There’s a moment early in The Night of the Witches — also known as Night of the Sorcerers or That Time Everyone Turned into a Leopard with Press-On Fangs — when you realize what you’re watching is not so much a horror movie as it is a deeply confused fever dream made from spare parts of genre clichés, dead-eyed stares, and discount Halloween costumes. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to watch a National Geographic safari special directed by someone with a Ouija board and a hangover, here’s your answer.
Plot? What Plot?
The story begins in 1910 with a white missionary woman being whipped and decapitated by a group of bokor — sorcerers who apparently graduated from the Ed Wood School of Ritual Sacrifice. And before we even have a chance to grasp what’s happening, soldiers show up and gun everyone down like it’s an episode of MASH*. Spoiler alert: the demon possessing her survives, probably out of pity.
Flash-forward to modern day (well, 1974 modern) and we get an expedition into the African jungle led by Professor Jonathan Grant, who walks and talks like a discount James Mason impersonator. His crew includes two interchangeable blondes, a tanned brunette named Tunika who serves no purpose other than being “exotic,” and a rugged safari type named Rod Carter, who may or may not be able to act depending on which direction he’s facing.
They’re there to study… elephants? Or the environment? Or maybe just camp near ominous altars and wait to be hunted by undead women in leopard print bikinis. You know — science.
Horror? More Like a Catfight at Spirit Halloween
This movie promises witchcraft and terror under the African moon. What it delivers is a lot of people slowly walking through ferns while synth music drones in the background like a dying refrigerator.
When the leopard-women finally show up, they do so in the most unintentionally hilarious fashion imaginable: emerging from the shadows with plastic fangs, slow-motion snarls, and all the menace of a community theater production of Catson sedatives. They pounce on their victims with choreography that looks like it was developed by someone who’s only ever seen wildlife documentaries on mute.
And let’s talk about the costumes. Apparently, possession by a shedim demon comes with a wardrobe update from the “Yard Sale of the Damned.” The leopard-skin bikinis are somehow both underwhelming and baffling — like if Tarzan’s third cousin ran a jungle-themed Go-Go club.
The Acting: One Expression Fits All
Jack Taylor’s Professor Grant wanders around the jungle with the same facial expression whether he’s witnessing decapitation or digesting a sandwich. Simón Andreu, playing Rod Carter, gives off the vibe of someone who’s just waiting for his paycheck to clear. And Maria Kosti and Loli Tovar as Elizabeth and Carol? They look like they were cast not for their acting range but for their ability to scream and wear animal print without laughing.
The real MVP is Kali Hansa as Tunika, who somehow survives the whole film only to end up possessed by the end — a fact we learn because her voice suddenly drops two octaves and she talks like Eartha Kitt possessed by a wood chipper.
Direction and Pacing: Lost in the Jungle (and the Script)
Director Amando de Ossorio, previously responsible for the far better Blind Dead series, phones it in so hard here you’d think he was directing from a payphone in another country. The editing is choppy, the camera lingers far too long on unimportant moments (like tents… and moss…), and the lighting suggests that Africa has only two moods: “washed-out afternoon” and “can’t-see-anything midnight.”
The pacing is erratic. Long, slow stretches of people wandering the jungle are randomly interrupted by bursts of vaguely ritualistic nonsense or awkward slow-mo “attack” scenes that have the intensity of a mildly uncomfortable hug.
Cultural Sensitivity? Not Even Close
If you’re looking for thoughtful portrayals of African mythology or a nuanced look at colonial history… oh dear, you’ve come to the wrong continent. The African setting is treated like a backdrop for white explorers to be killed by exoticized savages and sexed-up demon women. The local tribes are either dead, undead, or used as window dressing for sacrificial scenes that feel like rejected footage from Indiana Jones and the Racist Tropes of Doom.
The Ending: Boom Goes the Jungle
By the time we limp toward the finale, Rod shoots a couple of possessed women with all the emotion of someone annoyed he dropped his coffee. Then he throws his ammo into the ceremonial fire, which causes random gunfire to erupt and kill the resurrected bokor. Because apparently this is how ballistics and magic work now?
And just when you think we’re free, Tunika tells Rod she’s feeling better — in a voice that implies the demon now comes with a jazz singer’s vibrato. We freeze-frame on Rod realizing he’s just helped the demon escape… probably to open a nightclub in Nairobi.
Final Thoughts: Fangs Without Bite
The Night of the Witches tries to be many things — exploitation horror, jungle adventure, supernatural thriller — and fails at all of them. It’s the cinematic equivalent of an overcooked stew: too many strange ingredients, no clear flavor, and somehow still boring.
If you’re a fan of bad Euro-horror with a tolerance for casual racism, terrible wigs, and inexplicable animal-print fetishism, you may get a few ironic chuckles. For everyone else, this film is a cautionary tale of what happens when you mix Spanish cinema with colonial cosplay and a budget that couldn’t cover decent vampire teeth.
Rating: 1 out of 5 cursed chokers
…and that’s only because I laughed every time someone got fanged by a jungle vampire in slow motion.
