Tarzan And The Mermaids (1948) – Review

There’s a prevalent saying that states that nothing can last forever, but when it comes to the lengthy nature of Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan tenure, he sure seemed to give it a damn good try. First taking up the mantle in 1932, the former Olympic swimmer finally racked up an impressive twelve appearances over sixteen years (beat that Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine) before turning in his very used loin cloth with Tarzan And The Mermaids – but while an actor stepping down from a character should be something to make a big deal of, matters were a little different back in the 40s.
To say that Tarzan And The Mermaids was hardly the triumphant send off that Weissmuller deserved after a decade plus change of wrasslin’ rubber crocodiles and commanding stock footage of elephants by screaming “Ungawa!” at the top of his lungs.
Still… at least Johhny Sheffield’s Boy was finally off the table.

Somewhere down river from Tarzan’s treehouse lies the secret, coastal city of Aquatiania which is populated by water loving denizens who spend their days pearl diving. However, when they aren’t swimming to the bottom of the sea to gather up oysters, they’re worshiping their pagan god, Balu, whom they worship unequivocally without question.
However, unbeknownst to the simple people of Aquatiania, their deity isn’t everything their high priest, Palanth, has made him out to be and the whole thing is a scam to screw the city out of their pearls by an unscrupulous con man who isn’t beneath dressing up as the helemeted god in order to put an exclamation point on the subterfuge. However, while everyone follows the word of this flim-flam man without question, willful young woman, Mara, chooses to flee Aquatiana after she’s pledged to wed Balu to search for her banished lover, Tiko, and marry him instead.
While Palanth sends men out to get her back, Mara eventually drifts past Tarzan and Jane’s tree house who naturally take her in and listen to her tale of woe. With no Boy around to unnecessarily complicate matters (the inevitable onset of puberty means he’s been written off as being sent away to England for schooling), the jungle power couple have plenty of time on their hands and so they pledge to help Aquatiana rid itself of its faux god.
Before you know it, Tarzan is infiltrating the city and fighting off knife wielding attackers, but it seems that the initial solution to Aquatiana’s problems is a rather simple act of counter-trickery, but once Palanth realises that his meal ticket is been messed with, he tries to undo Tarzan’s meddling with some schemes of his own.

It’s rare that an actor who has been substantially linked with a single character gets the send-off they truly deserve for services rendered as the reason they usually leave the character in the first place is because they’re either too old or the box office starts to dip. While you’d wish that everyone had received a worthy send-off (or a death worthy of Downey Jr’s exit from the MCU at least), the final outing before the performer jumps ship is sadly, usually sub-par and Tarzan And The Mermaids is certainly no exception.
For a start, the title is something of a massive misnomer as no actual Mermaids make an appearance as the term is more of a nickname to a race of people who just happen to swim a lot. Now, while I realise that “Tarzan And The Clam Divers” is hardly a title that screams family entertainment, you still wish the movie pushed for that promise of the fantastical a little harder.
Still, you mood improves greatly once you realise that the previous film had been the final appearance of Johnny Sheffield’s Boy, a character that could have been loaded with promise as the actor could have gradually aged into something akin to a proto-Tarzan, but who instead was constantly written to be the most self-destructive, punchable, kid sidekick imaginable. However, while you internally celebrate the disappearance of a character whose first gut instinct was to do the exact opposite of what Tarzan told him to do, the movie serves up a devastating gut punch by seemingly replacing him with John Laurenz’s Benji – an even more irritating singer who takes literally everything as a cue to whip out his guitar and stop the movie in its tracks with yet another song while oddly looking like Monkey D. Fluffy from One Piece.
However, by this point in Tarzan’s history, it’s fairly apparent that despite the watery presence of “mermaids” and the occasional octopus fight, it really seems like the well really has run dry.

While I would agree that not every Tarzan movie should have the jungle lord grappling with nefarious hunters on the edge of a cliff, the derring do available here is hardly edge of the seat stuff. For a start, Tarzan solves most of the issues within seconds after arriving by simply putting on the fake Balu costume and undoing everything the con artist has established up to that point, but when it does come down to a spot of fisticuffs, Weissmuller shows that he’s maybe not the steller athlete he was eleven movies ago. Not to disparage the guy’s abilities, but Tarzan’s now starting to look like that dude at every barbeque who always walks around with his shirt off despite being notably past his prime and it’s no big big surprise that the actor’s next role, Jungle Jim, was essentially the same sort of thing, but with the added bonus of letting Weissmuller keep his shirt on.
Things get fairly problematic later on when we reach the film’s big set piece; a string of death defying high dives that are all the more impressive thanks to the fact that – holy fuck – it’s all done for real, but when you realised that actual deaths occurred during the shooting of it, it adds a veneer of creepiness over the whole scene that no amount of Cheeta-based buffoonery or octopus fighting can paper over.
Yet despite Johnny Weissmuller scoring something of a dud for his final swing of the vine, you have to give the man credit for essentially being to Tarzan what Sean Connery was to James Bond. While his movies gradually lost their luster, his impressive tenure means that he’ll forever be the yardstick that all other versions will have to be judged by (yes, even Casper Van Dien), be it his physique, his vine swinging or the way he has to patiently deal with Cheeta’s latest act of bullshittery – assuming that their film even has a Cheeta).

Farewell, Johnny. Your exit was ignominious, but no one bellowed that signature cry quite like you – even if it was dubbed.

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