Upon reading that ice skater Samantha (Lynne Frederick, Phase IV) is set to marry a well-to-do businessman (John Leyton, The Great Escape), middle-aged Haskin (John Watson, Peeping Tom) packs a big ol’ knife, hops a train to London, rents a room at a men’s hostel, and intends to freak her out. He totally succeeds.
See, as Samantha explains, Haskin was not only her mum’s lover, but her killer — an act Sam witnessed when she was 7. Now she’s convinced Haskin wants to do the same to her, despite the illogic of it all: “But he’s mad! He doesn’t need a reason!” His harassment antics have her so jumpy that she turns fraidy-cat over the smallest things, from a fake spider in the soap dish to hearing her name in the grocery store where she buys her Weetabix or whatever it is the Brits eat for breakfast.
As bodies start to pile up around Sam, Schizo is at its Psycho-tic best. Director Pete Walker (House of Whipcord) stages some fairly gruesome-for-the-era murders, including a sledgehammer to the noggin and a knitting needle through the face — too bad they’re not delivered with suspense. Instead, they’re telegraphed; for example, he shows you there’s a knife-wielding killer hiding in the backseat well before the driver gets his throat slit. There’s just no surprise in store.
Until the twist ending, that is, which although an interesting turnaround, is a cheat. For all its promise and bloodshed, Schizo is a pedestrian, stalk-and-slash thriller too bloated for its own good. Once Walker throws in a psychic who goes all milky-eyed while chatting up the dead, you’re more than ready for a denouement. —Rod Lott