SUGAR HILL 1974
“Notable for their anti-assimilationist ideologies, themes of revolution and revenge, and heroic enduring resilient Black Women who defeat the monster and live on, ready to fight another day. Robin R. Means Coleman continues: Voodoo is reclaimed in these films as a powerful weapon against racism (e.g., Scream, Blacula Scream 1973, and Sugar Hill 1974). Horror films from the 1970s also do not escape the label of Blaxploitation — the prevalence of financially and culturally exploitative films featuring Blackness during the decade. Here, Blaxploitation era horror films frequently advanced the notion of Black empowerment through violent revolution.” Robin R. Means Coleman.
Sugar Hill (1974) is a distinctive blend of blaxploitation and supernatural horror with some of the cultural and social themes of the 1970s. It is recognized for its pioneering portrayal of a strong Black female lead and its culturally potent integration of voodoo mythology. While Paul Maslansky is best known for his work as a writer and producer, Sugar Hill was the only film he directed. Marki Bey as Diana “Sugar” Hill, a resourceful fashion photographer, is a strong and determined Black female heroin who seeks revenge through voodoo and an army of zombies against the mobsters responsible for her boyfriend’s murder.
Bey’s portrayal of Sugar Hill is evocative and empowering, marking one of the earliest instances of a Black woman leading a horror film. This groundbreaking character subverts the typical victim role, embodying empowerment and resilience, a significant milestone in horror cinema history. The cast also includes Robert Quarry minus the undead glamour as the ruthless mob boss Morgan, Don Pedro Colley as the voodoo spirit Baron Samedi, and Zara Cully as Mama Maitresse, the voodoo queen who helps Sugar invoke the supernatural forces.
1970s horror films featuring Black women handled the Final Girl with noteworthy variation. White Final Girls were generally unavailable sexually and were masculinized through their names (e.g., Ripley) and through the use of (phallic) weaponry (e.g., butcher knives or chainsaws). By contrast, Black women were often highly sexualized, with seduction serving as a principal part of their cache of armaments. Much like the White Final Girl, Black women stare down death. However, these Black women are not going up against some boogeyman; rather, often their battle is with racism and corruption. In this regard, there is no going to sleep once the “monster” is defeated, as the monster is often amorphously coded as “Whitey,” and Whitey’s oppressions are here to stay. With no real way to defeat the evil (systems of inequality) that surrounds them, Black women in horror films could be described as resilient “Enduring Women.” They are soldiers in ongoing battles of discrimination, in which a total victory is elusive. —from page 132, chapter Scream, Whitey, Scream – Horror Noire – Robin R. Means Coleman
Sugar Hill’s cinematography by Robert C. Jessup supports the film’s unique atmosphere, shot on location in Houston, Texas, notably featuring sites like the Heights branch of the Houston Public Library as the Voodoo Institute. The visual style offers a moody, gritty representation of urban life mixed in with eerie supernatural elements such as the iconic depiction of zombies, former slaves summoned by Baron Samedi, who are both terrifying and emblematic of a deeper cultural history.
The film’s weaving of voodoo and zombie lore emerges as a profound engagement with African and Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions, presented not as superficial or sensationalized elements but as vital expressions of cultural identity. This deliberate reclaiming and reinterpretation serves as a meaningful challenge, pushing back against Hollywood, which historically tended to exoticize and reduce these traditions to mere spooky stereotypes and exotic horror tropes.
The film opens with the brutal murder of Sugar’s boyfriend, Langston (Larry Don Johnson), by a ruthless mob, after he refuses to sell his club, setting Sugar on a path of vengeance. Marki Bey brings Sugar to life as a fiercely determined character who is deeply and emotionally wrought; every gesture and look feels charged, drawing us into her struggle, strength, pain, and resolve.
As Sugar goes on a quest for justice, she allies with Mama Maitresse, the voodoo queen, who possesses a mystic authority. The film’s mood darkens as Sugar learns to harness voodoo magic.
Marki Bey, beguilingly called ‘Sugar’, is the perfect example of the Black Enduring Woman driven by the same desire as Pam Grier in the non-horror Blaxploitation film Foxy Brown 1974, who uses both her charm and fierce resolve to take down “The Man” avenging her boyfriend’s murder despite facing brutal violence herself. Here in Sugar Hill, Marki Bey also seeks to avenge her boyfriend Langston’s death at the hands of a ‘white’ crime boss. Sugar’s strength lies not in traditional “masculine” weapons or in rejecting her sexuality; rather, she weaponizes her sensuality. Unlike other horror heroines who might have been written as shedding their ‘femininity’ to fight, Sugar embraces hers while exacting her revenge, embodying a distinctly powerful and enduring feminine force.
