Monsters No More: Targets and the Terrifying Rise of Real-Life Killers in Cinema

In an era when fictional fiends ruled the screen, one film dared to show that humanity’s darkest impulses eclipse any make-believe ghoul.

Released in 1968, Peter Bogdanovich’s debut feature shattered the boundaries of horror by pitting the fading icons of classic monster movies against the stark, impersonal violence of a modern mass murderer. This taut thriller not only marked a pivotal shift in genre storytelling but also captured the growing unease of a nation gripped by inexplicable acts of real-world savagery.

  • Targets masterfully interweaves the swan song of old-school horror stardom with the chilling detachment of a sniper’s rampage, highlighting cinema’s struggle to remain relevant amid true terror.
  • Drawing direct inspiration from the 1966 University of Texas tower shooting, the film dissects the psychology of serial predation and society’s dawning fear of the unremarkable killer next door.
  • Bogdanovich’s innovative structure and Boris Karloff’s poignant performance cement Targets as a prescient bridge between gothic fantasy and the gritty true-crime horrors that would dominate decades later.

The Fractured Narrative: Dual Paths to Dread

At its core, Targets unfolds through parallel narratives that converge in a symphony of escalating tension. Boris Karloff portrays Byron Orlok, a weary horror legend modelled after Karloff himself, contemplating retirement after decades of embodying universal bogeymen like Frankenstein’s Monster. Orlok’s world is one of artifice: foggy sets, exaggerated makeup, and melodramatic snarls designed to thrill audiences from a safer distance. His scenes brim with meta-commentary, as he screens clips from his past glories, including footage from Roger Corman’s The Terror, questioning whether such spectacles still hold power in a changing landscape.

Juxtaposed against this is the mundane descent of Bobby Williams, played with eerie restraint by Tim O’Kelly. A seemingly ordinary young insurance salesman and Vietnam veteran, Bobby meticulously plans a killing spree that begins with familial murders using his father’s arsenal of guns. The film’s opening sequence masterfully builds unease through domestic normalcy: Bobby loads rifles in his bedroom amid family chatter, his face betraying no emotion beyond mild dissatisfaction. This calculated banality sets Targets apart, portraying violence not as supernatural retribution but as a product of fractured psyche and easy access to firepower.

The narratives intersect at a drive-in theatre where Orlok premieres his final film. Bobby perches atop an oil tank overlooking the lot, picking off patrons in a sequence that blends the screen’s flickering horrors with real bloodshed. Bogdanovich employs split-screens and rapid cuts to mirror Bobby’s fragmented mind, while the audience remains oblivious, munching popcorn as bodies slump in their cars. This convergence symbolises the obsolescence of cinematic monsters; as Orlok laments, “Tomorrow they won’t even know why they’re frightened anymore,” underscoring how real killers render fictional ones quaint.

Key cast members amplify the film’s dual tones. Nancy Hsueh shines as Jenny, Orlok’s devoted assistant and translator, injecting warmth into the veteran’s isolation. James Brown, as the drive-in manager Desmond, provides grounded authority, negotiating with Orlok to boost attendance. Production designer Polly Platt, Bogdanovich’s then-wife, crafts contrasting visuals: Orlok’s gothic mansion evokes Universal Studios opulence, while Bobby’s suburban home pulses with sterile Americana, its cupboards stocked with death-dealing hardware.

Shadows of Reality: The Charles Whitman Shadow

Targets draws unsparingly from the Charles Whitman massacre of August 1, 1966, when the ex-Marine climbed the University of Texas tower and gunned down 16 people, wounding 31 more over 96 minutes. Bogdanovich, fresh from film criticism, wove this tragedy into Bobby’s character, amplifying national trauma still raw at release. Whitman’s brain tumour, revealed post-mortem, mirrored Bobby’s unexplained malaise, though the film resists easy psychologising, opting instead for chilling ambiguity. Bobby’s politeness during his murders—apologising to victims mid-act—echoes reports of Whitman’s calm demeanour, forcing viewers to confront the killer’s proximity to normalcy.

