Surprising enough, tonight’s offering, THE KILLER SHREWS (1959), does not have it all. Some bad, bad acting, but just a little touch of barely adequate acting. The lone female is NOT a goody two shoes daughter, looking for a hubby and that’s all, but is a zoologist … still a daughter looking for a hubby and to get away from the horror her work may have created, but with an offputting accent. The shrews are not metaphorical, but monstrous versions of the little critters, and, en masse, they’re clearly dogs (Airedales, we speculated) with some shameful costumes; but, in close up, they were actually just a trifle upsetting. And for all that the idea that shrews could grow to this side is silly, my idle auditing of the science is that the plot’s idea of human motivation is a lot worse than the actual cited science in this sordid spectacle of drunken jealousy, all set to encompassing terror of a punchless hurricane that does little more than drive the sad first mate of the boat to his doom (presumably to be licked to death by the aforementioned Airedales).
Despite all these positive attributes, I find it difficult to recommend this obscure tale. Being a bit of a story junky, it was disappointing, and while I was riveted, it was only for the next laugh at the bad plot. Although I will grant the idea used to escape the plague of rodents was unusual – which, being American, means I had to like the novelty of it all.
And I gotta say the daughter really put out at the end. So to speak.
