I'm fascinated by astral projection -- setting the soul free to wander wherever it pleases while the body sleeps; imagine exploring the far flung reaches of the planet without having to leave the comfort of your own bed. In The Psychic Killer, Arnold James Masters (Jim Hutton) employs the art of astral projection, not to take a free trip to see the Taj Mahal or The Great Wall of China, but to take revenge on the people responsible for wrongly convicting him of murder (and for the subsequent death of his mother). Police Lt. Jeff Morgan (Paul Burke) and psychiatrist Dr. Laura Scott (Julie Adams from Creature From The Black Lagoon) try to connect a spate of mysterious fatal accidents, their investigations leading them to suspect Masters, despite the man having an alibi for each death.
The Psychic Killer is pure '70s horror cheeze, for sure, but it's also hugely entertaining, its intriguing premise refreshingly original, the approach taken by director Ray Danton not too serious (as evidenced by the comical demise of property developer Harvey B. Sanders, crushed by a concrete cornerstone dropped from a crane), with just a touch of exploitational content for good measure, most notably a gratuitous sexy nurse strip routine/shower scene that delivers the requisite T&A. The film's succession of creative deaths reminds me of those classic Vincent Price movies from a couple of years before - Theatre of Blood and Dr. Phibes - while the killer stalking victims in his sleep gives off serious Nightmare on Elm Street vibes (especially the shower head that 'comes alive' to scald the naked nurse).
In the film's final act, Morgan has Masters officially declared dead while his spirit is absent, and the body cremated, causing the killer's soul to return home, Masters waking up in a coffin as the flames consume his flesh -- a delightfully ghoulish end to a very enjoyable film.
The Psychic Killer is pure '70s horror cheeze, for sure, but it's also hugely entertaining, its intriguing premise refreshingly original, the approach taken by director Ray Danton not too serious (as evidenced by the comical demise of property developer Harvey B. Sanders, crushed by a concrete cornerstone dropped from a crane), with just a touch of exploitational content for good measure, most notably a gratuitous sexy nurse strip routine/shower scene that delivers the requisite T&A. The film's succession of creative deaths reminds me of those classic Vincent Price movies from a couple of years before - Theatre of Blood and Dr. Phibes - while the killer stalking victims in his sleep gives off serious Nightmare on Elm Street vibes (especially the shower head that 'comes alive' to scald the naked nurse).
In the film's final act, Morgan has Masters officially declared dead while his spirit is absent, and the body cremated, causing the killer's soul to return home, Masters waking up in a coffin as the flames consume his flesh -- a delightfully ghoulish end to a very enjoyable film.