Let’s get this out of the way: A Taste of Evil is far better than any made-for-TV movie has any right to be. It aired as part of ABC’s “Movie of the Week” lineup in October 1971, which means it was sandwiched between commercials for Ford Pintos and Tang, but don’t let that fool you—this is a deeply satisfying, gothic psychological thriller disguised as Sunday night entertainment. It’s like finding a live cobra in your teacup. You sip expecting chamomile and get venom with a twist of Stanwyck.
Directed by John Llewellyn Moxey, the same man who gave us The Night Stalker, this one is a masterclass in mood, manipulation, and mother-daughter warfare. It’s Hitchcock light with a surprisingly heavy undercurrent of trauma, betrayal, and vintage gaslighting so potent it could be bottled and sold at Sephora.
The Plot: Mommy Issues, Murder, and Mind Games
Our story begins with Susan Wilcox (played with haunted elegance by Barbara Parkins), who’s returning home from a Swiss sanatorium. She hasn’t been skiing—she’s been recovering from a brutal childhood assault that left her mute for two years. Now semi-rehabilitated and fully dressed in cashmere, Susan is trying to get her life back, which is made immediately difficult by the fact that her mother Miriam (Barbara Stanwyck) is an emotionally constipated ice sculpture married to an alcoholic walking red flag named Harold.
Susan is being watched. Stalked. Haunted. She finds a corpse in the tub. She hears voices. Then the corpse disappears. And while we as viewers are busy screaming “GASLIGHT!” like a horror-movie drinking game, the film tightens its grip with a grin.
Harold appears to be the culprit. Then he disappears. Then he reappears and dies. Or maybe not? There’s a cabin in the woods, a mysterious man who won’t stay dead, and a mother whose sympathy could be printed on sandpaper. The gardener, John, offers some support, until it’s revealed that—plot twist—he was the one who raped Susan as a child.
And then comes the twist within the twist: all the stalking, the setups, the body-in-the-bathtub illusions? They were fake. Not fake like lazy writing. Fake like strategic counter-gaslighting revenge plot, carefully orchestrated by Dr. Michael Lomas (Roddy McDowall, playing both therapist and moral chaos conductor) to make Miriam confess her sins. Miriam finally cracks and delivers a soliloquy worthy of Greek tragedy and daytime soap operas: “I made Susan kill him!” she sobs, her mascara weeping right along with her.
What’s better than catching a villain? Making the villain catch themselves in a web they didn’t know they were spinning. Chef’s kiss.
Stanwyck, Queen of Cold, Matron of Malice
Barbara Stanwyck doesn’t play Miriam Jennings—she summons her. With cheekbones sharp enough to pierce the veil and a vocal tone that could freeze pond water, she gives us a mother so emotionally sterile, it’s a wonder she didn’t raise her daughter in a cryogenic pod.
What makes Stanwyck’s performance so haunting isn’t the overt cruelty—it’s the restraint. Her Miriam is composed, condescending, and calmly cruel, like a country club version of Lady Macbeth. Even when she confesses to orchestrating Susan’s breakdown and enabling her rapist to thrive in the garden shed, she does so with the grim elegance of someone discussing the weather.
This isn’t just camp—it’s tragic. Elegantly vicious, like a martini laced with cyanide.
Parkins and McDowall: Victim and Mastermind
Barbara Parkins plays Susan with fragile grace, balancing vulnerability with resolve. In lesser hands, Susan could have been a passive victim—a wilting flower in a straightjacket. But Parkins keeps her sharp-eyed, watchful, and just barely hanging on. When the twist hits and we realize she was part of the revenge plot all along? It doesn’t feel like a betrayal. It feels like a long-overdue power grab.
Roddy McDowall, meanwhile, gives a surprisingly dark performance as Dr. Lomas. He’s not evil—just calculating. He treats justice like a board game, and Miriam like a queen who needs toppling. His plan is ethically questionable, legally insane, and narratively perfect. Nothing says “therapeutic intervention” like faking a man’s murder with the cooperation of your former patient.
Made-for-TV, But Built to Last
There’s no gore, no swearing, no sex—but somehow, A Taste of Evil still manages to be intensely disturbing. Maybe it’s the subject matter. Maybe it’s the way the film allows its female characters to exist in a space of intelligence, trauma, and agency—rare for 1971, let alone on network TV.
Or maybe it’s the subtle, creeping realization that the title isn’t about Susan’s trauma or her mother’s hatred—it’s about how once you get a taste of evil, you’re never quite the same again.
For a movie where half the cast wears sensible wool, it’s surprisingly cutthroat.
Final Thoughts: It’s Always the Mother
A Taste of Evil may not be a gorehound’s dream, but it is a gothic revenge thriller with the kind of psychological depth that makes most modern genre fare look like finger painting with ketchup. It’s elegant, sinister, and smarter than it needs to be.
Think of it as Gaslight, but with a second act where Ingrid Bergman punches back—and then sues.
3½ stars out of 4.
Recommended if you enjoy vintage chills, twisty revenge, and matriarchs you’d never leave alone with your inheritance.
