”It's magic! It's pure, distilled magic!”

When Rita Morley, playing sloppy alcoholic actress Laura Winters, uttered that line, I knew that The Flesh Eaters was much, much more than its cheesy, B-schlock veneer suggested.

Normally, movies like this get thrown aside as garbage, as the detritus of the Atom Age. High-profile B-flicks like Them! are revered as classics and elevated high above thematically similar stinkers like The Beginning of the End. There's no room for the underdog in this bunch. You're either a work of misunderstood genius or a steaming heap ripe for MST3K-style lampooning.

Which is truly unfortunate, because the mid-grade films can be so much more than that. Mr. Big himself, Bert I. Gordon, put out some wonderful schlock-fests like Earth Vs. The Spider (review here) which, in spite of glaring flaws, make for great Saturday evening fare. These movies aren't really meant to be very provocative, so normally important aspects like dialogue and character development are built in such a skeletal manner that they become nearly invisible.

Which brings me to why I love The Flesh Eaters so damn much. The dialogue, written by the witty Arnold Drake (who would later put his pen to the DC Comics series Doom Patrol and Deadman), ranges from blatantly cheesy to snappy to gut-bustingly hilarious. The lines exchanged by the characters never quite feel organic or natural: the air of the movie is one of pure surrealism, as if our characters are truly trapped in the panels of a pulp magazine.

Not that the plot didn't impress me. No, despite its inherent simplicity (quartet of naïve travelers wash up on an island inhabited by a suspicious German scientist and billions of flesh-eating microorganisms), the pace is about as perfect as movies get. We're introduced to characters quickly, and those without secrets to hide are fleshed out rapidly and simply. There's the lantern-jawed pilot (Byron Sanders), the aforementioned boozehound thespian, her cute and spunky assistant (Barbara Wilkin), and a free-loving beatnik (Ray Tudor). All of their performances are suitably unsubtle (Rita's drunken wails are exceptionally hammy) with the characters divided almost perfectly into black and white, with the occasional double- or triple-cross to shake things up.

Then there's Martin Kosleck, who plays the devious Peter Bartell. Kosleck's story is just as interesting as any film: he fled for his life from Nazi Germany after having a death warrant issued against him by the SS for publicly opposing Hitler and the Nazi regime. Despite his distaste for the Nazis, he gladly accepted countless roles as Nazis in films, feeling that every time he portrayed a despicable fascist, he was, in his own way, striking back at those who drove him from his home. The Flesh Eaters is no different, as Kosleck once again plays the role of foul German swine with a gusto like no other. It's no secret that he is the puppeteer pulling the strings of The Flesh Eaters, even though the revelation doesn't occur until about 2/3 of the way through the film.

And I can't forget about those Flesh Eaters! Instead of opting for the typical “giant monster,” (at least not until later on) Drake gives us a much smaller, albeit equally threatening beastie. Allegedly based upon a fish-fatal virus that struck in the 1950's (although my countless Google searches yielded no results), they are tiny little carnivores: simple organisms who need “flesh” to survive (watch out for Kosleck's awesome speech about them. It's a hoot!), and will burn through anything from pant legs to cigarette cases to get at it. The microscopic nature of the killer also makes for a much leaner effects budget: the attacking Flesh Eaters are established through “glowing” animated overlays and shredded-skin appliances. Later on, when Dr. Bartell captures some of the Flesh Eaters for experimentation in his lab, they are shown in their glass cage as metallic flakes floating in water. The visual is not unlike a Pyrex container full of Goldschlager.

It all gets a little corny when the Flesh Eaters, given a 10,000 watt jolt to stun them, wake up and bond with one another to turn into a giant slobbering, tentacled glob that looks like, for lack of a better comparison, a Lovecraftian beanbag chair. Oddly enough, these uber-Flesh Eaters are somehow less threatening than their microscopic counterparts: I guess an almost unseen killer is more threatening than one who is much, much bigger than a breadbox.

Of note to splatter fans is that The Flesh Eaters is hailed as one of the first gore films out there. To some degree, the movie does live up to the hype: a man is eaten from the inside out by the voracious microbes, another's eye is blown out by a bullet, and the final solution for the gigantic Flesh Eaters proves to be a juicy one. However, the horror of the movie is more in the suspense of the potential threat that the Flesh Eaters pose than in the gruesome aftermath. Herschell Gordon Lewis ain't reaching for a barf bag over this one.

The Flesh Eaters is the kind of movie that, if you were lucky, would be released on DVD transferred off of a dog-eared VHS tape, shoehorned with a handful of other flicks and packaged for dollar-bin consumers. Consider yourself freaking blessed, as Dark Sky's presentation for this little gem is one of the best Ive seen for a B&W film ever. Light areas were clean and smooth, and the blacks were so deep and dark you could get lost in them. Print damage was virtually nonexistent (an impressive feat, to say the least), and grain was nowhere to be found. Honestly, this movie looks like is was shot yesterday, albeit in black and white on 40-year-old equipment. Audio was perfectly tuned, with all that whip-smart dialogue coming through loud and clear. Extras, while slim, are quite nice. There's the original theatrical trailer, as well as two deleted segments (both finished scenes and outtakes) detailing the original Nazi experiments involving the Flesh Eaters being fed young, nude women. These, being cut from the original stock years ago, don't hold up nearly as well. Not only that, but I'm pretty sure that the ladies of the concentration camps weren't voluptuous nymphs with beehive hairdos.

But this movie isn't about historical accuracy. It's about B-grade schlock, and it's a damn fine example. Highly recommended.