Today - the pond! Tomorrow - the world!
Year of Release: 1972
Running Time: 90 minutes (1:30)
Director: George McCowan
Ray Milland ... Jason Crockett
Sam Elliott ... Pickett Smith
Joan Van Ark ... Karen Crockett
Adam Roarke ... Clint Crockett
Judy Pace ... Bella Garrington
Lynn Borden ... Jenny Crockett
Mae Mercer ... Maybelle
David Gilliam ... Michael Martindale
Nicholas Cortland ... Kenneth Martindale
George Skaff ... Stuart Martindale
Lance Taylor Sr. ... Charles
Hollis Irving ... Iris Martindale
Dale Willingham ... Tina Crockett
Hal Hodges ... Jay Crockett
Everyone knows that man is the dominant species on Earth. Or... is he?
Frogs is the shudder-inducing answer to that query, a nightmare of what can happen when the denizens of your local swamp decide to strike back at the so-called "intelligent" life form that despoils their environment.
In the best horror film tradition, this grisly tale unfolds on an isolated island off the coast of the deep South, where great-grandfather Jason Crockett gathers the clan to celebrate his birthday and the Fourth of July. And after family members discover the corpse of the island's caretaker - who had been spraying poison to limit the expanding frog population - crawling with frogs and snakes, it becomes ominously apparent that the party will have unexpected guests as well.
Gate-crashing is subtle at first: the maid and butler discover a poisonous snake in the dining room, and the small bevies of frogs start hopping into the mansion. The festivities only get deadlier after that.
One of Jason's grandsons goes into the woods to repair torn telephone lines and meets an arachnid array that will set you squirming. Another grandson ventures into the greenhouse where some curious lizards have discovered a cache of deadly insecticide. By now, fright fans get the picture: old man Crockett and his brood won't leave the island alive if Mother Nature's minions have their say.
Creepy crawlers of all sizes have been marshaled to create Frogs realistically gruesome effects. Besides frogs, snakes and lizards, all manner of spiders, tarantulas, scorpions, alligators, salamanders, toads, leeches, and even an alligator turtle contribute lethal specialties.
Who among such stalwart players as Sam Elliott, Joan Van Ark, Adam Roarke, Judy Pace, and Mae Mercer will survive this reptilian revenge? It would spoil the party to tell, especially since Frogs will not only keep you perched at the edge of your seat but also persuade you to think twice before squashing a bug or swatting a fly again. After all, today the pond... tomorrow the world!
Frogs, remindin' us that the only thing standin' between us and the doomsday scenario prophecied by the eco-horror film is the steady flow of prescription downers seepin' into the nation's waterways.
And speakin' of steady declines in brain activity, the heat index here in Chickawalka County's been hoverin' between Tesla Charging System and Hot Pocket Filling for the last month so the guys and I decided to go campin' out at Swine Lake even though the mosquitoes're so big that they've dispensed with bitin' people and started carryin' switchblades.
Been a while since we had a guy's night out, but Sadie Bonebreak was able to temporarily decouple 'erself from 'er lesbionic commander while the missus helps Cleave Furguson get settled into Roxanne Bigelow's place. I tell ya, that broad's growin' more'n more backbone every day, 'cause I can't think of anybody else with the guts to try findin' an interior decoration balance between Cleave and Roxanne when one's into hair metal, Spuds MacKenzie, and air hockey, and the other tried to conceal the rental of Paddington 2 from a Red Box while claimin' to be of the male persuasion.
Anyway, Sadie, Billy Hilliard, Duke Tankersley and I piled into Sadie's Ramcharger and blitzed three or four of the new tank traps that the Forest Service dug to keep the foreigners in Toyota Camrys from takin' all the prime campin' spots and we pretty much had the lake to ourselves 'cept for a coupla nerds on mountain bikes who looked like talent scouts for the American Association of Life Coaches. One of 'em was sittin' on the bank cross-legged with 'er palms facin' skyward like she was waitin' for 'em to fill up with spiritual enlightenment or somethin' while the other folded an origami pagoda outta the remnants of the July issue of Antique Collecting magazine. Fortunately by the time Billy'd tossed our case of Pole Cat into the water to cool and Duke'd stripped down to his naturally occurring fursuit and started reenactin' scenes outta Creature From Black Lake we finally got a little privacy. I think this arrangement worked out for everybody though, 'cause based upon the way that guy was lookin' at Duke while he was relievin' 'imself it seems like he might have somethin' he needs to talk to his chick about.