This real-world anchor elevates Targets beyond genre exercise. The Vietnam War loomed large, with Bobby’s veteran status hinting at societal scars without overt preaching. Firearm ubiquity in American homes becomes a subtle indictment; Bobby accesses an arsenal without hindrance, stockpiling ammunition like groceries. Critics have noted parallels to other 1960s atrocities, from the Zodiac Killer’s emergence to campus unrest, positioning the film as a barometer of eroding innocence.

Bogdanovich’s research permeated every frame. He studied newsreels of the tower shooting, replicating the sniper’s elevated vantage and random targeting. Sound design plays crucial here: muffled pops from Bobby’s high perch contrast Orlok’s booming voiceovers, symbolising distant yet inescapable threat. The film’s restraint—no gore splatter, minimal blood—amplifies dread through implication, presaging the cerebral slashers of the 1970s.

In analysing serial killer fear, Targets pioneered the “everyday monster” archetype. Unlike Dracula’s aristocratic menace or Wolf Man’s lycanthropic curse, Bobby embodies the banality Hannah Arendt termed the “banality of evil.” His motivation remains opaque, a void that terrifies more than any backstory. This vacuum invites projection: is it war trauma, consumer ennui, or innate depravity? The film leaves it unresolved, mirroring real investigations’ frustrations.

Cinematography and the Art of Ominous Restraint

Shot in stark black-and-white by László Kovács, Targets employs composition to heighten unease. Long lenses compress suburban spaces, trapping characters in geometric prisons—fences, doorframes, car roofs framing Bobby’s preparations like prison bars. Kovács, a Hungarian émigré, brought documentary grit, his handheld shots during the drive-in assault evoking cinéma vérité amid chaos.

Mise-en-scène dissects American idyll. Bobby’s family dinner unfolds under harsh fluorescents, smiles rigid as he excuses himself to slaughter them upstairs. Symbolism abounds: a stack of donuts left untouched amid carnage nods to gluttonous normalcy; Orlok’s cigar smoke curls like spectral warnings. Editing rhythms accelerate from languid setup to frenetic climax, cross-cutting between Orlok’s press conference and Bobby’s first shots.

Special effects, minimal by design, rely on practical ingenuity. The sniper sequence used reverse projection and miniatures for the oil tank perch, while Karloff’s frailty—real due to emphysema—lent authenticity to Orlok’s laboured gait. No prosthetics mar the human face of horror; instead, blank stares and mechanical reloads chill deepest.

Soundscape merits its own scrutiny. Distant gunfire mingles with drive-in dialogue, blurring reel and reality. Orlok’s monologue—”All those people running around, afraid of the dark… Your monsters are real”—pierces like prophecy, scored by sparse percussion that mimics heartbeats. This auditory layering prefigures films like Halloween, where ambient menace supplants orchestral swells.

Legacy: From Drive-In to Cultural Reckoning

Targets influenced a lineage of meta-horror and true-crime infusions. John Carpenter cited it for Assault on Precinct 13’s urban siege; Michael Haneke’s Funny Games echoed its detached violence. Remakes never materialised, but its DNA permeates Scream’s self-awareness and The Strangers’ home-invasion realism. Cult status grew via home video, cementing Bogdanovich’s reputation despite initial modest box office.

Production hurdles shaped its lean potency. Roger Corman greenlit after Bogdanovich pledged to splice in Karloff footage from The Terror, slashing budget to $117,000. Karloff, contracted for two weeks, delivered despite health woes, his contract stipulating no stairs—Bogdanovich built ramps accordingly. Censorship dodged: the MPAA rated it GP, praising its “social significance.”

Thematically, Targets interrogates fear’s evolution. Gothic horror externalised dread via visible deformities; serial killers internalise it, hiding in plain sight. Gender dynamics surface subtly: female characters like Jenny and Bobby’s mother offer fleeting resistance, underscoring vulnerability in patriarchal gun culture. Class undertones emerge—Orlok’s elite ennui versus Bobby’s working-class arsenal—hinting at stratified terrors.

Its prescience endures amid mass shootings. Viewers today recognise Bobby’s manifesto-like musings, his compulsion to “stack bodies” evoking manifestos from later perpetrators. Targets warns that cinema must adapt, lest real nightmares render it irrelevant—a lesson echoed in found-footage eras.

