Every so often, a movie comes along that is so incompetent, so ill-conceived, so aggressively divorced from reality, you stop asking “Is this bad?” and start asking “Is this a prank?” Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce 1971’s The Zodiac Killer — a film that dares to ask: What if we solved one of America’s most notorious unsolved serial murder cases with a half-baked script, a drunk guy in a toupée, and Satanism?
This movie is not so much a dramatization of the Zodiac case as it is a mad lib written by someone who skimmed the headlines once while high on cough syrup. It’s the cinematic equivalent of shouting “I think I figured it out!” at a true crime podcast before promptly walking into traffic.
Plot: An Open Casket of Nonsense
There’s a plot here. Sort of. At least that’s what the cast was told.
The first act centers around Grover, a truck-driving divorcé with a hairpiece and a deeply upsetting vibe. He’s not the Zodiac, but don’t worry — he thinks he is, which is apparently enough for him to take his daughter hostage during a visitation meltdown, declare himself the killer upon seeing a newspaper, and promptly get shot dead by the police. This all takes 30 minutes, during which you will age three years and question your belief in storytelling.
Then, without warning or apology, the movie decides it should probably include the real Zodiac Killer — a postal worker with a Satanic streak, a bad attitude, and the charisma of a wet Band-Aid. He kills people not just because he’s evil, but because apparently his boss was mean to him and his father is a silent man in a straitjacket cage on the top floor of an asylum. (Yes, really.)
By the time we’re watching the Zodiac yell at a mute psychiatric patient while stabbing hospital visitors, the movie has gone full Looney Tunes meets Charles Manson, and you, dear viewer, have gone full regret.
Acting: Sponsored by the Back Room of a Denny’s
Hal Reed, as the titular killer, gives the kind of performance you’d expect from someone who was told five minutes before shooting, “Just act spooky.” His Zodiac is a man of many moods — all of them awkward. He switches between postal work and Satanic bloodlust like he’s misreading a schedule.
Bob Jones, playing Grover (the toupée-wearing decoy), delivers a performance that’s either unhinged genius or just unhinged. His method? Flail, sob, overact, then die in a pool. It’s like watching Willy Loman fall into a vat of gas station chili.
The rest of the cast ranges from cardboard to “probably someone’s uncle who wandered onto set.” Highlights include Doodles Weaver as a doctor who exists for no reason, and a random man listed as ‘Hippy’, because what would a 1971 exploitation flick be without casual anti-counterculture vibes?
Direction: Conspiracy, Incompetence, or Both?
Director Tom Hanson deserves credit for one thing: intentions. You see, Hanson didn’t just want to make a movie — he wanted to catch the real Zodiac Killer by luring him to a screening. That’s right. This entire film is one elaborate sting operation that ends with a box of raffle entries and a guy hiding inside it comparing handwriting samples.
Yes, Hanson made a trap disguised as a movie. And sadly, it worked better as a trap than a film.
On a technical level, the film is an assault. Scenes smash into one another with the finesse of a drunk moose. Dialogue is inaudible. The editing is so random you’d swear the reels were shuffled like tarot cards. At one point, a character walks into a room and seems to forget why he’s there, much like the audience.
Tone: Sincere Panic with a Side of Satan
The film veers wildly from ham-fisted horror to courtroom PSA to fever dream. There are Satanic monologues delivered like low-rent Shakespeare, straight-faced lectures about justice, and a final voiceover so chillingly smug it sounds like it was recorded by your ex on a burner phone.
And yes, the Zodiac Killer ends the film talking directly to us, warning that he’s still out there. It’s like a reverse Mister Rogers episode, except instead of cardigans, he’s wearing your skin.
Accuracy: Somewhere Between Fan Fiction and Bad Acid Trip
Historical accuracy? Forget it. The film uses the Zodiac case the way a toddler uses finger paints: messily and without comprehension. The real case involved coded messages, taunting letters, and unsolved brilliance. This version involves a guy stabbing a woman because she didn’t like his lunch break banter.
And the motive? The movie implies the Zodiac was created by a lack of parental affection, Satan, and maybe… the USPS?
I’ve seen community theater productions of Sweeney Todd with more nuance and fewer plot holes.
Final Verdict: Killer Concept, Murdered in Execution
The Zodiac Killer is a film that confuses exploitation with exposition, and suspense with incoherent screaming. It wants to be scary, but the only thing terrifying is how little it knows about pacing, character development, or the basic geography of a coherent story.
And yet, there’s something beautifully, hideously fascinating about it. A time capsule of fear, paranoia, bad wigs, and worse ideas. A movie that literally tried to solve a murder through a marketing gimmick involving a raffle box and a Kawasaki motorcycle.
If nothing else, it proves one timeless truth: you should never trust a movie that ends with the killer bragging about how smart he is, especially when the previous scene involved him missing a stabbing and tripping over a shrub.
★☆☆☆☆ (1 out of 4 stars)
“I think the Zodiac kills because…” he watched this movie and realized humanity wasn’t worth saving.