The important thing is that we all got recuperated in our own way - Apollo and Gank took off about 19 seconds after we let 'em outta the rig and spent the day chasin' Delbert Biddle's free range cattle, Duke bare-handed a coupla dozen lake trout for fun and supper, Sadie worked on 'er all-over tan and peppered anybody she caught peekin' with 'er pellet pistol, and Billy and me set up the Grime Time's projector in a nice shady spot and ran an all-day eco-horror marathon onto the side of the Ramcharger.
Dogs finally came back 'round about dusk smellin' like they'd rolled in dead sasquatch but the scent of fish fryin' on a campfire covered about 75% of it and I thought we were all havin' a great time till Sadie accidentally kicked over 'er beer and made absolutely no effort to pick it up before it all spilled out. Obviously, we were not *all* havin' a great time.
"How bad is it? Divorce? Cancer? Missus want you to take 'er to a Wham! concert?" I asked.
Sadie just looked at me like I'd sprouted an asshole over each eyebrow.
"I saw you tackle a dog that ran off with your beer one time - somethin's obviously gone tits up if you're gonna allow that," I pointed toward the now empty can.
"He still gets night terrors sometimes," Duke affirmed, scratchin' behind Gank's ear.
"Wavvup?" Billy asked, getting to the point.
"Nothin'. I mean, hell, I don't know - do you guys ever feel... old?" she grumbled.
"No way," we chorused reflexively - Duke instinctively clutching his right shoulder, Billy rubbing both his knees, and I, expanding my nintendonitis-gnarled fingers.
"So... how do you deal with it?" she inquired, plainly seeing through our bullshit.
"With spite," Duke answered.
"Deniow," Billy shrugged.
"Arrested adolescence," I grinned.
"I guess I shouldna expected any ancient wisdom from the three of you - Hairy, Burly, and Slow," she sighed.
"Hey, I may not know who my congressman is mosta the time, but I know this much - the day you stop havin' fun to conform to other people's expectations is the day you get fitted for a Buick," I declared.
"Just forget I mentioned it. I think I'd prefer menopause to another one of your half-baked simp-posiums anyway," she groaned.
"I'll prove it! Let's do somethin' we ain't done since we were teenagers," I suggested.
"Get real - ain't nobody out here willin' to have sex with you," she jabbed.
"Lotta difference a month makes," I shot back without thinking.
Fortunately Billy and Duke were both about nine beers in and not really listening.
"Fine. Whatever. What'd you have in mind?" She asked, desperate to avoid goin' into recent events in greater depth.
"Skinny dip?" Duke suggested.
"As if you could," Sadie remarked, grabbin' a fist fulla Duke's furry face.
"Fwaf ligh' fag?" Billy offered.
"The hell'd you call me?" Duke growled.
"Tag - ya werewuss. Flashlight Tag. And yeah, real fair Billy," I griped.
"Whah?" he smirked.
"Factoring for skin tone, Sadie and I'd be lookin' for the two of you until the first snowfall," I clarified as diplomatically as possible.
"How 'bout Truth or Dare?" Sadie interjected.
I dunno why we hadn't thought of it sooner, but as deep as we were into the Pole Cat it wasn't only the most logical suggestion - it mighta been the *only* one.
"Spin that pine cone, Duke," I instructed.
"Okay, but it's gonna be at least another four beers before I'm drunk enough to kiss any of you," he belched.
"To see who asks first, ya matted mandrill. We'll go clockwise from there," I said.
Duke tried spinnin' the cone and accidentally rolled it into the fire but it seemed to be pointed at him by the time it came to a complete stop so we went with it.
"Truth or dare, missy?" Duke slurred in Sadie's approximate direction.
"Like a woman'd ever pick 'dare' playin' with three boys posing as men," she scoffed.
"Ever been with a dude?" Duke asked, having taken temporary leave of his self-preservation instincts.
"Once," she shuddered.
"And?" he pressed.
"Prior to the seventh season of Game of Thrones it was the most disappointing night of my life," she summarized.
"Fair enough," Duke chuckled. "Have at it, Billy."
"Fwuf or daow," Billy asked Duke.
"Reckon somebody here's gonna hafta man up - dare," he boasted.
"Eah viff," Billy ordered, opening his hand and displaying a 3" long pine beetle that'd landed on his arm.
"That the best you got?" Duke howled, grabbing the beetle and swallowing it after only two chomps.