Her journey is marked by ritual scenes full of symbolism and cultural resonance. In these moments, Bey’s presence becomes almost hypnotic as she shifts from a grieving lover into a powerful avatar of supernatural power. Her expressions move between intense focus and raw emotion, revealing a character who feels deeply connected to ancestral strength and spirit.
The urban landscape, captured through moody, atmospheric cinematography, creates a striking contrast with the film’s eerie supernatural touches, the restless zombies called forth to fight alongside Sugar, and the haunting voodoo rituals that ripple through the shadows. This gives the movie a dreamlike, otherworldly whisper of spirit. And through it all, Sugar moves with a magnetic presence, her charisma drawing you in so completely that she inhabits the fantastical world with undeniable force and grace.
The climax sees Sugar confronting Morgan and his syndicate, orchestrating their downfall through voodoo’s dark might. In the merciless and unrelenting showdown, Sugar orchestrates Morgan’s downfall, luring him into the swampy trap where her journey began, watching coldly as he sinks into a pit of quicksand, powerless against the forces she commands-Baron Samedi’s zombie army and her own fierce will. This is the ultimate reckoning for Morgan, a symbol of brutal oppression, as he literally drowns beneath the weight of his own corrupt dominion and the unstoppable surge of Sugar’s retributive justice.
Sugar Hill closes on a powerful note, a moral triumph of the oppressed over cold, ruthless power, carried so vividly by Marki Bey. She leads the story with a presence that’s impossible to forget; through her, we witness a woman transformed by both supernatural forces and her own sheer determination. There’s a quiet magnetism to her mesmerizing performance, weaving through every scene, making her both the film’s emotional heart and formidable force in her own right.
Marki Bey was a singular presence in 1970s American cinema, best remembered for her fiercely captivating lead in this cult classic, Sugar Hill. Bey possesses both elegance and fire. Though not always grouped with iconic blaxploitation figures like Pam Grier or Tamara Dobson, Bey is continually praised for making a distinct impression in every role she took on, commanding the camera with a cool confidence and sympathetic depth. Despite the story’s supernatural elements, Bey’s style grounds the film; her measured intensity and wry delivery of one-liners add sly wit and a modern defiance to the role. Visually, she exudes strength and style, not to mention her stunning 70s fashions and the way she fully embraces her sexuality, commanding and unapologetically herself.
Outside of Sugar Hill, Bey showed range and adaptability in supporting roles, such as in Hal Ashby’s The Landlord 1970 and the suspense ensemble in Arthur Marks’ The Roommates 1973, as well as on television, where she had a recurring role as Officer Minnie Kaplan on Starsky & Hutch. Even decades after she left Hollywood, Marki Bey’s legacy endures among cult film fans. Marki Bey can make even minor roles memorable through a mix of quiet intelligence, warmth, a distinctive blend of poise and beauty, emotional resonance, and that unmistakable, mesmerizing screen presence.
Her own comments about acting reveal a thoughtful, ensemble-minded artist. Bey has said, “I always took every job seriously, like most performers do, and you prepare for the work… With each one you have to do the best that you can. The minute you start to think that you are the one who’s carrying the film, you’re lost. If you don’t work in tandem and you consider yourself the star, then you’re lost. I have never not worked without thinking of myself as part of an ensemble.” This humility and sense of craft are evident onscreen, where she avoids showiness for show’s sake, instead playing her parts with the goal of serving the story and elevating her castmates.
Mama Maitresse, played by Zara Cully, appears as a regal yet enigmatic voodoo queen—her white hair gleaming like a halo in the dim light, skin weathered with the wisdom of centuries, eyes twinkling with sly, knowing mischief. Cully’s face wears so much character. Draped in flowing garments that blend seamlessly with the swamp’s mist and shadows, Mama Maitresse exudes the power and mystery of a mythic elder, a matriarch who communes with spirits and summons respect with every word and gesture. Her presence is quietly commanding, wrapping the supernatural rituals she performs with an authentic sense of spiritual authority, and her voice carries the deep lilt of Southern folklore.
Zara Cully had a remarkable acting background. Born in 1892 in Massachusetts, she was renowned as an elocutionist and drama teacher, famously dubbed “Florida’s Dean of Drama” before relocating to Hollywood to escape Jim Crow racism. Her stage career spanned decades and included work as a writer, director, and teacher. In film, she appeared in projects such as
The Liberation of L.B. Jones, Brother John, and The Great White Hope, but she is best known for her role as Olivia “Mother Jefferson” George’s irrasible mother on TV’s The Jeffersons, where she became one of television’s oldest active performers in the 1970s. You can see Zara Cully in another role as a voodoo priestess in the Kolchak: The Night Stalker episode “The Zombie,” where she is mischievous and vengeful, sly, cheeky, and determined, driven by the desire to avenge her beloved son’s death. Instead of a benevolent protector, she becomes a catalyst for supernatural retribution, wielding her magic to exact justice against those responsible. Kolchak, with his relentless pursuit of the truth, of course, gets in her way.
