If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if a group of C-list actors, a papier-mâché RV, and a man in a rubber octopus suit wandered into a Mexican fishing village and tried to act their way through a monster movie, wonder no longer. The answer is Octaman, Harry Essex’s 1971 science-fiction calamity. Essex, who once co-wrote Creature from the Black Lagoon, seems to have spent the intervening years huffing formaldehyde, because nothing else explains how a promising premise like “mutant octopus man” could sink so swiftly into cinematic quicksand.
The movie is about radiation in the water. Or maybe it’s about circus freak shows. Or maybe it’s about how to keep Pier Angeli employed when her career had fallen off a cliff. One thing’s for certain: it’s not about horror, suspense, or coherent storytelling. Octaman is the kind of film that makes you long for the nuanced realism of Plan 9 from Outer Space.
A Monster with Eight Tentacles and Zero Dignity
The plot, such as it is, revolves around Dr. Rick Torres (Kerwin Mathews, who once played Sinbad but looks here like he’s counting the minutes until happy hour) and Susan Lowry (Pier Angeli, whose presence is a sad reminder that Hollywood can chew up starlets and spit them out into rubber-suit matinees). They discover a tiny mutant octopus that can crawl on land, a revelation so terrifying that everyone reacts with the enthusiasm of someone finding an unfamiliar sock in the laundry.
Enter the monster himself: Octaman. Designed by future Oscar-winning makeup artist Rick Baker, the creature is a sight to behold, and not in a good way. Imagine a man suffocating inside a shower curtain while wearing papier-mâché oven mitts. Now give him ping-pong ball eyes and the gait of a man who’s already regretting his SAG card renewal. That’s Octaman. The suit reportedly took hours of labor to construct; one wishes they’d spent half as much time on the script.
Every time Octaman appears, the film grinds to a halt as if even the cameraman can’t believe what he’s filming. The monster’s “attacks” consist mostly of waddling toward actors who generously stand still long enough to be pawed by foam tentacles. It’s like watching a community college mascot try to murder someone.
Science vs. Common Sense
Dr. Torres hopes to bring the mutant octopus to the scientific establishment, but when his pitch falls flat, he turns to a circus owner who wants to exploit it for a sideshow act. This is the kind of narrative pivot that tells you the screenwriter was making it up as he went along, probably between drinks. Meanwhile, Octaman begins killing people, which at least provides a diversion from the endless scenes of people talking inside the RV.
The scientists, who should know better, decide to capture Octaman with the most advanced weaponry available in 1971: car headlights, flashlights, and a ring of gasoline. This leads to the absurd spectacle of grown adults trying to suffocate a man in a rubber suit by forming a flashlight conga line. If there’s ever been a less dignified monster showdown in cinema history, I’ve yet to see it.
The Acting: Tentacles Outperform Everyone
Kerwin Mathews, once the dashing hero of Ray Harryhausen epics, spends most of his screen time gazing into the middle distance as though trying to remember why he agreed to this. Pier Angeli, in one of her final roles before her tragic death, looks so disengaged that you can’t tell if she’s acting or just counting down to the catering truck. Jeff Morrow, who once headlined This Island Earth, delivers his lines with the weariness of a man who knows he’s losing an argument with his agent.
The supporting cast includes Davido, a young “local” played by David Essex in brownface so egregious it makes you long for the subtlety of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But the real star, tragically, is the suit itself, which—despite its laughable design—still manages to show more personality than the humans. When Octaman flails his tentacles, at least something’s happening.
Pacing by Committee
At 86 minutes, Octaman feels three times as long. Scenes drag on interminably, padded with endless shots of the RV trundling down dirt roads or actors wandering around holding flashlights. Dialogue is repeated so often you begin to wonder if the film has a concussion. When Octaman isn’t onscreen, you pray for him to return. When he is onscreen, you pray for him to leave. It’s a cinematic Catch-22.
Climactic Collapse
The climax takes place in a cave where Octaman manages to trap the expedition, proving that even a rubber octopus can outwit a team of scientists written by Harry Essex. Eventually, Susan Lowry “communicates” with the monster in a moment meant to be poignant but landing somewhere between Free Willy and a hostage negotiation. Finally, after a hail of bullets, Octaman retreats into the lake to die—or, more likely, to avoid appearing in a sequel.
The film ends not with terror, not with triumph, but with the weary sigh of an audience grateful to be released.
From Drive-In to RiffTrax
Released to derision in 1971, Octaman briefly haunted drive-in theaters before sinking to the bottom of VHS bargain bins. It was exhumed in 2019 for a RiffTrax Live broadcast, which is fitting; the only way to endure this film is with a running commentary of jokes. Left unmocked, it’s like staring into a lava lamp for 90 minutes, only less entertaining.
The Dark Joke of It All
What makes Octaman truly tragic is the involvement of Rick Baker, who went on to create the groundbreaking makeup effects for An American Werewolf in London and Men in Black. To see his name attached to this flailing calamity is like finding out Picasso once painted motel murals. It proves that even geniuses must start somewhere, though one wonders if Baker ever burned his copy of the DVD just to cleanse the karmic debt.
Final Verdict: Eight Thumbs Down
Octaman is the cinematic equivalent of finding a dead squid on the beach: unpleasant, smelly, and best left alone. It’s a monster movie without suspense, a science-fiction film without science, and a horror picture where the only horror is the thought that someone once paid money to see it.
If the Devil truly walks among us, he surely had a hand in resurrecting Octaman for modern audiences, because nothing says eternal damnation like sitting through this with a straight face. Not even eight tentacles can save it from drowning in its own incompetence.
The poster promised terror from the depths. The film delivers a man in a wetsuit gasping for air. If you ever feel nostalgic for the 1970s drive-in experience, do yourself a favor: just buy some stale popcorn, spill beer on your shoes, and bang your head against the hood of your car. It will be more entertaining, and shorter, than Octaman.