"How wuhv ih?" Billy quieried.
"Not gonna lie - coulda used a touch of mustard," Duke replied, plucking an antenna from between his teeth.
"Yeow up," Billy nudged me.
"Truth or dare, Mr. Hilliard," I posited.
"Fwuf," he squinted.
"High school. Senior year. Linda Diggins and I were, you know, in the locker room shower. YOU were supposed to be on lookout for Coach Butts. Where the HELL were you?" I fumed.
"I WUV ah lookow! He almof weh' ih vuh fowow - buh I caugh' him an' afked fow help wif my Hif'ory homewolk. Why? Whah happun?" Billy snarled.
"Mr. McGurk found us," I muttered.
"The janitor?!" Sadie snorted.
"Yeah. Hit me with his mop about 22 times while I was tryna dress," I grumbled.
"That's why you got suspended," Duke surmised.
"Woulda got expelled but Linda threatened to tell the guidance counselor how long McGurk watched before he finally did somethin' about it," I added.
"Well?" I motioned to Sadie.
"Oh. Um.. truth or dare?" she replied.
"Think I've outed myself enough for one night - dare," I answered.
"Alright. Here's whatcher gonna do - go get on the Ramcharger's CB and pretend you're under attack by Bigfoot," she demanded.
You're prolly thinkin' I got off easy; I did too. I mean, it's 11:30pm on the shores of a lake most people'd hafta hike into if they even knew it was there, nobody's gonna hear it anyway, right? Well, *somebody* was listenin', and one of the conditions of this dare was that, no matter what, I hafta stick to my story as though it really happened. I am currently scheduled to be interviewed on the Squatch Watch Podcast by a man who collects roadkill by day and investigates cryptozoological happenings by night. Curiously, not one of those three buttwads bothered to tell me about the ranger tower on the other side of the mountain.
I did, however, receive a free pizza delivery today with a note reading, "Let's never grow old together," so I guess my public humiliation helped Sadie find whatever it was she'd lost. I, meanwhile, may be sans dignity for a long, long time to come.
After I'd finished makin' an ass of myself to Ranger Vick over in the lookout tower, but before I'd been contacted by the crew at Squatch Watch, we capped off our eco-horror marathon with the piss de resistance - the film that launched the career of Sam Elliott and made him the man he is today - I'm talkin', Frogs. The film THEY don't want you to see, and by "they" I mean everybody who was in it. They're just bein' modest, though, 'cause basic human decency kinda necessitates it when you know you played such an important part in the birth of the eco-horror boom. Some people, silly people - they'll tell ya that Willard was the movie that started it all, but any idiot can see that's really just a case study of a disturbed human bein' with rats as props. Other folks, they say Hitchcock started it with The Birds, and I got nothin' against The Birds, but tell me this - if it was truly the beginning of the eco-horror film, how come it took nine years before we got a successor? The Birds was great, but it was no trendsetter. Nossir, eco-horror started here - right here - in 1972 with Frogs. From there we got Night of the Lepus, Ssssss, Phase IV, Jaws, Grizzly, Squirm, The Food of the Gods, The Savage Bees, Day of the Animals, Kingdom of the Spiders, The Swarm, Piranha, and so on. Search your feelings, you know it to be true.
That said, I'm sure there're a few of ya out there, a stubborn few, who refuse to accept the truth, and that's okay - revelations of this magnitude have destroyed the minds of better men than us, so I'm not gonna press the issue. Alls I'm gonna do is showcase three little factoids that'll help get everybody in the right frame of mind before we dive into this milestone of motion picture cinema - you can pick up the pieces of your shattered worldview later. First, when the amphibious assault begins, it's gig or be gigged. Second, there're no disqualifications in alligator wrestling. And third, Frogs movie went direct-to-cable in Australia because nobody'd pay to watch a buncha Yanks reenact last Tuesday.
