The Black Pearl (1977)

          Adapted from a Newbury Award-winning 1967 children’s novel by Scott O’Dell, American-Spanish coproduction The Black Pearl offers an unusual combination of elements—it’s a coming-of-age story, a pastoral about life in a Baja California fishing village in preindustrial times, and, sporadically, a fanciful creature feature that borrows from Jaws (1975). Unsurprisingly, this wild blend doesn’t work, but The Black Pearl is compelling in a pulpy sort of way, and the morality tale at the heart of the piece comes across despite some janky plotting (the filmmakers took liberties with the source material, so don’t blame O’Dell). Greatly benefiting the picture is colorful location and underwater photography, extensive use of real animals onscreen, and a pungent soundtrack pairing eerie sound effects with an eclectic score that ranges from orchestral cues to disco-inflected grooves. As a result, even when the movie wobbles narratively and thematically, The Black Pearl is usually quite lively.

          Sixteen-year-old Ramon (Mario Custodio) dreams of diving for pearls like some of the grown men in his village, though his father, middle-class merchant Blas (Carlos Estrada), initially discourages his son’s ambitions. Then Ramon persuades veteran diver Soto (Gilbert Roland) to train him, so Blas relents and Ramon travels to Soto’s seaside village, where the older man trains his apprentice in breath control, patience, and the use of equipment. Adding a supernatural overlay to the story, Soto warns Ramon against visiting a particular cove that’s purported to be the lair of a gigantic manta ray. This being a parable about youthful hubris, naturally Ramon explores the cove and discovers a massive black pearl, triggering awful consequences. The narrative’s weakest element is the integration of the Moor (Carl Anderson), a mystery man who lives in Ramon’s village and causes trouble with his drinking and fighting; although he becomes central during the film’s climax, he presence seems arbitrary until that point, probably because the Moor is a heavily reconfigured version of the source novel’s antagonist.

          On the plus side, a few scenes in The Black Pearl are genuinely arresting—best of all is the lengthy sequence of Ramon exploring the cove, during which director Saul Swimmer (yes, that’s really his name!) intercuts Ramon’s treasure hunting with real footage of sea creatures menacing each other, for example a gang of crabs mauling an unlucky fish. The music and sound effects are enjoyably over the top here. Scenes featuring the giant ray (viewers get a glimpse right at the beginning of the picture) reveal severe budget limitations, though Swimmer wisely keeps manta shots to a minimum, giving them as much impact as possible. As for the actors, Roland’s elegant persona enlivens otherwise formulaic mentorship beats, and Custodio’s earnestness helps sell his character’s evolution from ambition to recklessness to regret. Alas, the script doesn’t do Anderson any favors, though it’s a trip to see Judas from Jesus Christ Superstar (1973) have a close encounter with tarantulas—which is just as much of a non sequitur as it sounds.

The Black Pearl: FUNKY

Daughters of Darkness (1971)

          One of the artiest exploitation movies of the ’70s, the Belgian vampire thriller Daughters of Darkness features such extraordinarily beautiful cinematography—and, to be frank, such extraordinarily beautiful women—that it’s tempting to seek some deeper significance, as if the movie is more than just a tastefully executed shocker. Alas, director/co-writer Harry Kümel’s cult-favorite movie doesn’t reward close scrutiny, and in fact the picture’s biggest flaw is a ponderousness suggesting Kümel himself thought he was making a Grand Statement. Shot with English-language dialogue despite its European origins, the picture originally ran a plodding 100 minutes, though a widely available expurgated cut is only 87 minutes long. Which version suits which viewer is a matter of taste, because those who get hooked on the picture may want to savor every possible frame.

          When the story begins, an attractive newlywed couple arrives at a seaside resort, which is empty because the year’s tourist season has ended, and they learn that several murders has taken place nearby. Worse, the victims were drained of blood. Then, when a beautiful countess arrives at the hotel with her female companion/servant at her side, the couple falls under the countess’ charismatic spell. It turns out the countess is a centuries-old vampire with nefarious designs on the couple. So begins a strange odyssey filled with betrayal, death, and sex. There’s nothing new about the eroticized-horror formula, so what makes Daughters of Darkness unique is its intoxicating style. Kümel treats every shot like a photographic art project, filling the screen with arresting compositions and subtle textures; thus, when he strings his beguiling images together with meditative editing and mournful music, he creates a bewitching atmosphere.

          Contributing to this effect are actresses Delphine Seyrig, as the countess, and Andrea Rau, as her servant. Seyrig is a stunning blonde with aristocratic bearing who, at first, seems as if she’ll be an ice queen—so when she reveals fragility, insecurity, and need, a quietly textured performance emerges. Rau is a sensuous brunette, the natural visual counterpart to Seyrig, and though her presence is less nuanced that Seyrig’s, Rau affects a plaintive quality. (As the newlyweds, John Karlen is enjoyably sleazy and Danielle Ouimet, the cast’s weak link, is merely lovely.) In the movie’s grandest contrivance, the countess is revealed to be Elizabeth Báthory, the infamous 16th-century Hungarian aristocrat who bathed in the blood of virgins because she felt doing so would preserve her beauty; like Kümel’s rarified pictorial style, this allusion to history gives Daughters of Darkness a sophisticated sheen lesser films of its ilk lack, but not actual depth.

Daughters of Darkness: GROOVY