A very enjoyable early talkie melodrama , this West Indies adventure yarn combines some gorgeous tropical photography with a religious spin involving minister Charles Bickford trying his best to reform temperamental native Raquel Torres who has a body for sin and a desire for life any way she can get it. She is surviving the loss of her brother (Nils Asther) who was brutally killed by the giant manta ray after the envious John Miljan cut his line while Asther was exploring the coral reefs. Bickford, a sermonless minister, arrives for an agenda of his own, and like Walter Huston in "Rain", finds himself obsessed with reforming Torres. although he doesn't go as far as Huston did with Joan Crawford. Miljan takes things too far by intending to feed Bickford to the huge "sea bat", and this leads to a chilling conclusion where the size of this true sea monster is revealed.
While a bit clunky compared to the standards of films made just a few years later, this has an exotic feel to it, and stands the test of time outside the bounds of just mere curiosity. If you blink, you might miss a youngish Boris Karloff, barely recognizable. Bickford and Torres do display some heat together, and in spite of what could have been a one dimensional part, Torres makes her character likable. Bickford, who could play brutes on screen, is quite understated here. But the best performance is by George F. Marion as Torres' drunken father who in spite of seemingly constant intoxication is quite spiritual. This is enjoyable for its fabulous use of exotic locations and pre-code insinuations of sexual desire. The direction by Wesley Ruggles and Lionel Barrymore apparently went uncredited, but this is pretty much the kind of film where the photographer is really the star behind the scenes, a testament to cinematographer Ira H. Morgan whose career spanned the mid teen's to the late 1950's.
While a bit clunky compared to the standards of films made just a few years later, this has an exotic feel to it, and stands the test of time outside the bounds of just mere curiosity. If you blink, you might miss a youngish Boris Karloff, barely recognizable. Bickford and Torres do display some heat together, and in spite of what could have been a one dimensional part, Torres makes her character likable. Bickford, who could play brutes on screen, is quite understated here. But the best performance is by George F. Marion as Torres' drunken father who in spite of seemingly constant intoxication is quite spiritual. This is enjoyable for its fabulous use of exotic locations and pre-code insinuations of sexual desire. The direction by Wesley Ruggles and Lionel Barrymore apparently went uncredited, but this is pretty much the kind of film where the photographer is really the star behind the scenes, a testament to cinematographer Ira H. Morgan whose career spanned the mid teen's to the late 1950's.