There’s something uniquely deflating about a film that promises both sex and horror but delivers neither with anything approaching enthusiasm. Any Body…Any Way (or Behind Locked Doors for those masochists who needed a rebrand to fall for it twice) is a 1968 “roughie” that plays like Psycho if Norman Bates had less charisma and more embalming fluid in the script.
This is one of those films where you’re not sure if the real horror is what’s happening on screen or the knowledge that someone had to hold a boom mic while watching it being filmed.
Plot: The Least Sexy, Most Dull Night of Terror Imaginable
Our two heroines, Ann and Terry, are coworkers who attend a party at an isolated barn—which is always code in exploitation cinema for “someone’s about to get groped, stabbed, or both.” Ann is assaulted, because of course she is, and then saved by a man who’s either gallant or grooming, depending on the camera angle. Their car runs out of gas, which only makes sense if you assume it’s powered by plot convenience, and they’re directed to the nearest “don’t go in there”house, occupied by one Mr. Bradley and his sister Ida.
The Bradleys are your typical Norman Bates starter kit: former mortician, remote house, locked doors, creepy mannequins, taxidermy vibes. The moment they offer the girls a warm bed, you know things are going downhill faster than the film’s editing quality. And once the guest room door locks behind them and they find a closet of off-brand Forever 21 clothing in various sizes, it’s clear we’re about to be force-fed a mix of basement kink, half-hearted sadism, and bargain-bin embalming.
The Performances: We’re Using That Word Loosely
Eve Reeves and Joyce Denner as Ann and Terry are technically present, though one suspects the lighting rig had more emotional range. Their chemistry is nonexistent, their delivery stiffer than the embalmed corpses in the third act, and their reactions range from “mildly irritated” to “I forgot I was in a movie.”
Daniel Garth’s Mr. Bradley is your classic horror villain reimagined as a deeply tired regional dentist who accidentally wandered onto the wrong set and just went with it. Irene Lawrence as Ida, his sister, does her best, which unfortunately amounts to a lot of wincing and prolonged eye contact.
The Horror: Lo-Budget, Lo-Stakes, Lo-Energy
There’s body horror here, if you count being trapped in a room full of mannequins and watching your brain cells melt from poor pacing. The Bradleys’ big threat? A basement museum of pickled women and sexual “experiments” that would make even Ed Wood say, “you might want to try another draft.”
The film’s idea of terror is a locked door and awkwardly placed mannequins. Imagine if House of Wax had been directed by an accountant with a camcorder and you’re halfway there.
There’s a moment where the dead supposedly come back to avenge themselves. How? By… vaguely setting a room on fire and maybe sort of grabbing their tormentors before the credits roll? It’s not clear. It’s also the most action this film manages to stir up before collapsing into a heap of cinematic compost.
Sexploitation Without the Exploitation
Despite being billed as a “roughie,” the film is about as erotic as a root canal. Nudity is delivered with all the enthusiasm of a DMV clerk, and the sex scenes play like an after-school special that took a wrong turn into grindhouse territory. You’re left wondering who this movie was actually made for—besides lonely projectionists and collectors of moldy VHS tapes titled “Adults Only! (Not Really)”.
And the ending? Our final girl, Ann, walks off hand-in-hand with her original assailant. That’s not a twist. That’s Stockholm Syndrome played for giggles. Even Terry’s seduction of another woman at a party lands like a wet sponge—sex-positive in theory, emotionally bankrupt in execution.
Final Verdict: You Could Embalm This Script and No One Would Notice
Any Body…Any Way is the cinematic equivalent of a musty mattress found in a garage sale—used, unloved, and full of questionable stains. It’s horror stripped of fear, erotica without heat, and storytelling without pulse. Somewhere, Herschell Gordon Lewis is shaking his head, and even Ed Wood is muttering, “at least I had Bela Lugosi.”
Rating: 0.5 out of 5 Mannequins That Deserved Better
