February 10, 2025. Not quite D-Day, Pearl Harbor, or that dreadful afternoon in Dallas, but close. Damn close. Here, before me, was an image I never thought I’d see, and yes, the scene I never knew I’d been missing: George Kennedy, lovable lug of a dozen disaster pics, sad slob of the Seventies, hoisting the naked, blood-soaked body of a buxom blonde high above his head, roaring a few words only the captain of a ship would dare utter, then tossing her unceremoniously into the sea like he was channeling Johnny Unitas.
Only he’s channeling Hitler, or a million SS ghosts, as he is, now and forever, the undisputed head of a murderous vessel bent on eternal revenge. For wars lost, yes, but also the lost hope of yesteryear; when madmen reigned and cargo ships circled the ocean in search of fresh meat from assorted cruise lines to torture, torture again, and drown in a sea of madness. As Kennedy himself states, “This ship must have blood! Blood to survive! The blood of your wife, your children! This ship needs blood!” Not an unreasonable position, after all, if you’re possessed by Himmler himself.
But back to that woman. Who was she, and why was she covered in blood? Naturally, given that the previous hour had featured a shipwreck, a dozen survivors, a new ship out of nowhere, and all the expected shenanigans aboard her, from record players starting on their own to spinning reels of Nazi rallies in assorted rooms, this woman had decided that with everyone scared out of their minds and George Kennedy roaming about screeching in German, she would take some time to not only make love, but hit the showers afterwards. But this being a demon-haunted ship, the shower would soon lock the woman inside, the water turn to blood, and the doomed hottie scream with such force, she’d eventually collapse in a heap. Somehow, she also dies in there, presumably from shock. Before we can blink, Kennedy has her in his greedy mitts, hauling her away like so much garbage.
Still, despite that holy image that will, if the cinematic gods have their say, live on as long as the movies themselves, Death Ship isn’t much of a graveyard. Only two souls actually meet their end, one from eating a 40-year-old piece of candy that turns the woman’s face to mush (“She’s poisonous!”, a lad cries), the other the bloody mama of legend. Not that Kennedy isn’t trying. He chases after kids, erupts with righteous rage at Richard Crenna, and defies anyone to leave the ship in one of two remaining functioning lifeboats. He barks orders, reads from Nazi Bibles (is there any other kind?), and seems to have put aside that for a good half-hour, he was unconscious and lost in a fever dream. The urge to kill has given him new life, much as it did for Deutschland, circa 1933.
Curiously, as much as the premise sounds surefire and can’t-miss, the film manages to creak along with all the frenzied insistence of a glacier. George Kennedy meets The Exorcist, with a little Triumph of the Will thrown in? Christ Almighty, I’d give up masturbation and pizza just to peek at the script. But absent that one scene and the film’s climax, whereby GK is torn to shreds in the ship’s gears, there’s not much to get the juices flowing, unless of course you count the unholy screams that emanate from Kennedy’s dying slab. On second thought, maybe that is enough. Hell, I’ve endured far worse for far longer, and none of them pictures gave me an Oscar winner falling from on high and hitting a steel surface with such force, it’s a wonder the boat didn’t crack in two. One must learn to take what one can get.
Wonderfully, because even 45 years later, a sequel is still possible, the death ship sails on past the closing credits, sans a crew once again, but newly fed by the fattest man Hollywood had then offered up for sacrifice. Gears greased, the rusted hulk will make the Atlantic its hunting ground once again, because evil, like the impulse to shit all over the screen with a tax write-off, never dies. And with A.I. better than ever, we don’t even have to be without our man Kennedy. Uniform still crisp, a cigar between his teeth, and that ever-present twinkle. Right before he feeds you to the sharks. For the Fatherland, naturally.
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