If Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde took a wrong turn at Watts and got lost somewhere between a George Clinton fever dream and an after-school special about anger management, you’d land squarely in Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde. Directed by William Crain—who previously gave us the far superior Blacula—this is the cinematic equivalent of a Halloween mask melting in the sun: cheap, weirdly unsettling, and hard to look at for too long without questioning your life choices.
Let’s talk about the premise, which is already doing wind sprints toward insanity. Dr. Henry Pride (played by Bernie Casey with the restrained menace of a guy who just realized the catering ran out of potato salad) is a wealthy, respected African American doctor working on a serum to regenerate liver tissue. Because, sure, why not. Naturally, his experiments take a turn for the chaotic when he tests the drug on himself, transforming into a chalky-skinned, bug-eyed albino Hulk with a penchant for murdering pimps and tossing hookers around like rag dolls.
Yes, you read that right. A black man turns into a white killer and starts tearing through Los Angeles’ underbelly like an enraged mime on bath salts. It’s either a scathing metaphor about identity and internalized racism or the result of someone snorting cocaine off a Mary Shelley paperback in a gas station bathroom.
The transformation makeup? Imagine someone dipped Bernie Casey in flour and glued ping-pong balls to his eyes. The monster version of Dr. Pride looks less like a terrifying alter ego and more like he’s auditioning for The Munsters Go to Rehab. He doesn’t talk. He just snarls, grunts, and strangles people with all the coordination of a sleepwalking gym teacher.
Crain tries to give the film a social conscience—there are flashes of commentary about the duality of black identity in America, the objectification of black bodies, and the exploitation of the ghetto by both science and the system. But every time it gets close to saying something profound, it undercuts itself with a goofy monster chase scene or a shot of Pride lumbering down the street like a racist metaphor with shin splints.
The dialogue is a masterclass in unintentional comedy. Lines like “You’ve got to understand, Henry, you can’t save them all!” are delivered with all the subtlety of a bass drum to the face. The cops are standard-issue sleazebags. The scientists are either clueless or sinister. And the women—mostly prostitutes with hearts of gold or tragic backstories—are given just enough screen time to scream, take off their tops, or deliver exposition like they’re reading from the back of a cereal box.
Carol Speed plays Linda, the hooker with a conscience, who serves as Pride’s sort-of love interest and moral compass. She’s too good for this material, and her performance feels like someone wandered in from a real movie by accident. She tries her best to inject some soul into the madness, but it’s like planting flowers on a burning dump truck.
And let’s talk about the action sequences—if you can call them that. The Hyde version of Pride is supposed to be a rampaging force of destruction, but he moves like Frankenstein on a hangover. The fight scenes are awkwardly staged, the kills are bloodless, and the stunt choreography resembles a community theater production of West Side Story after everyone pulled a hamstring.
The music, bless it, is classic low-budget ‘70s funk, which is about the only thing this film gets right. It grooves and wails in all the right places, desperately trying to convince you that something exciting is happening on screen—even when all that’s really happening is a guy in pancake makeup staggering through a parking lot like a drunk wedding guest looking for his Uber.
As for the pacing? Forget it. The first 40 minutes feel like a slow-burn medical drama written by someone who hates speed and fun. The back half lurches into horror territory, but by the time anything “monstrous” happens, you’re already contemplating folding your laundry or faking your own death just to escape.
Final Verdict:
Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde wants to be a searing social commentary wrapped in a monster movie but ends up as a weird, slow, tonally confused mashup that doesn’t fully commit to either. It’s not scary. It’s not thrilling. And despite the title, it’s shockingly low on both doctoring and hyding. Bernie Casey tries his best to hold the whole thing together, but even he can’t save this limp creature feature from collapsing under its own weight.
Watch it only if you’re a blaxploitation completist, a Frankenstein enthusiast with a forgiving heart, or someone who enjoys watching metaphorical race relations get bludgeoned by rubber monster hands. Everyone else? Walk on by. There’s nothing to see here but regret, corn syrup, and the world’s least convincing albino wig.