The movie begins with a morose, introspective Sam Elliott paddlin' his canoe through a marsh fulla Burger King cups and soggy Watergate documents takin' pictures for the inaugural Greenpeace "Shock to the Ecosystem" calendar till this near-sighted alcoholic trust fund preppie (Clint) and his sister (Karen) come roarin' by in their speed boat and roll Sam's canoe like a drunk in a urine-soaked alleyway. This is a serious problem, 'cause not only is Sam's camera now sittin' on the lake bed bein' disassembled by alligator gar, but the sight of all that water glistenin' off his chest hair's gonna impregnate every woman for a 20-mile radius and he can't afford all those child support payments on a photographer's salary. It's plain that he'd prefer to just shove Clint's face in the Evinrude's propeller and be done with it but he can't do that 'cause if the hippie envirosexuals find out they'll stop invitin' 'im to their nature retreat orgies, and so he lets the yuppies tow 'im back to their palatial estate that's remained unchanged by the passage of time and the Civil Rights Act. Chateau Jim Crow is run by Ray Milland, and Ray's been in a lousy mood since a lowlife foreigner paralyzed 'im from the waist down with a black powder rifle durin' the Spanish American War, and he tells Sam that he's not allowed to take pictures 'cause he's on private property even though the lake was actually formed from the tears of Iron Eyes Cody after he got an eyefulla Ray's waste management practices. Then Karen directs Sam to the shower so he can remove the mudcats from his shorts and after that the family assembles on the 9th green so Ray can try to harness the power of their collective entitlement and fire a blast of psychic energy at the Internal Revenue Service. The attempt fails but Ray's got more immediate concerns, and he asks Sam if he'll take a little jaunt around the island to see if he can't hunt up Ray's missin' landscaper but all he finds at first is a can of DDT and enough dead reptiles to open a Cajun fast food joint.
Then Sam finds the Verminator layin' face down in a clutch of bullfrog eggs, but by the time he makes it back to the plantation there's a swarm of toads smooshin' their warty little faces up against the windows like hobos outside a Waffle House and corn snakes danglin' from the chandelier, and this makes Ray so mad that he takes out his sidearm and splatters snake 'n bake all over the Faberge china. The next mornin' Ray orders his dick dynasty to start decoratin' and settin' up for his big birthday bash and sends one of his nephews (Michael) out with instructions to retrieve the head of Ma Bell if his phone service ain't restored by lunchtime. 'Course the petty wimp hasta stop along the way to revenge 'imself against a coupla seagulls he's convinced stole his hotdog during the semi-finals at Wimbledon, only when he goes lookin' for their birdshot-riddled corpses he accidentally blows his shin off with a 12-gauge and forgets how to crawl, allowin' the first airborne arachnid division to descend from the trees and wrap 'im up in a kudzu cocoon. Then spinster Aunt Iris sends a different nephew (Kenneth) down to the greenhouse to test his knowledge of horticulture and find out if he's hidin' any secrets that might require conversion therapy, but while he's strokin' his orchid an Aussie posse of gnarly lizards start conductin' chemistry experiments with open jars of liquid death till they discover the secret formula for tear gas and asphyxiate the geek. While that's goin' on, Aunt Iris goes chasin' butterflies and gets tore up by the flora and fauna and ends up lookin' like Susan Tyrrell went 18 rounds with Joe Frazier before eventually gettin' chomped by a diamondback, and when 'er husband (Stuart) goes lookin' for 'er he gets stalked by a croc until the two of 'em start wrestlin' in a sewage lagoon where the guy gets pinned and skinned.
Then the waitstaff mutiny and everyone with a skin tone darker'n Mac Tonight (Charles, Maybelle, and Bella) threaten to teach their kids about critical race theory until Ray's so disgusted that he tells Clint to drop 'em off at the bait shop across the lake and instructs the defectors to never darken his door again. Charles, Maybelle, and Bella take off when the birds start gettin' a little too Hitchcocky for their likin', but in his confusion and intoxication Clint forgets to tie the boat to the dock and when he goes swimmin' after it he accidentally slips his tootsies into a pair of water moccasins and ends up joinin' Jimmy Hoffa on the bottom. Clint's wife sees what's happenin' from the shoreline and wades out just far enough to get stuck up to 'er ankle bracelet in otter potty as an alligator snappin' turtle's paddlin' by and decides to stop for some country club casserole. Ray still insists that he's not gonna let the total deforestation of his family tree ruin the annual lawn dart tournament, but Sam and Jenny tell 'im in no uncertain terms that they're gettin' in the canoe and headin' for the biggest smog cloud they can find with or without 'im and Ray basically says it's his party and he can die if he wants to, and that he'd rather face a rampagin' horde of horny toads alone than flee with a coupla traitorous nature sympathizers. I prolly better put a lid on it right here before I spill too much, but I will say that Ray starts experiencin' signs of regret about the time the critters patch into the phone line and start prank callin' 'im in the middle of the night.
