Son of Ingagi
Reviewed by Edward Larsen Terkelsen

USA, NR, 70 m, 1940
Directed by Richard C. Kahn. Stars Zack Williams, Laura Bowman, Alfred Grant, et al.

Upon its release in 1930, Ingagi was puffed up by the very shady Congo Pictures (in conjunction with distributor RKO) as “an authentic record of African adventure!” Though most of the jungle scenes were shot on back lots and in the Los Angeles Zoo (some footage was even filched from earlier ethnographic documentaries), moviegoers were made to believe that they were bearing witness to a rare and genuine account of an expedition into the wildest regions of the Dark Continent. At one of the many sold-out screenings in California, a sharp-eyed audience member recognized one of the “natives” as an ebony-skinned ingénue from Central Casting. This led to an investigation by those godly weirdoes at the Hays Office, who ultimately denounced the film as so much snake oil. Their findings revealed that not only were the two featured British explorers, Sir Hubert Winstead and Captain Daniel Swayne, as fictitious as Elsie Wright’s “Cottingley Fairies,” but that the titular gorilla (who had a thing for pygmy poontang) wasn’t a real gorilla at all—it was good ol’ Charles Gemora (Bear Shooters, The Gorilla) doing his most excellent simian shtick. Still, the controversy didn’t hinder the film’s box office; it went on to gross $4 million, which was a helluva sum in those days. Ingagi’s unscrupulous moneymen laughed all the way to the bank, but the film’s disgraced director, William Campbell (Monkey Shines, Circus Days), never went near a movie camera again.  

Ten years later, Hollywood Pictures Corporation sought to cash in on Ingagi’s success by investing a few bucks in a little B-movie called Son of Ingagi. Given Tinsel Town’s many big successes with part twos to this and chapter threes to that, an Ingagi sequel that trailed the further adventurers of Winstead and Swain might’ve made good (economic) sense, but the only thing Son of Ingagi retains from Congo Picture’s original exploitation epic is the monster’s name. And since the monster is actually referred to as “N’Gina” throughout the film proper, I’m betting the title wasn’t thought up until all was said and done. The misleading packaging honors the shady spirit of Ingagi, but the plot of this slapdash curio has as much to do with Ingagi as Spanking the Monkey had to do with Planet of the Apes or Return of the Ape Man had to do with The Ape Man. (The divine presence of Bela Lugosi gave that pair of simian shockers at least some semblance of continuity.) But in its own cockeyed way, Son of Ingagi might be just as historically relevant as its lurid predecessor: it’s one of the very first horror pictures with an “all-colored cast,” and though it looks like it was shot and edited by a drunkard, the surprisingly competent acting and lack of tedious stereotypes makes it essential viewing for anyone who thinks that African-Americans weren’t given a shot at writing or directing movies until Spike Lee came to town. This old dark house/monster in the basement flick (which was directed by Richard C. Kahn, a black director who specialized in race westerns like The Bronze Buckaroo and Harlem Rides the Range) has all the wit and sophistication of a Monogram quickie, but its brief running time keeps it from wearing out its welcome—almost.

Robert (Alfred Grant, who played “black man” in One Hour to Live) and Eleanor (Daisy Bufford, who had an uncredited role as a housemaid in Gone with the Wind) have just tied the knot. They announce to the shoe-throwing merrymakers on the church steps that they’re off to honeymoon in some exotic location or another, but they’re really just headed back home to consummate their vows. Well, most of the wedding guests are wise to the couples’ ruse, so they show up and surprise them with an impromptu shindig that includes the musical stylings of a quartet called The Toppers. (Kahn went on to direct these fellahs in a 1941 short called Toppers Take a Bow.) As was common to these aged flicker shows, the action grinds to a halt so the group can perform a ditty that they’re looking to move up the charts. (They’re not half-bad; despite being covered by a camera that has all the mobility of a concrete slab, they breathe a little life into the sluggish proceedings.) Just then there’s the sound of a huge explosion coming from outside. The partiers race to the window to see what’s happening, but since this movie was made for the change found under an HPC exec’s sofa cushion, they can only describe to us what’s happening. We learn that a raging fire has consumed a building across the way, which is the foundry or something where Robert earns his daily bread. So, he takes off with the rest of the gang to watch his living go up in smoke, leaving the missus behind to await his return. 

And she does that just that: waits. She doesn’t flick on the radio or pick up a magazine; she sits in the middle of the kitchen and stares into space, waiting. But then there’s a knock on the door. It’s old Dr. Helen Jackson (whom the whole town believes to be as tight-fisted as Mrs. Deagle and as crazy as a shithouse rat), and she wants to thank the young couple for inviting her to their wedding ceremony. She’s so grateful, in fact, that she paid her lawyer a paltry five spot to write up a will that makes Robert and Eleanor her sole beneficiaries. The lucky ducks will inherit her decrepit mansion (and its hidden reserve of gold pieces) in the event of her death, which, alas, is going to happen much sooner than she realizes. You see, Dr. Jackson (played by Laura Bowman of Drums o’ Voodoo) is one of those mad scientists with a god complex (though up until this point no one had ever seen one that was either black or female), and not unlike Dr. Brewster in The Ape Man or Dr. Decker in Konga, she’s performing all kinds of weird experiments in the basement of her manor. After nights and nights of burning the candle at both ends, she comes up with a serum that she insists is “the greatest discovery in medicine since Louis Pasteur!” This doesn’t seem to impress her assistant, N’Gina (Zack Williams), a half-man, half-ape thingamabobber that has been trained to hang up coats. (It’s not clear if Dr. Jackson created this hideous, monosyllabic hybrid or if she discovered him on one of her many African expeditions.) Well, one night after consuming the doc’s mystery formula, the creature flies into a blind rage. He trashes the lab and sends his master to the sweet hereafter. Following the requisite montage of swirling newspaper headlines, Robert and Eleanor move into the dead woman’s house, unaware that there’s a bloodthirsty beast residing in the basement. That basement can only be accessed through a hidden panel, which now only the ape-man knows about, and you can bet your boots he’s not going to share his little secret with the new homeowners. 

N’Gina, who has a hunched back and a furry puss reminiscent of Fedor Jeftichew, might have inspired Bela Lugosi’s look in The Ape Man. He leaves his subterranean lair only when he wants to go upstairs to waste somebody (or help himself to a detective’s Dagwood sandwich), and soon his kills are stacking up like pancakes at an IHOP all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. The local Keystone Kops aren’t able to make any sense of it, but, of course, you can’t expect an investigation worthy of Bayliss and Pembleton when it’s being headed by Spencer Williams. That’s right: Spencer Williams. He played Andy on TV’s “The Amos ‘n Andy Show.” He also penned Son of Ingagi’s screenplay, which is nothing to be proud of. For as a mystery, it’s a yawner; I’ve seen it all more times than I care to remember. But only a fool would go into this thing expecting high art. Yes, it’s obvious and formulaic, but, oh, what a relief it is to see black actors from the ‘40s not having to degrade themselves by playing slow-witted servants or bug-eyed, fraidy cat luggage handlers. Son of Ingagi permits them to play doctors and lawyers and such. And they speak proper English, too! This picture seems to have made in a parallel universe where pre-civil rights America wasn’t treating the black community like a steaming pile of ape excrement. 

November 5, 2008

“Son of Ingagi” Review. © Copyright 2008 by Edward Larsen Terkelsen. All rights reserved.