Shark Kill
A perilous mission...
Year of Release: 1976
Genre: Adventure/Horror
Rated: Not Rated
Running Time: 71 minutes (1:11)
Director: William A. Graham
Cast:
Richard Yniguez ... Cabo Mendoza
Phillip Clark ... Rick Dayner
Jennifer Warren ... Carolyn
Elizabeth Gill ... Bonnie
Victor Campos ... Luis
Summary:
Hunting the great white shark - a matter of personal revenge for the Chicano and his scientist friend.
And they had a brand new way to kill, if the shark didn't kill them first!
Review:
Shark Kill, remindin' us that there're plenty of fish in the sea, but damn few in made-for-TV Jaws clones.
And speakin' of great tragedies, it's been three weeks since I lost Shankles and from what I understand that seems to be the upper limit of how long a guy's allowed to grieve before his friends start conspirin' to cheer 'im up by forcin' 'im into a social situation where he's obliged to pretend everything's alright so the conspirators can sleep easier.
Introverted academics have debated for years as to whether the intervention itself is more or less uncomfortable than the individual conversations that, when combined via gossip, coalesce into a Voltron well-intended misery, but based upon my personal experiences, I'm leaning in the direction of the one-on-ones on the basis that it's harder to deflect when you're trapped in a room with a single busy body.
"Alright, what's it gonna take to get you back to work?" Bambi Mastrude inquired, leanin' over far enough and long enough that I could see and measure the barbell gauges of 'er nipple rings with the naked eye.
"Jesus tap-dancin' Christ on a cracker, what DIED in here... *sniff sniff* Oh, I see, musta been you. Whatever. I just came by to warn ya that the city's threatenin' to condemn the place - somethin' about a public health crisis. Probably gonna wanna either put a torch to this heap and collect the insurance money or call in an excavator and get it habitable," Sadie Bonebreak said, kickin' off the Chester's fried chicken box her shoe'd become lodged in.
"Look hon, you know I'm here for ya anytime you wanna talk, but you need to start puttin' on pants before ya answer the door," Roxanne Bigelow chided, averting her gaze and removing the Totino's box that'd been stuck on Apollo's head for the past two days.
That's women for ya, though. I know they mean well, but they don't understand that we gotta work through these things on our own and that the only way to do it is to get in touch with our feelings and then ignore 'em until we're drunk enough to forget we ever had 'em. Guys understand this, and that's why we ended up barbecuin' and projectin' flicks on a bed sheet in the back yard last night like God intended instead of passin' a box of Kleenex around talkin' about how we never could live up to our parents' expectations and how bein' rejected by Tiffany Diehm in 5th Grade shattered our confidence and made it impossible to ever have a meaningful, lasting relationship with anyone of the opposite sex. Just as a random example, ya know.
"How'v he doih?" Billy Hilliard asked, bitin' off a quarter of his burger and gesturing toward Apollo, who was frolickin' in his kiddie pool with his kids.
"Still carryin' Shankles around the house mosta the time, but he's eatin' better. I dunno how he's managed not to puncture the styrofoam, but he hasn't. By the way, thanks for bringin' 'em with ya, Duke, Apollo could use the company," I said as Apollo got a runnin' start and dove on toppa Slinky and Stinky, who were in the pool tuggin' at opposite ends of a soggy sock.
"Ugliest damn mutts ya ever saw, but I love 'em. Don't I, Dinky?" Duke grinned, puttin' 'er in a headlock and givin' her the last bite of his hot dog.
"Are you sure they're okay in there?" Mrs. Sadie fretted, glancing between the cacophony of splashes and The Last Shark's bid to put the bite on James Franciscus.
"They're fine. Fence keeps the Land Sharks out," I replied.
"Fewagwam!" Billy hollered, sendin' a shower of beer blastin' outta Duke's nose and leaving Sadie the Younger confused and silent.
It's a double-edged sword, though. Beer, I mean. Helps ya forget in the proper dose, but fall short of that threshold and ya may just find yourself starring in your very own episode of Taxi Cab Confessions. Treacherous stuff; would not recommend unless you're depressed, happy, or thirsty.
"Somethin' wrong with you?" Sadie asked as a tiny shriek pierced the night and sent my head swivelin' around as far as it'd go.
"You heard that too, right?" I shuddered.
"Heard it?! Little bastard's stuck in my hair!" Roxanne screamed, flappin' 'er arms like a wounded duck as Billy leapt up to loose the bat from her 'do.