Alrighty, well, they just don't make 'em like this anymore, do they? Sometimes eco-horror flicks had somethin' to say, sometimes they didn't, but either way, you could generally watch 'em with Gramma on the Sunday cable matinee without ever havin' to hear the words "close your eyes!" 'Course most of 'em were made in the days where you could have an on-screen body count of eight and still hold onto a PG rating as long as no boobies or f-words slip out durin' the proceedings, but the 1970s eco-horror film was always a mainstay of cable TV, and the 200 CGI shark movies bein' dumped on the streaming market every month in the modern era are a damn poor substitute. I'm not gonna sit here and tell ya Frogs is in the upper echelon of the subgenre 'cause it's definitely closer to Night of the Lepus than Jaws, but I think the studio screwed the pooch a little bit when they chose the title and put so much emphasis on the frogs. Admittedly, you can cause permanent psychological trauma by stickin' a bullfrog down your little sister's bathin' suit during summer vacation, but in general, frogs just aren't that scary. Then the marketing department came along and whipped up a poster with a human arm stickin' out of a frog's mouth and it's important to keep in mind that, in those days, audiences were used to seein' critters blown up to giant proportions by atomic radiation, and so by the time you had your popcorn and fountain drink in hand you were probably expectin' to see 300lb toads rampagin' through the swamp eatin' yuppie tourists. Needless to say, some people mighta felt a little ripped off by a swarm of French appetizers hoppin' around Ray Milland's lawn causin' a lotta noise pollution but very little actual havoc. I mean, think about it - if they'd just called this flick "All Creatures Great and Pissed" or somethin' like that and then showcased the nastier animals they'd rounded up (tarantulas, alligators, leeches, monitor lizards, and poisonous snakes) on the poster, Frogs would probably be remembered more fondly and considered closer to the center of the spectrum with flicks like Day of the Animals. It's not that the movie's missing the kinda creatures that scare and gross us out - it's that the emphasis was placed upon the frogs, and so when you ask people what they remember about the flick the first thing that comes to mind is that some jackasses had the gall to try pushin' frogs as nature's great equalizer against man's environmental malpractice. Good job though, guys. Raises all around, you've earned 'em.
I'm startin' to get a headache from tryna understand the reasoning behind these decisions so let's put that aside for the moment and see how ole frogger fares in his attempt to cross the freeway of film criticism. The plot is the flick's biggest trouble spot, and unfortunately, the general public isn't big on averaging out a film's pros and cons when the story is too far-fetched - see also, Jaws: The Revenge. And I'll admit it - the animal kingdom suddenly and simultaneously attaining sentience and launching a coordinated counterstrike is gonna be a bridge too far for the average Joe. It's not that a person can't LIKE the idea, or be amused by the idea, but it's an even harder sell than the notion of Willard training his army of vengeance-seeking rats to eat Ernest Borgnine's face, and we can only suspend disbelief so far before it snaps and comes flyin' back at us like a bullstuff bungee cord. I'm gonna assume that Robert Hutchison received full writing credit during the film's actual credit scrawl 'cause he hardly worked again afterward, while the IMDB credited co-writer, Robert Blees, was still able to get work; whatever the case, mistakes were made.
The acting, on the other hand, is solid all around, with Ray Milland giving a fantastic performance as the patriarchal dictator holding his money-grubbing family firmly beneath his thumb. I've seen his performance described as "over the top," and all I can say to that is I envy the person who doesn't have a self-aggrandizing friend or family member who makes every gathering awkward and unpleasant in precisely this manner because Milland's performance is completely true to life. Everybody knows someone like this guy, and consequently, everyone identifies with Sam Elliott in his dislike of him. Elliott, for his part, does a nice job with a character lacking in depth, and Joan Van Ark is likable as one of the few characters given license to be such. Simplistic though it might be, with the exception of the servants, nearly all the characters are written as one-dimensional rich snobs by design, but it must be said that each of them had to play the part with loathsome authenticity to ensure a satisfying demise later on, and I've gotta say - rarely will you find a cast of characters you'd like to see dead more than the players in Frogs, and I mean that as a compliment.