Director in the Spotlight

Peter Bogdanovich, born July 30, 1939, in Kingston, New York, to Serbian-Yugoslav immigrant parents, emerged as a polymath of American cinema. A child of privilege with early theatre exposure, he devoured classic films at the Museum of Modern Art, penning monographs on Alfred Hitchcock and Orson Welles by his twenties. Esquire profiles burnished his critic credentials before transitioning to directing; Targets marked his auspicious entry, produced under Roger Corman’s fast-and-cheap banner.

Bogdanovich’s career zenith arrived with The Last Picture Show (1971), a poignant small-town elegy earning eight Oscar nods, including Best Picture. Paper Moon (1973) followed, a Depression-era romp netting Tatum O’Neal the youngest Best Supporting Actress win. He championed New Hollywood, interviewing icons for his book The Killing of the Unicorn (1984), though personal scandals, including the murder of girlfriend Dorothy Stratten, tarnished his image.

Revivals punctuated slumps: Mask (1985) showcased his humanist touch; Texasville (1990) revisited Picture Show turf. Later works like The Cat’s Meow (2001) and She’s Funny That Way (2014) displayed wry sophistication. Documentaries such as Directed by John Ford (1971) and Who the Hell’s in It (2004) affirmed his historian zeal. Bogdanovich hosted TCM’s The Essentials, mentoring via podcasts until his death on January 11, 2022, from Parkinson’s complications.

Influences spanned Hawks, Ford, and Welles; his auterist lens prized narrative economy and star charisma. Filmography highlights: Targets (1968, debut thriller blending homage and horror); The Last Picture Show (1971, black-and-white masterpiece of youth’s end); What’s Up, Doc? (1972, screwball homage with Barbra Streisand); Paper Moon (1973, father-daughter con odyssey); Daisy Miller (1974, Henry James adaptation); At Long Last Love (1975, musical misfire); Nickelodeon (1976, Hollywood satire); Saint Jack (1979, Singapore exile drama); They All Laughed (1981, ensemble romance marred by tragedy); Mask (1985, Rocky Dennis biopic); Illegally Yours (1988, caper comedy); Texasville (1990, sequel); Noises Off (1992, farce); The Thing Called Love (1993, River Phoenix swan song); To Sir, with Love II (1996, TV); The Cat’s Meow (2001, Hearst scandal); Infamous (consultant, 2006); The Darjeeling Limited (actor, 2007); She’s Funny That Way (2014, screwball revival); The Great Buster: A Celebration of Silent Film (2018, documentary); The Other Side of the Wind completion (2018, Welles’ final film).

Actor in the Spotlight

Boris Karloff, born William Henry Pratt on November 23, 1887, in East Dulwich, England, to Anglo-Indian heritage, embodied horror’s grand patriarch. Educated at Uppingham School, he rejected consular ambitions for Canadian farm work, drifting into silent films by 1910. Bit parts in Hollywood led to Universal’s Frankenstein (1931), where makeup wizard Jack Pierce transformed him into the lumbering, bolt-necked icon, catapulting stardom at age 44.

Karloff’s baritone and pathos humanised monsters: the guilt-ridden Creature, The Mummy’s Imhotep, The Invisible Ray’s tormented scientist. He parodied his image in comedies like Arsenic and Old Lace (1944) and hosted TV’s Thriller (1960-1962), voicing narration with velveteen menace. Labour activism marked his politics; he unionised actors and supported causes post-McCarthyism. Health declined from spinal injury and emphysema, yet he soldiered on, voicing The Grinch in How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (1966).

Awards eluded him—Oscar nods never materialised—but lifetime honours included Hollywood Walk of Fame star (1960) and Saturn Award (1973, posthumous). Karloff died January 2, 1969, aged 81, from pneumonia, his Targets role a valedictory gem. Filmography spans 200+ credits: The Lost Patrol (1934, breakout); Bride of Frankenstein (1935, sequel pinnacle); The Body Snatcher (1945, Val Lewton gem with Lugosi); Isle of the Dead (1945, another Lewton); Bedlam (1946, asylum chiller); The Strange Door (1951, Dickensian); The Raven (1963, Corman-Poe comedy with Price); Comedy of Terrors (1963, ensemble hoot); Die, Monster, Die! (1965, Lovecraftian); Targets (1968, meta-masterpiece).

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