"Thank cripes," I sighed, leanin' back in my lawn chair.
"That's easy for you to say - you ain't got enough left up there to form a decent net," Sadie scowled, helpin' Billy detangle the critter.
"You sure you're alright?" Mrs. Sadie pushed, noticing a stream of perspiration that exceeded what would be considered typical for the heat index.
"Quiet, Vic's about to get Morrowned," I said, tryna divert everyone's attention back to the movie.
"Piss on that. What's eatin' you, son?" Duke demanded, as Apollo dashed between him and the projector with Blythe hot on his heels tryna recover her mangled baseball.
"It's nothin'... just... the last few nights around 3:30, I wake up to a horrible shriek like... well, like Shankles used to make when he was hungry... but when I sit up there's nothin' there. Apollo sleeps through it like a star linebacker through Algebra class, so I never know if he hears it, too. It's weirdin' me out, is all," I confessed, tryna conceal my face behind a third burger that I definitely did not need.
"Pwowy a dweam," Billy shrugged.
"Prolly so. Or a hawk, maybe," Duke suggested.
"What if it really is Shankles reaching out from the Other Side? Maybe he has something important he needs to tell you," Mrs. Sadie somehow posited with a straight face.
"Yeah, that's prolly it. Hey, I know, let's break out the Ouija board and ask Sylvia Brown if there's an angry, furry little guy over there with a grievance he'd like to air," I growled, my embarrassment continuing to Hulk out at an alarming rate.
"There's no reason to be sarcastic," Mrs. Sadie pouted.
"You just suggested a dead possum's tryna communicate from the Great Beyond - if this ain't the time for sarcasm, we might as well put it out to pasture," Duke snickered.
"Look, it's probably-- hang on, phone's ringin'. I'll be right back," I said, headin' inside to grab it.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Have the possums stopped screaming, Clarice?" Sadie asked with her best Hannibal Lecter impersonation, having apparently dialed from her cell while the rest of us were up to our butts in conversatious retardus.
"We'll see who's screamin', bitch," I snarled, slammin' the phone down and grabbin' the resta my burger.
"Apollo! Here ya go, bud, catch!" I called, tossin' the burger toward Sadie's chair and sendin' Apollo leaping into her arms.
"Oh, goodness! Not the big ole wuv puppy! He might... oh, gross! He's all sticky!" Sadie howled, tryna get Apollo off 'er lap without hurtin' his feelins.
"Big dummy went chasin' after the oil spreader this mornin' - ole Rocky got 'im pretty good," I grinned as Apollo wolfed down his chow and wiggled his oily hinder all over Sadie just as happy as can be.
I'm sure it's just some weird nightmare and that it'll eventually go away, but I gotta admit - that screamin' at the same time every night's got me a little shook.
I still miss the little runt, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna dress up like Carnac the Magnificent and try to commune with his wayward soul to guide 'im into the light or whatever. I mean, I'd hafta find Zelda Rubenstein before I could even try, and I've gotta believe her Ouija phone's ringin' off the hook 24 hours a day - just wouldn't be practical.
I'll tell ya one thing though - nobody makes me confess to havin' emotions and gets away with it, and if you think showin' The Last Shark was cruel, wait'll you get a load of this turd burger.
Basically, what we got here is an NBC movie of the week produced in the wake of Jaws' theatrical run that cuts to stock footage every fifteen minutes or so to hide the fact that it's really a story about the blossoming bromance between two tough guys desperate to kill the rogue shark so they can ditch their girlfriends, use the shark bounty money to buy a boat, and set sail for the Isle of Man if you know what I mean and I think you do. Don't get me wrong - I think everybody oughta be free to live their lives the way they want to and plus it frees up a whole lotta closet space for their terminally naive girlfriends to fill with platform shoes once they're outta there, but I gotta believe everybody who tuned in back in '76 was watchin' to see skeptical beach goers get their giblets nibbled. It's no wonder the only print of this thing looks like it was sourced from an extended play VHS reel that'd been partially digested by a goat with irritable bowel syndrome, 'cause I'd imagine the dink who greenlit this thing probably took one look at it and told the guys in the tape truck to kill two birds with one stone and record over the master with a coupla episodes of Days of Our Lives.