Here's who matters and why (besides Sam Elliott, whom most of you'll know as the guy your wives all swoon over even though he's 80 years old): Ray Milland (The Sea Serpent, The Uninvited 1944, The Attic, The Darker Side of Terror, Battlestar Galactica 1978, Cruise Into Terror, The Uncanny 1977, Look What's Happened to Rosemary's Baby, The Dead Don't Die, Terror in the Wax Museum, The House in Nightmare Park, The Thing with Two Heads, Black Noon, X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes, Panic in the Year Zero!, The Premature Burial 1962), Joan Van Ark (The Last Dinosaur), Adam Roarke (Cyborg 2087, Women of the Prehistoric Planet), Lynn Borden (Hellhole), David Gilliam (Severance), George Skaff (The Incredible Petrified World, Man Beast, Wavelength, Someone's Watching Me!, The Exorcist II, Slaughterhouse-Five), Lance Taylor Sr. (Blacula).
And the mainstream credits: Ray Milland (Dan Birnam in The Last Weekend, Tony Wendice in Dial M for Murder, Oliver Barrett III in Love Story, Ray Markam on Markam, Stephen Neale in Ministry of Fear), Joan Van Ark (Gloria Simmons Abbott on The Young and the Restless, Valene Ewing on Knots Landing), Judy Pace (Linda Sayers in Brian's Song), Mae Mercer (Mrs. Russell in Dirty Harry, Hallie in The Beguiled), Nicholas Courtland (Dr. Winston Kyle on Search for Tomorrow).
The special effects are very limited, with most of the film's thrills being supplied by the animal wranglers. A little blood here and there, a facial appliance to give the appearance of puffing on the deceased handyman, and the self-inflicted shotgun wound are about all, but unambitious though the effects may be - they all look decent. There're also a lot of "dead" reptiles that show up on screen, and given that the film lacks a "no animals were harmed in the making of this film" disclaimer in the credits it's possible that some of these were the genuine article. That said, it's also possible that the snakes and frogs used for those particular scenes died of natural causes or were merely refrigerated in order to create the illusion, but they all look a tad too real to be counted amongst the effects (with the exception of the inflatable alligator floating on the surface during the final escape sequence). The fake gator looks alright until they try to make it move, but in all fairness, that criticism is the reason Jaws' shooting schedule went 100 days over its allotment.
The shooting locations are excellent, and despite the stuck-up hospitality staff at the nearby Holiday Inn refusing to let the animal wranglers keep their venomous snakes in the hotel, the choice to film at the Wesley House located in the Eden Gardens State Park in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida gives a huge boost to the film's atmosphere and helps sell the "ugly rich" depiction of the family living there. The building is actually a museum and is still open to the public, but it totally works as a millionaire's seldom-used vacation home if you can work off the assumption that anyone who could afford such an extravagant building would likely try to fill it with as many conversation pieces as possible in an effort to impress their guests. The exteriors also achieve a dichotomous appearance of surface beauty that becomes appropriately disgusting once disturbed, and although this may very well just be a coincidence, it plays well with the movie's anti-pollution motif. The cinematographer (Mario Tosi, who went on to shoot Carrie for Brian De Palma) gets some really nice shots in the forest that combine shafts of light with swamp gas to produce a strange, semi-hallucinogenic look that plays on the notion that the environment is being poisoned and that said poison is affecting the minds of everything living in it, and it's little things like this that add a sense of grandeur and artistry that are wholly unexpected given the budget and theme.
The soundtrack is incredibly minimalistic and uses the sounds of nature to great effect. At no point in the movie does the incessant croaking of the frogs ever seem to let up, and although it may seem like an obvious thing to utilize it passively reminds the audience that the problem isn't going away and creates a mounting sense of claustrophobia. To refer to the composition as music almost seems inaccurate because the thing that really sticks in your mind isn't the instruments or the melody, but the haunting sound effects that produce something akin to what Wayne Bell created for The Texas Chain Saw Massacre two years later. The score was composed by Les Baxter, whose extensive resume dates back to The Black Sleep in 1956, before going on to work on many of Roger Corman's Edgar Allan Poe adaptations in the '60s and then finishing up a prolific career with classics like The Beast Within and Alien Warrior - though Frogs could well be the most unique of all his horror compositions. When it's all over you probably won't remember what it sounded like, but you might remember what it made you feel, and that's arguably more important.
Overall, if you can look past the absurdity of the plot there's a lot to like about Frogs. The solid acting, stunning shooting locations, and bizarre soundtrack make up for the questionable storyline, and for a flick from the '70s it's shockingly well paced - with the last 20 minutes feeling almost rushed as the director dashes to kill off all the obnoxious family members in time for the climax. It's one of the more underrated entries in the 1970s eco-horror cycle in my view, and one that definitely warrants your attention if you missed it on cable back in the day.