“Beast of Blood” is what happens when you let a hangover direct a movie.
A direct sequel to The Mad Doctor of Blood Island, this fourth and final installment in the “Blood Island” series tries to pick up where its sweaty, green-blooded predecessor left off—and then promptly stumbles, spills its coconut rum, and sets its own tiki bar on fire. Directed by Eddie Romero and starring John Ashley (again!), this Filipino horror outing is somehow both the final word on chlorophyll-infused human mutation and a 90-minute cinematic shrug.
Plot? Kind of. Maybe.
When last we left Blood Island, things were going full Scooby-Doo fever dream: green-skinned mutants, mad scientists, chlorophyll-blooded monsters. Beast of Blood opens with a bang—literally—as a ship explodes just minutes into the runtime. Don Ramon, the chlorophyll-slicked beast from the last movie, stows away and goes full Hulk, sinking the boat faster than the audience’s hopes for a coherent plot. Most characters die. No one cares. The beast escapes back to the island, because even he knows this movie won’t make sense unless it takes place in the same jungle where logic went to die.
Dr. Bill Foster (John Ashley, professional coconut noir heartthrob) somehow survives and spends the next few months recovering in what I assume is a clinic for action heroes too confused to quit. Then, like an aging boomer chasing Woodstock, he returns to Blood Island accompanied by reporter Myra Russell (Celeste Yarnall), whose job is to ask questions and be kidnapped.
On the island, Dr. Lorca (now played by Eddie Garcia because Ronald Remy had the good sense to bail) is alive, hideously burned, and still operating a mad lab in the middle of the jungle. He’s working on decapitation-based telepathy: Don Ramon’s head is hooked to wires, his body strapped to a table, and neither seems thrilled about the arrangement.
At some point there are jungle fights, cave fistfights, a headless monster attack, and possibly some slap fights with the set’s remaining production value. Lorca gets his melon squashed by his own chlorophyll Frankenstein, the lab explodes (of course), and everyone hikes off into the sunset with some mad science cliff notes and the stench of sequel rot.
Performance Art, But For Masochists
John Ashley tries. God help him, he tries. The poor man could act his way out of a volcano, but here he’s mostly relegated to sweating through his shirt while the chlorophyll monster does interpretive dance strapped to a gurney. Celeste Yarnall, despite being shoehorned in as the “strong, sexy journalist” archetype, spends most of her time being carried off by jungle thugs or looking like she’s mentally planning her grocery list.
Eddie Garcia as the new Lorca chews every inch of scenery with the abandon of a man who knows his latex scars are falling off. This Lorca is less a sinister genius and more a cartoon Bond villain with a discount flamethrower. His plan? Something about telepathic control, human mutation, and facial moisturizers made of pain.
Monster, Interrupted
Let’s talk about the monster. Or rather, the papier-mâché-headed rubber suit reject flailing through underbrush like a lost Vegas partygoer. The titular Beast of Blood spends most of the film disassembled, its body and head separated like a Dollar Tree horror take on Sleepless in Seattle. The head glowers, the body twitches, and we’re left wondering if this was really the best use of $125,000 and a box of jungle fog machines.
And yes, the infamous poster shows the beast tearing off its own head. Spoiler: this doesn’t happen. At no point does this chlorophyll Frankenstein decide to self-decapitate like a green-blooded contortionist. It’s marketing bait, and you fell for it, just like everyone else at the drive-in who showed up in a half-drunk haze expecting carnage and left with a sunburn and trust issues.
Tiki Trash Cinema: Now With More Sweat
The “Blood Island” series never had high aspirations. But Beast of Blood manages to limbo even lower. There’s no suspense, no scares, and absolutely no logic. It’s a movie cobbled together from leftover plot threads, recycled props, and the desperate hope that no one would notice this is just the same movie again—only with less shirt, less sense, and more shouting.
The entire film feels like it was shot during a heat stroke. Characters wander in and out of scenes with no motivation beyond, “Look out! Something chlorophyll-flavored might be over there!” It’s pulp nonsense wrapped in a banana leaf and baked in the sun until it turns into a sticky mess of screaming, fire, and someone yelling “RAZAK!” every 20 minutes like a broken jungle Alexa.
Production: Explosions, Promotions, and Banana Peel Budgets
The film’s budget? Somewhere between a half-eaten sandwich and a small wedding. Most of it probably went into printing fake $10 bills with Beast of Blood flyers inside—marketing that was more creative than the script. They littered these all over neighborhoods like reverse Easter eggs, luring poor souls into theaters with the promise of wild monster mayhem. Instead, they got Monster on a Table: The Movie.
The sets are jungle leftovers from the last film. The gore? Barely present. The nudity? Reduced to background cleavage and sweat. And the big final lab explosion looks suspiciously like a sparkler glued to a bong.
Final Diagnosis: Beast of Boredom
Beast of Blood isn’t just bad—it’s insultingly lazy. A stitched-together sequel whose most horrifying element is how little anyone involved seemed to care. The title promises blood. You get green goo and an angry head with separation anxiety. The poster promises monster mayhem. You get jungle jogs and a villain who dies via overzealous bear hug.
If you absolutely must experience Beast of Blood, bring rum, patience, and a friend to talk over the nonsense. You won’t miss any vital plot points—there are none. But you might find joy in the absurdity, the sweat, and the realization that yes, this was the end of the Blood Island saga, and thank god for that.
Rating: 1.5 out of 5 Chlorophyll Facepalms
Because sometimes the true horror… is watching it.
