A deeply disturbed photographer and Vietnam veteran, named Kirk Smith, terrorizes Los Angeles by going around strangling lingerie-clad young women in their homes while taunting Lindsay Gale, a young psychologist, by calling her on a radio call-in show to describe his sexual hang-ups.
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Pretty bad serial killer B-movie made watchable by its dated cheesiness and a couple moments of offbeat humor. Some over the top characters and a sleazy atmosphere make for some meager entertainment value, but the routine plot and pretty misogynistic kill scenes aren't handled with much cleverness or imagination. Better than you'd expect it to be, but still forgettable.
After a lot of these scummy films one recognizes genius: true texts that reach with bravery towards the bottom of a trash can in a bathroom of a strip club kind of genius; where they pull the contents out with bare hands and say to themselves, “My God, there’s something here!” It’s a masterpiece of sleaze, embracing its cynicism without apology. There’s also a creative impulse here far smarter than what’s on display.