In the world of B-movies, there are moments when you look back and wonder what possessed someone to make such a thing. “Sweet Kill,” Curtis Hanson’s 1973 directorial debut, is one of those rare films that might make you question your life choices, especially when you realize that the future Academy Award-winning director of L.A. Confidential and 8 Milewas responsible for this mess. Executive produced by Roger Corman, the man who’s made a career out of funding the most ludicrous low-budget horror flicks imaginable, Sweet Kill is like a bad fever dream that leaves you wondering if someone spiked your popcorn with expired self-awareness.
Tab Hunter stars as Eddie Collins, a man with so many repressed mommy issues that you’d think he was a character from a psychotherapy textbook. Eddie, for reasons that are never entirely clear, is unable to perform sexually with women, much to his dismay. But here’s where the film leaps from psychological drama to absurd slasher territory: after accidentally killing a woman in an attempt to sleep with her, Eddie discovers that he can finally get aroused — by the dead body. Yes, you read that correctly. The film’s premise hinges on a man who turns murder into an intimate act, killing women for sexual gratification. If the movie had a tagline, it might read, “It’s not love, it’s murder… but at least he’s getting off.”
Now, don’t let the promising setup fool you into thinking you’re about to watch some psychological thriller where the inner turmoil of the protagonist is explored. This is no Psycho or The Twilight Zone. Instead, it’s a messy, confused affair that seems to forget what it’s trying to do every ten minutes. At one point, Eddie becomes so obsessed with killing women that he lures them into his bed like an unhinged magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat — except, you know, with significantly more corpses and significantly less sleight of hand.
As if this weren’t enough, the film’s “twist” relies on you caring about Eddie’s internal struggle, which is about as engaging as watching paint dry. Hunter’s performance as Eddie is about as lifeless as the women he’s disposing of. The character should, theoretically, be a chilling portrayal of madness, but instead, Eddie comes off as more of a confused manchild stumbling through a series of half-baked attempts to connect with his feelings — usually in the most grotesque manner possible. The film is practically screaming, “Look! This is edgy! Look at this depraved, shocking stuff!” But you can almost hear it backpedaling the moment you realize how ludicrous it all is.
One of the more painful aspects of Sweet Kill is how the film attempts to balance its psychological drama with slasher horror. Curtis Hanson, who would later master nuanced storytelling, doesn’t seem to know how to handle the more grotesque elements here. There’s no subtlety, no attempt to explore the darker aspects of Eddie’s psyche in a meaningful way. The film’s violence is treated like an afterthought, added in as an almost obligatory exploitation element rather than being central to the narrative or theme.
In true Roger Corman fashion, the film was subjected to reshoots to include more nudity, as Corman thought the film could use more “tits” — because, of course, it could. Hanson himself admitted that this was his “first nightmare post-production experience,” and that’s not a surprise. The film’s attempts to mix horror with sleaze are so clumsy that you half-expect someone to just pop into the frame and announce, “And now for the gratuitous shower scene!” It’s as though the film doesn’t quite understand its own absurdity — or maybe it does, but it’s too busy trying to be a “sexy” thriller to notice that it’s already failed miserably at being a coherent film.
As for the supporting cast, well, they do what they can, but it’s hard to shine in a movie that’s already drowning in its own misguided attempts at shock value. Isabel Jewell plays Eddie’s mother, Mrs. Cole, but her role is so one-dimensional and bizarre that you’ll spend more time wondering what kind of bizarre mother-son dynamic they’re going for than actually caring about the plot.
The film also has some truly laughable moments. Take, for example, the way Eddie deals with his “problem” by constantly luring unsuspecting women into his lair only to kill them for some perverse sense of sexual fulfillment. If you’re waiting for a moment of self-reflection or catharsis, well, you’re in the wrong film. Eddie is a character who is given no depth beyond his obvious psychological issues, and the film’s attempts to explore his mental state are as half-baked as the rest of the plot. The film’s final resolution is just as unsatisfying, offering up nothing of substance except a sense of relief that it’s finally over.
The production value is, predictably, low — but that’s to be expected from a Roger Corman production. It’s clear that the film is trying to capitalize on the success of other psychological thrillers of the time, but instead, it just ends up being a cheap imitation that doesn’t know what it wants to be. The directing is amateurish, the acting is wooden, and the story is neither thrilling nor intriguing enough to make it memorable in any positive way.
By the time the film reaches its conclusion, you’re not disturbed, intrigued, or even entertained — you’re just exhausted. Sweet Kill is a film that squanders its potential, attempting to combine horror and psychology in a way that’s more laughable than chilling. If you’re looking for a film that gives you genuine psychological tension, there are far better films to choose from. If you’re looking for something that will haunt you, Sweet Kill will leave you haunted, but for all the wrong reasons.
In the end, Sweet Kill is exactly what it promises: a film that attempts to be both creepy and salacious, but ends up being nothing more than a bizarre, misguided mess. While it may have its place in the annals of cult B-movie cinema, it’s a place that’s best left undisturbed. If you’re hoping for a movie that’s as sweet as its title suggests, look elsewhere. This one is anything but sweet.