In Sugar Hill, her portrayal of Mama Maitresse is both earthy and otherworldly: she blends grandmotherly warmth with the steely resolve of a conjurer, guiding Sugar through rites of vengeance and supernatural justice. Cully’s distinctive blend of dignity, subtle humor, and spiritual wisdom turns Mama Maitresse into more than a supporting role; she becomes a living link to ancestral magic, a keeper of secrets who channels the film’s pulse of potent mysticism.
The zombie high priest in Sugar Hill is the imposing and unforgettable figure of Baron Samedi, portrayed by Don Pedro Colley (Black Caesar 1973). He is a spectral monarch of the dead, cloaked in the dark regalia of a funeral procession, top hat perched like a crown, black tailcoat flowing like the shadows of the underworld, and eyes gleaming with a mischievous, almost otherworldly fire. His face, often painted or shadowed like a skull, seems to straddle the boundary between the living and the dead, a timeless sentinel of the voodoo realm.
Baron Samedi’s presence is a symphony of contradiction: part boisterous trickster, part somber guardian of souls. His laughter rumbles like distant thunder, his voice a gravelly incantation that commands the earth to tremble and the dead to rise. Through his weave of dark magic and unholy power, he summons an army of ancient souls, zombies that claw their way from grave-covered soil, their eyes quicksilver and unblinking, their bodies dusted with the ash of forgotten ancestors. These revenants, bound by his will, become both instruments of vengeance and living echoes of a history stained with bondage and rebellion. Don Pedro Colley infuses the character with a potent charisma, lending a hypnotic energy that dances between menace and dark humor.
In his portrayal, Baron Samedi is less a mere antagonist and more a primordial force, a charismatic god of death and resurrection who moves with the grace of inevitability, his crooked smile hinting at secrets only the night knows. Samedi emerges as a haunting, poetic figure, a bridge between worlds, draped in shadow and mystery, wielding the power to command the restless dead and tilt the scales of justice in a world gripped by cruelty and betrayal.
Critically, Sugar Hill stands as a culturally significant film within the blaxploitation and horror genres in the 1970s. It portrays a narrative of vigilante justice through a Black female lens, emphasizing empowerment in a genre dominated by white male protagonists. The use of voodoo as a source of strength rather than fear resonates as a reclamation of Afrocentric cultural identity.
In retrospect, many scholars and critics recognize Sugar Hill’s lasting influence as an important step in carving out space for Black voices and characters within the horror genre and its expanding cultural boundaries. At the same time, it’s clear that the film wasn’t without its flaws; some of the stereotypes common in blaxploitation films do show up, especially in how much freedom the Black female characters actually have. These limitations of autonomy granted to Black female characters and persistent racial tropes are important to acknowledge because they shaped the evolution, influences, challenges, and conversations that followed, helping to steer the way Black horror cinema has changed since then. Still, it remains celebrated for offering a powerful and dignified Black female protagonist and for reclaiming voodoo lore in a culturally significant way.
Sugar Hill’s complex legacy, one that invites both appreciation and critical reflection, lies in its bold narrative choices, atmospheric style, and representation of Black identity and empowerment in horror cinema. It continues to be studied and appreciated as both a cult classic and a meaningful cultural artifact within 1970s genre filmmaking.
The film’s inclusion of voodoo is more than a mere exotic horror trope; it is an engaging reimagining of African and Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions, portraying them as sources of strength and justice rather than fear. This aspect resonates strongly, positioning the film as a cultural statement amid the social tensions of 1970s Black America.
Sugar Hill’s impact on Black horror does two things: it is both a product of its era’s exploitation cinema and a forward-looking foundation for representation. Its impact extends beyond the era’s exploitation trends by inspiring later films that center Black experiences and voices in horror, melding genre entertainment with social commentary.
Its blend of supernatural horror and culturally rooted voodoo practices, combined with Marki Bey’s dynamic performance, helped create a cult classic that influenced later genre films featuring Black heroines. The film also illustrates how horror served as a statement on resistance against systemic oppression, with its narrative symbolizing the fight of Black individuals against racial injustice through supernatural means and the quest for empowerment in the face of systemic oppression.
Sugar Hill (1974) is significant not only for its engaging revenge-driven plot but also as a culturally rich artifact that stands at the intersection of blaxploitation and horror. Director Paul Maslansky’s vision brought together a talented cast led by Marki Bey, atmospheric cinematography that captured the essence of urban voodoo-inflected horror, and a story that resonated deeply with not just Black audiences of the time.
