniscope ratio, with an Anton García Ábril soundtrack that sometimes warbled like something waterlogged, the film nevertheless proved irresistible in its lurid eccentricity. Cameron Mitchell, cast as the deranged and reclusive botanist Baron von Weser, has his privacy compromised when a group of stranded tourists take over his villa and, after embarrassing themselves in different ways, begin to be knocked off by one of his more ambitious man-eating plants.
Ever since letterboxing was introduced, this film has been near the top of my list of most-desired widescreen titles for restoration and now, at last, I have it - and so can you. Mondo Macabro’s release—issued first as a limited edition Blu-ray (1200 copies, now OOP), with pre-orders for a standard edition due to start being accepted soon—opens with an apologetic card explaining that, as the film's original camera negative remains lost, the following 4K restoration had to be compiled from the best parts of two surviving 35mm theatrical prints. While one can imagine the image being slightly sharper, the composite offered here is in ripely colored, gorgeous condition with only minimal, easily forgiven scratching. The opening establishing shot—a mere throw-away on old TV prints—is a stunning, nearly 3D camera dolly shot past an arrangement of shrubs and layered, parked buses, proving that DP Cecilio Paniagua (CUSTER OF THE WEST, PATTON) was fully invested from the get-go in the film’s visual possibilities.
This is very much one of those “busload of tourists” horror films so familiar from the early years of Italian Gothic (PLAYGIRLS AND THE VAMPIRE, BLOODY PIT OF HORROR) but there is something earthier, grittier about this Spanish manifestation that was not yet so familiar when it first came to television, its only real precedents being Jesùs Franco’s THE AWFUL DR. ORLOF (1964) and DR. ORLOFF’S MONSTER (1965) - both in black-and-white and not so easily seen in America after their theatrical releases. Welles’ own persona - I knew him, so I can assure you he was an interesting cocktail of wry intelligence, lofty pride, disdain and ironic humor - also finds its way into the English dubbing of the picture, over which he also presided; the collective characters—which include a bland hero (George Martín), a sweet innocent girl that he can end up with (Elisa Montés), a handsome tour guide-cum-early victim (Riccardo Valle, who played Morpho in Jesús Franco’s THE AWFUL DR ORLOF, 1962), a philandering drunk (Kai Fischer), her suffering cuckold of a husband (Rolf von Nauckhoff), a gibberingly eccentric fellow botanist (Herman Nehlsen) and Myrtle Callahan (Mathilde Sampietro), an older woman who loves nagging and taking pictures and sounds like she was dubbed by Anne Meara—are clearly a bouquet arranged by a man who loved people and suffered them, as well.
He didn't need to, but Mitchell brings his best game to this picture. He's believable as an obsessed scientist, an aesthete remote enough from others to venture into irresponsible research, and he gives us so many interesting stops along the way to his ultimate fate. We get to see his prowess on a bicycle; we see him turn coldly asexual when he finds himself in the arms of a libidinous woman; and apologetic and respectful when circumstances cause him to commit a murder himself (he instructs his servant to handle the body with respect - “he was a nice man”). And his ultimate fate is a real show-stopper, with Mitchell shifting into Shakespearean soliloquy mode after failing to fend off hero George Martín's intended axe blows against his "baby," what Allied Artists' ad campaign reasonably called a “vampire tree,” which for most of the film’s running time is creepily presented from our own POV. When the thing is finally shown, the special effects prop holds up remarkably well, though Welles had nothing but complaints about the artists when I interviewed him for VW #78, back in 2001. A tentacled tree, each of its blooms opening like vaginal fissures to reveal astonishingly graphic, erect, veinous, honey-dripping, blood sucking stamens—it’s the screen’s most blatantly sexual monster since the “boy and girl” aliens concocted by Francis Coppola for his BATTLE BEYOND THE STARS (1962), a decade’s head-start on Body Horror proper, and it’s all the more effective for looking biologically sound and believable. I was also surprised to see a couple of bloody inserts that I never noticed on TV, showing a much younger hand than Mitchell's clinging to one of the plant's protuberances as it can't decide to drink in or spit out.