Excuse me. There I go gettin' emotional again... ya see what a slippery slope it can be? I'm not too worried about it, though, because I know all you die-hard Shark Week enthusiasts're gonna be so psyched about a largely long-lost shark flick from the '70s that nothin' I say is gonna deter you from trackin' it down anyway. Despite my personal misgivings about this chum and switch, I was still able to look on the over-exposed side and snatch a few bite-sized nuggets of wisdom from the jaws of inanity, and while I understand that the recent loss of Sesame Street has affected you all as much as it has me and you may not be ready to learn the facts of life from somebody who hasn't got a hand up their hinder just yet, I hope these tidbits help tide ya over until a suitable replacement can be found.
First, if ya shell out $500 to rent the Edsel of the Sea to avenge yourself against a 15' fishstick folks're gonna call ya a lot worse than Ishmael. Second, bangin' pipe all day is tiring, thankless work. And third, campin' oil rig repairmen in the middle of a gas shortage is a surefire way to end up served with a side of hushpuppies at Long John Silver's.
The movie begins on an oil rig where the Deep Sea Diver's Plumbing Union of America (of which brothers Cabo and Luis feature prominently) is tryna unplug an oil line by takin' hammers down to the seabed and playin' the drum solo to Wipe Out along the length of the pipe until they hear somethin' that sounds like a kidney stone. Only while they're tryna administer the industrial strength Ex-Lax, a marine biologist hired by the company (Rick) sees a big ole fin poke up outta the water and causes an oceanic panic insistin' there's a Great White swimmin' around threatenin' to break into a chorus of Once Bitten, Twice Shy but the oil buffoon in charge of the rig's only concern is gettin' the crude bubblin' again, and so Rick ends up resignin' to spend more time with his moral compass. Then Cabo calls it a day and picks up an aerobic dance instructor so he can take 'er out to the bar and watch 'im pound some bigot's face until it looks like Michael Flatley did the Riverdance all over it, 'cept while that's goin' on, Cabo's cabron of a bro's out at sea burnin' the midnight oil rig and he ends up gettin' a bite taken out of 'im like a submarine Manwich. News travels fast, and when Rick and Cabo find out about Luis gettin' the cabrito treatment (and a $20,000 bounty bein' placed on the shark by the oil company) they both come down with dueling cases of alpha male angst and decide to form a Hall and Oats on Boats assassination partnership to take out Shreddy Mercury while they're afflicted with vicarious Ahabism.
'Course by the time they head out to sea every Neanderthal with a bass boat and a six pack's out on the water makin' like Trog the Bounty Hunter, and so they go off on their own to find a nice salty spot where Rick can lower a speaker that beams the wails of clinically depressed tuna into the deep to attract their quarry but they don't get any bites 'cause the depth charger's still got heart burn from the Mexican he had last night. After a few hours of bobbin' around like a pair of surgically enhanced hooters in a hot tub they decide to search elsewhere, only when they try to crank the boat it makes a noise like a '57 Studebaker that's been buried under a snow drift for two weeks and the next thing ya know they get broadsided by some senator's 50' cocaine barge and hafta tread water with nothin' but a coupla Hefty bags fulla plastic explosives wrapped in packing peanuts to keep 'em afloat. They survive the night by revealin' their inner-most secrets like a coupla teenage girls at a slumber party and boxin' the shark's nose when he tries nibblin' their nuggets, but by the time a chopper from the Coast Guard's sharcotics division finally locates 'em the next mornin' they haven't got much fight left and to make matters worse ole Stabberjaw comes back to give 'em one last nautical gnawin' as the helicopter attempts rescue. Probably oughta stop here since we're down to about one minute of actual shark action before we settle into the bromantic epilogue, but if all these edge-of-your-seat thrills've put your butt to sleep and you need to get up and walk it off, don't worry, you probably woulda recognized the ending from someplace.
Alrighty, well, normally you'll never find a greater proponent of the '70s TV Movie of the Week than I, but tryin' to ride the fishtails of Jaws when all you've got is stock footage from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom reaches a level of audaciousness that'd make the Italians cringe, and unsurprisingly, when the editor has to insert footage into a film that was shot without said footage in mind, things don't tend to jibe all that well. What's more, the first footage of a Great White shark wasn't recorded until 1966, so now you're not only trying to slip stock nature footage into scenes to which it hasn't been tailored, but there's also a limited amount of it to draw upon, which means having to reuse and/or mirror the footage in a bid to make it appear different. Jaws, by contrast, also used stock footage to bring its shark to life, but only as a supplement to the mechanical shark doing the heavy lifting, and it's also clear that Spielberg examined the specific pieces of nature footage he had and made an effort to conform certain sequences to make them mesh with the stuff that was already in the can.
