Somewhere along the South American coast, likely just a grid square or two from Blood Island, lives milquetoast myth-buster J. Peter Wells. He’s played by Walter Reed, not to be confused with yellow fever pioneer Dr. Walter Reed. (The latter’s name adorns hospitals, schools and other renowned institutions; the former was in Superman and the Mole-Men and comes off like a sub-John Saxon struggling to stifle an oncoming IBS incident.)
Peter’s writing a book on voodoo. He couldn’t have picked a better spot, what with all the thick-of-night rituals involving voodoo dolls, snakes, dead goats, dancing in circles, drums aplenty and topless villagers for sacrifice.
This is the world of Macumba Love. According to Google my crack investigating skills, “macumba” refers to a type of Afro-Brazilian folk religion. And the “love”? Well, it could be the staid Peter making time with local hottie Venus de Viasa (Ziva Rodann, The Private Lives of Adam & Eve).
Or Peter’s honeymooning daughter (visibly buoyant June Wilkinson, The Bellboy and the Playgirls) showing up with hubby Warren (William Wellman Jr., Winter a-Go-Go), whom Peter greets with the cringe-inducing “My replacement!”
Or Venus flirting with Warren so aggressively and openly on the dance floor, she may as well be grinding her mons pubis against his leg.
But let’s go with my love — for this kind of crass, garish jungle picture. Horror-adventure travelogue trash is a lost art, and this one offers cut-rate thrills ’n’ chills wrapped in a quasi-whodunit.
While Peter and Venus frolic in the ocean, a corpse surfaces (hi, Bob!) in a well-done jump scare. Pulling a poisoned hatpin from the dead man’s tummy, Peter suspects the work of Mama Rata-loi (Ruth de Souza), the voodoo lady shakin’ that stick and drivin’ them crazy — a solid guess, seeing as how skulls surround her dockside shack’s doorframe. He pops by Mama Rata-loi’s unannounced and says he’s heard enough about “the serpent of revenge and the rest of your voodoo trappings.” Speak for yourself, Peter!
The only film directed by character actor Douglas Fowley, whose CV ranges from Singin’ in the Rain to Cat-Women of the Moon, Macumba Love benefits greatly from the scenery — both Wilkinson, then still a teenager, and outdoor Brazil. Without Mother Nature, production value might be as primitive as the natives participating in the rituals bookending the movie.
As with many B pictures of the day, the threadbare script is padded by several diegetic songs. Personally, I could do with less Calypso, but then, what would Wilkinson have to dance to? —Rod Lott