Seeing the film on TV as a child, many times, I was most impressed by the rain which coincides with the bloody dismantling of the Baron’s hungry infant. It seemed to me at the time that the sky was actually raining blood, in a kind of purgative ceremony akin to the flames that always arose to engulf the final reels of Roger Corman’s Poe pictures. As seen on this new disc release, I don’t see the same effect, which must have been a lie fostered by the image’s compressed TV image, but it is even more effective; the once-mashed-beyond-recognition close-up of Mitchell’s face is now perfectly rendered and shows a still-respectable makeup job. Most importantly, in the correct 2.35:1 widescreen ratio, we can also finally see the full size of the macabre plant as it prepares to reach out, unseen, for its final victim. Also saved is the closing shot, a high-angle view of the tree and its various victims, which is here unscrambled to preserve a Grand Guignolesque closing shot that recalls nothing less than the final shot of Paul Morrissey’s FLESH FOR FRANKENSTEIN (1973). As you can see from the compositions in these frame grabs, Paniagua’s work on this picture is nothing short of masterful, and Mario Bava may well have been aware of the film as he insisted to producer Alfredo Leone that Paniagua was the only Spanish DP he could trust to shoot LISA AND THE DEVIL. (And so he did, to beautiful effect, though it led to complaints about how much time was needlessly wasted on his old-school lighting techniques.)
What
most surprised me about seeing the film for the first time in its
intended ratio is how well it conveys abundant nature as something both
beautiful and savage—indeed, something with its own personality, which
can turn on a dime. Filmed in the Costa Brava rural area outside
Barcelona, ISLAND OF THE DOOMED manages to feel akin to the Italian
Gothics while at the same time conjuring up a unique flavor of its own.
Viewers will notice that this flavor is quite different in its Spanish-language version, which is included with subtitles that likewise vary from the English dub in subtle and curious ways. It's a less humorous viewing option, leaning in tone more toward the courtly and hubristic, which also has the surprising effect of enhancing the quality of the horror scenes, which become more seriously chilling rather than "wildly entertaining" (to quote Mondo Macabro's introductory card. Its presence on the disc reminds us that ISLAND OF THE DOOMED (or, rather, LA ISLA DE LA MUERTE) is one of the earliest Spanish fantaterror titles, predating the works of Paul Naschy and even José Antonio Nieves Conde's THE SOUND OF HORROR (EL SONIDO DE LA MUERTE, 1966) with Ingrid Pitt and Soledad Miranda. Unlike quite a number of later Spanish horror titles, this one does not revisit the well-worn locations found in Jesús Franco's GRITOS EN LA NOCHE/THE AWFUL DR. ORLOF (1962) and EL SECRETO DEL DR. ORLOFF/DR. ORLOFF'S MONSTER aka DR. JEKYLL'S MISTRESSES (1964), which underscore its originality and have kept its appeal fresh and independent. Speaking of underscoring, I'm also happy to report that Anton García Ábril's creepy and moody score, with its pleasing romantic and adventurous themes, has been thoroughly refurbished and adds to a general feeling that this film has not been able to view in such superb condition in 60 years. Indeed, I was in touch with Mel Welles at the time of his death and can attest that seeing this film in its intended form once again was one of his highest priorities. It saddens me that he didn't get to see this, or to know that future generations would.
Sadly, Mel did not leave behind enough work as a director to have carved out a niche for himself among horror directors, but I think it can be broadly characterized as alternately gregarious and misanthropic with a dark sense of humor. He took credit for suggesting the classic moment in Michael Reeves’ THE SHE BEAST in which a sickle, just used in a murder against a Communist worker, was tossed aside to fortuitously cross with a hammer on the floor of a garage, which is one of my favorite moments in the picture. But his only other really notable directorial effort was 1971’s LADY FRANKENSTEIN, which (much to Mel’s annoyance) was chopped-up by his old friend Roger Corman “like so much salami” for its US drive-in release. It can now be found on Nucleus Films Region 2 Blu-ray in a nicely restored version, but I strongly feel that ISLAND OF THE DOOMED was his finest effort—and Mondo Macabro’s restoration reveals something even bigger and better than I ever realized it was. It’s an incredible rarity in that it was made with noticeable style and taste, yet what lingers most in the memory is what fun, how entertaining it is—for a very special kind of viewer. Like me, like Mel, like you.
Mondo Macabro's region-free disc is a limited edition of 1200 copies. Also included is a pleasing commentary by David Flint, companionable and well-observed; Xavier Sánchez Pons' hour-long video essay on the life and career of Jorge Martín (perhaps slightly more than was needed, as Martín is this film’s weakest point, dubbed - I think - by Rodd Dana); and a comprehensive talk by the always-welcome Ángel Sala (uncredited on the packaging) about the history of films (like this one) which were shot in the Costa Brava area. Tucked inside is an illustrated booklet with text worth reading by Ismael Fernandez which offers additional production information, and also mini-replicas of the US release’s colorized lobby cards.
In case the point has been lost on you, I love this disc, unreservedly. If you missed the limited edition, keep your eyes peeled for pre-ordering the standard edition at www.mondomacabro.bigcartel.com.
(c) 2026 Tim Lucas. All rights reserved.