Another unfortunate reality with a flick like this is that the only available elements (at least as of 2025) have been sourced from a VHS tape that wasn't well cared for, and the result is a movie that's damn near unwatchable due to the deterioration it's sustained over the years. Many of the sequences shot at night have a red bleed about them, the picture goes completely black at random for seconds at a time, and the scenes filmed during daylight hours are muddy to the point that what was probably an aesthetically pleasing film (the cinematography is still a bit rough from filming in choppy water) has been all but lost. The filmmakers aren't to blame for the poor custodianship of their movie, but I bring it up as a warning to those for whom this sort of thing would be a deal breaker, and I would also advise against buying the out-of-print DVD, as the print that's been uploaded to Youtube -- abysmal as it is -- is superior to the DVD release.
Due to the nature of the Movie of the Week format and the resources that were generally allocated, this simply was not a subgenre that should ever have been undertaken as there was virtually no chance for success, nor was it going to be received positively enough to warrant additional screenings. It's also clear that the script was not independently completed and submitted to the studio; rather, someone at the studio was assigned the job of writing a Jaws clone on the quick because it was hot at the time and they needed to fill the time slot. Logically speaking, knowing all this going in should be enough to temper a person's expectations to avoid disappointment, but when you've got an irrational affection for old direct-to-TV genre titles it's difficult to extinguish the hope that somehow the network might find a way to do what shouldn't be possible and make something enjoyable despite the high cost of concept, but they really, really should have known better than to attempt landing here, because this flick is as hollow and soulless as they come with only the occasional smattering of feel-good nostalgia.
But what the heck, we've come this far; might as well spread a little chum and see how much bite this thing can muster, so let's get to it.
The plot is tonally light and sees its supposedly guilt-ridden protagonists haulin' their hinders out to sea to risk life and limb and avenge the dead, while spending most of their time sharing numerous chuckles and planting the seeds of what may be the start of a beautiful friendship. There is no suspense, terror, or danger to be found here, and although this is to be expected to some degree due to the limitations on what a Movie of the Week is allowed to show, the music, dialogue, and lack of blood conspire with the plot to produce a finished product suitable for ages 8 and up. You've really gotta marvel at a film's ability to dump two people in the middle of the ocean in the dead of night with a Great White in their midst and still fail to produce an ounce of excitement or tension; it truly is a sight to behold.
The film has its share of little foibles as well, like the prevailing belief that blathering on endlessly and expending as much breath as possible while treading water is the best way to ensure one's survival, rotating two flotation devices between the two men rather than each man keeping one at all times, and the decision to go after a 15' shark in an 18' boat without a radio (though the stock footage is of a shark much bigger than that), but those are all minor quibbles that could probably be overlooked if not for how generally uneventful the flick is.
There's an interesting dichotomy at play here too, because while the flick is a Jaws clone by every measure, it's also so dull that it rarely feels like one because of how suspenseful, riveting, and tense Spielberg's film is in comparison to this imitation. Even after cribbing the mass shark hunt, bounty angle, and the ending from its inspiration, everything about Shark Kill is so tonally bizarre that it doesn't actually feel like a clone despite the incontrovertible evidence. I find myself in a situation where I don't know whether or not to recommend people watch it because the intellectually curious part of me feels people should watch just to share in the wonder of how it can be possible to produce something so pitiful from such strong source material. Of course, the merciful, more grounded part knows that very few people are gonna be interested enough to withstand the boredom that goes along with such an experiment, and plus I don't wanna end up in a Swiss prison for violation of the Geneva Convention. Let's just cross that bridge when we come to it.
