Curtis Harrington’s The Killing Kind wants to be a sinister psychological horror, a Freudian fever dream with a glass of poisoned milk and a side of Oedipal guilt. But what it delivers is a sour, musty concoction that smells like mothballs, tastes like regret, and leaves you wondering if anyone on set asked, “Should we really be making this?”
Plot: Mother’s Basement, the Movie
John Savage stars as Terry Lambert, a young man fresh out of prison after being railroaded in a gang rape case. But before you can blink and say, “Problematic premise,” he’s back at his childhood home—a dusty Victorian boarding house run by his overbearing mother, Thelma (Ann Sothern), whose idea of parenting is equal parts Psycho and Grey Gardens.
Thelma photographs her son obsessively, frames the pictures around the house like he’s Jesus in a shag haircut, and seems one locket away from calling him “my precious.” This cozy domestic vibe is immediately shattered when Terry starts killing women, aggressively brooding around shirtless, and speaking in the kind of psychosexual baby-talk that would make Norman Bates say, “Dial it back, champ.”
Tone and Pacing: A Death March Through Misery
The movie tries so hard to be “disturbing” that it forgets to be anything else. Harrington stages each scene with a sluggish pace that’s less suspenseful and more sedative. Every interaction oozes with discomfort—but not the good, suspense-building kind. No, this is the kind of discomfort that makes you want to look away from the screen and double-check if the FBI is monitoring your streaming activity.
There’s no mystery, no dread—just a slow crawl through the twisted psyche of a character whose motivations flip-flop between revenge, resentment, and needing a good therapist. The film’s idea of building tension is playing eerie music while someone sits very still in a living room for ten minutes.
Characters: Paper Dolls Soaked in Gasoline
John Savage gives a performance that can only be described as “dangerously constipated.” His Terry is a brooding, passive-aggressive man-child who seems permanently stuck between a tantrum and a murder. Ann Sothern, to her credit, tries to wring some deranged dignity from Thelma, but the script forces her into an incestuous caricature that’s less complex character and more walking taboo.
The supporting characters, like Ruth Roman’s boozy attorney and Cindy Williams’ doomed tenant Lori, exist mostly to be verbally abused, stalked, or strangled in bathtubs. Even Luana Anders’ nosy neighbor Louise, who’s clearly supposed to be our “normal” character, becomes a late-game voyeur whose moral compass spins like a cheap weathervane.
Dialogue: Ed Wood By Way of Freudian Theory
If you love your horror dialogue full of lines like “You’re just like your father—dead inside and full of secrets,” then boy, are you in for a treat. The screenplay is drenched in dime-store psychoanalysis and awkward exposition, the kind of stuff that’s supposed to sound profound but lands like a wet sock on a linoleum floor.
Even Terry’s final death scene—poisoned milk, mother’s arms, a single tear—feels like a drag parody of Death in Venice. You expect him to whisper, “I’m just a boy who loved too much” before flopping over like a Victorian fainting goat.
Visuals: Gothic Dust and Fluorescent Death
Mario Tosi’s cinematography occasionally stumbles into moments of faded beauty, but for the most part, the film looks like it was shot through an ashtray. Harrington’s direction is static and stilted—interiors are murky, exteriors are underlit, and the boarding house looks less like a character in itself and more like a real estate listing that’s been on the market since 1938.
It’s as if someone tried to film a Tennessee Williams play during a power outage in a funeral home. There’s no color, no contrast, just the dull, beige misery of forgotten dreams and water-stained wallpaper.
The Real Horror: Who Greenlit This?
Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: this movie’s central theme—wrongfully accused rapist becomes killer—is a staggering miscalculation. Whether intentional or not, The Killing Kind seems to ask the audience to sympathize with Terry, a man who, despite being “innocent,” still lashes out violently at every woman in his life. It’s a moral minefield, and the film dances through it with the subtlety of a tank on fire.
The ending, where Thelma poisons Terry in an act of maternal mercy—or control, or pure melodrama—is meant to be tragic. Instead, it feels like the merciful release of both the character and the viewer. When those sirens wail in the distance, it’s not the sound of justice. It’s the sound of the credits finally arriving to put us out of our misery.
Final Verdict: Skip It, Bury It, Salt the Ground
The Killing Kind is not a misunderstood gem. It is not a cult classic waiting for rediscovery. It is a creepy, uncomfortable, and deeply unsatisfying slog through outdated psychology, predatory behavior, and a plot that tries to be profound but ends up profoundly unpleasant.
If you’re looking for 1970s horror with depth, atmosphere, and actual scares, seek out The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane, Don’t Look Now, or Let’s Scare Jessica to Death. But if you insist on watching The Killing Kind, just know: you’ve been warned.
Rating: 1 out of 5 dead cats in the laundry hamper.
Because even the felines deserved better.
