Rating: D
Dir: José Ramón Larraz
Star: Andrea Allan, Karl Lanchbury, Maggie Walker, Peter Forbes-Robertson
a.k.a. Scream… and Die!
Spanish director Larraz is best known for overrated lesbian vampire flick Vampyres, and this is little if any better, despite (or perhaps because of?) being somewhat more restrained. The heroine is Valerie (Allan), a photographic model, who finds herself unwillingly dragged along on a burglary of a remote country house by her dodgy boyfriend, Terry. In the house she witnesses a murder, and flees the scene. The next morning, Terry is missing – except his car is parked outside of Valerie’s flat. She’s unable to locate the house again, so is lacking any evidence she can take to the police. She also can’t escape the feeling that someone is lurking nearby, with pictures vanishing from her portfolio.
Naturally, there are no shortage of potential creepy suspects. Might it be weirdo mask-maker Paul (Lanchbury), who has a rather too close relationship with his aunt (Walker), and quickly takes over Terry’s position as other half? Or could it be new downstairs neighbour, Mr. Hornby (Forbes-Robertson), who ‘keeps himself to himself’, has a fondness for pigeons, and wears gloves just like the killer. It’s giving little away to say that one of these is among the most obvious murderers of all time, and the other among the most obvious red herrings. Meanwhile, Valerie’s main occupation appears to be wandering, very slowly, around dimly-lit locations, sequences Larraz mistakenly assumes will generate tension.
In fact, it feels like everyone here dawdles at a near-Olympic level; they could recast the film entirely with sloths, and it might up the pace a bit. It’s all about as exciting as you would expect, given the desperate and derivative advertising campaign American International used in the States (above/right). You’re almost seventy minutes in before anything of real note happens, when a second murder finally forces Valerie to contact the authorities. They are useless, as expected, doing little except warning Valerie not to leave town. Which she immediately does, the little scofflaw minx. She heads off with Paul to… [sigh] a remote country house. It doesn’t end well, though does provide her with additional opportunities for lethargic meandering along corridors, yelling “Paul! Paul!”
There’s definitely a giallo feel to this, and I don’t mean in a good way: mostly that the plot is uninteresting and illogical, feeling like an afterthought. Larraz lacks the style to balance the stupidity, and by the end, the only time I was paying more than minimal attention, was when the lead actress got her kit off. I must say, that seemed to happen with increasing frequency later on, as the plot wore out its welcome. The long period in the middle where nothing much happens, caused my interest to vanish, a little while after the house did. But at least that’s an accurate title, compared to some of the others: Please! Don’t Go in the Bedroom, Psycho Sex Fiend, and Psycho Sex. All those promise a good deal more than the film is capable of delivering.