The acting ranges from mediocre to amateurish when you get down to the bit players whose names, mercifully, don't make it into the credits. Richard Yniguez is decent as the happy-go-lucky Cabo, who experiences only brief flashes of despair, and is tasked with delivering all the deepest lines of dialogue, like "He earns his living with his legs," after his brother becomes eligible for a handicapped placard. Phillip Clark is fair (if a bit unlikable) in the Richard Dreyfuss role whose sole motivation is to collect the bounty so he can buy a boat and become grizzled and distant someplace off the grid; though looking at him kinda reminds ya of Reb Brown and makes ya wish it was since it'd liven the flick up significantly. The best performances come from Jennifer Warren as the sensible girlfriend whose sage advice must be ignored to ensure the plot moves forward, and David Huddleston, who hangs around the docks endangering the lives of greedy suckers willing to gamble on his water jalopy makin' it back to port. I'd say that it's about what you'd expect from a made-for-TV flick from this era, but more often than not, these movies star someone who once had their own series or a tried-and-tested character actor who can help hold your interest, and this flick has neither. Elizabeth Gill's line about Cabo bein' the "Specific Fleet Middleweight Champion" back in the Navy going unnoticed and making it into the final cut also speaks to the care and attention being shown on set at the time of filming, but at this point anything that generates any kind of reaction from the audience can't be a bad thing.
Here's who matters and why: Phillip Clark (Alone in the Dark 1982), Jennifer Warren (Mutant, The Intruder Within), Victor Campos (Shallow Ground, The Archer: Fugitive from the Empire), David Huddleston (Capricorn One), Carmen Zapato (Vultures 1984), Richard Foronjy (Ghostbusters II).
And, somehow, the mainstream credits: Jennifer Warren (Francine in Slap Shot, Paula in Night Moves), Carmen Zapato (Carmen Castillo on Santa Barbara), Richard Foronjy (Pete Amadesso in Carlito's Way).
The special effects involve splashing a little food dye in the water during the attack sequence that maims Richard Yniguez' brother and a little more on Phillip Clarke's face following the yacht vs. skiff scene, and if that seems a bit disappointing for a movie whose premise is based upon the potential digestion of exploited blue-collar labor and alcoholic fishermen I'm right there with ya. I get that it's made for cable and that there was probably a network executive watchin' the dailies demanding the editor "cut that crap outta there" 'cause it might offend the representative from Howard Johnson's if the shark opened up some sunbather from neck to navel and their intestines came bobbin' up to the surface, but for cryin' out loud, at least show us the bloody leg stump or somethin' - it's a shark, not a goldfish. It's pitiful, I'm not gonna lie to ya.
The shooting locations are problematic because the only print of the flick is so badly damaged that they're just impossible to judge. I did a little digging to see if maybe the oil rig was the same one from The Intruder Within, but it doesn't look like that's the case, so it's tough to pass judgment. I'm inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt based upon what is visible of the palm-lined streets of Santa Barbara, the marina, bar, and the cozy interiors of the characters' modest residences (that tiny television set complete with movable cart is nostalgically potent), but in all honesty it's damn difficult to make out much. In the unlikely event that a serviceable print becomes available, it would be likely that the shooting locations serve as the greatest contribution to its score, but the truth may be unknowable.
The soundtrack, on the other hand, is busier than a one-legged tap dancer in its bid to make the audience feel something, and is, unfortunately, unsuccessful where it counts. Credit where it's due - the laid-back, carefree '70s brass/drum intro that plays over the establishing/closing shots hits your nostalgia bone like a claw hammer and takes you back to a simpler time while being consistent with the mood on screen. And taking it a step further, it's even fair to say that the score is usually in line with the on-screen happenings; the problem isn't that the score is too light for what should be a grim scenario, but rather, its obligation to conform to the tone deaf depiction of what ought to be horrific events. Some of the brass pieces are reminiscent of John Williams' score from Jaws, and the angsty, remorse-laden woodwind bits are effective as well, but when you've gotta stick with the script, there's only so much you can do. I find myself feeling a bit sorry for the composer who appears to have had a steady, if undistinguished career, because although the music isn't especially catchy or memorable, it seems like he had the skill necessary to produce a decent collection of tracks for a serious film. Unfortunately, he was contracted to work on Shark Kill.
Overall, the lack of decent film elements is the biggest barrier to recommending this one, while its baffling tone and complete lack of atmosphere are a close second. It's absurd to think, but if you were to skip the first 40 minutes and begin watching the movie at the moment the protagonists set sail to kill the shark, you would never know that Richard Yniguez's character had any motivation for doing so except collecting that bounty, because despite being one-day removed from his brother's mutilation, there's no indication this is anything but a business arrangement between two men who come across as friends despite having loathed one another the day before. Don't let that hook fool you though - there's nothing to see here for horror fans, and even die-hard shark flick fanatics will find it tedious and unsatisfying. This is not the rampaging shark you're looking for. You can go about your business. Move along.
Rating: 31%