The 1970s were the golden age of true-crime cinema — or at least the bronze age, painted to look golden. The Todd Killings (1971), directed by Barry Shear, sits comfortably in that uneasy tradition. Inspired by Charles Schmid, the so-called “Pied Piper of Tucson,” the film delivers a mix of small-town malaise, generational disillusionment, and one of the most unsettling portraits of a would-be rock star who can’t sing a note but can certainly bury a body.
It’s not perfect, but it has teeth — sharp ones, yellowed by cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey.
Robert F. Lyons: America’s Favorite Scumbag
As Skipper Todd, Robert F. Lyons gives a performance that’s part sleazy charm, part rattlesnake menace. Todd is a man-child in his twenties, clinging to high-school kids like a vampire who feeds on admiration instead of blood. He dreams of stardom but can’t even keep a band together; he talks a big game but lives off his mother. He’s a parasite with good hair, and Lyons makes him magnetic in all the wrong ways.
What makes Todd frightening isn’t that he’s a mastermind — it’s that he’s pathetic. He’s a loser who compensates by preying on kids too naïve to know better. That mixture of banality and brutality makes him far scarier than most movie villains who hide behind masks. Todd doesn’t need a mask — he hides behind charisma, which is infinitely more dangerous.
Richard Thomas: Before John-Boy Got Dark
Richard Thomas, years before The Waltons, plays Billy Roy, a wide-eyed innocent who gets sucked into Todd’s orbit. Thomas brings a sincerity to the role that makes you want to grab him by the shoulders and yell, “Run, kid!” But of course, he doesn’t run. He hangs around, soaking up Todd’s poison like a sponge.
It’s a neat trick of casting: Thomas embodies innocence so well that watching him corrupted feels like a slow-motion car crash.
Barbara Bel Geddes and Gloria Grahame: Mothers and Wrecks
The supporting cast reads like a rogues’ gallery of talent. Barbara Bel Geddes plays Todd’s weary mother, suffocating under the weight of her son’s failure. Every sigh feels like she’s already written his obituary in her head.
And then there’s Gloria Grahame, glorious as ever, playing Billy Roy’s mother. Grahame had long since graduated from noir femme fatales to maternal roles, but here she injects them with her trademark edge. Even when she’s only in a few scenes, you can’t shake her presence. She’s the ghost of Hollywood past, haunting a small-town thriller about kids gone wrong.
Barry Shear’s Direction: Grit With a Side of Sweat
Barry Shear wasn’t a prestige director, but he knew how to handle sleaze with style. He films the small-town settings with just enough grit to feel authentic, capturing that 1970s malaise where dreams die in diners and garages. There’s no glamour here, only desperation.
The violence, when it comes, is unflashy but effective. This isn’t exploitation gore; it’s more unsettling than that. The horror lies in watching Skipper Todd worm his way into people’s lives, whispering promises of fun and freedom before leading them into the abyss.
The Darkness Beneath the Americana
Like Badlands (released two years later), The Todd Killings taps into the idea that America’s wide-open spaces can hide wide-open graves. It’s a movie about how predators thrive not in dark alleys but under sunny skies, at barbecues, in high-school hangouts. Evil doesn’t wear a cape; it wears bell-bottoms and strums a guitar badly.
This is where the film earns its place as more than just a cheap true-crime cash-in. It doesn’t glamorize Todd, nor does it turn him into a horror caricature. It presents him as a loser who manipulates, corrupts, and kills simply because he can. The scariest part? You’ve met someone like him. You just hope you never gave him your number.
Dark Humor in a Dead-End Town
Despite its bleak subject, the film offers moments of unintended (and sometimes intended) dark comedy. Todd spouts rock-star philosophy like a man who’s read one bad Dylan interview and decided he’s a prophet. He prances around small-town Arizona as if he’s Jim Morrison reincarnated — except Jim Morrison was still alive at the time.
There’s something grimly funny about Todd’s delusion. He’s not just a murderer; he’s a wannabe. He wants to be adored, respected, worshiped. Instead, he’s destined to be remembered as the guy who couldn’t tune his guitar but could dig a shallow grave.
Reception: A Forgotten Relic That Deserves Better
Released in 1971, The Todd Killings never made much noise. True-crime cinema was still a niche, and the film was too bleak to become a drive-in favorite. But seen today, it feels eerily ahead of its time. Its themes — toxic masculinity, cult-of-personality predators, the seduction of youth — play as sharp in 2025 as they did in 1971.
It’s no masterpiece, but it’s smarter, sharper, and more unsettling than its obscurity suggests.
Final Verdict
The Todd Killings is the kind of film that slips under your skin. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t rely on gore or gimmicks. Instead, it offers a portrait of evil as mediocrity weaponized, embodied in Robert F. Lyons’s chilling performance.
Leonard Maltin might have written: The Todd Killings (1971). Bleak, unsettling thriller inspired by real-life crimes. Lyons excellent as manipulative small-town predator; strong support from Thomas and Bel Geddes. Dark, grim, and underrated. *** out of ****.
And the dark humor closer: If Skipper Todd teaches us anything, it’s that the devil doesn’t need pitchforks or horns. Sometimes he just needs a bad haircut and an empty garage band gig.
