In a film in which the audience buys its tickets knowing who will play the title role, what happens when you don’t have him enter the frame until a solid hour has passed? How does the focus shift from the horrific villain to the horror felt by his victims? Richard Fleischer’s The Boston Strangler (1968) isn’t a faithful retelling of Albert DeSalvo’s crimes or an explanation of his compulsion: he’s not Raskolnikov or Buffalo Bill. Instead, the film masterfully involves its viewers in the procedure of the hunt before throwing them into what feels like a separate one-act play, a conclusion in which nothing is concluded.
Gerold Frank’s The Boston Strangler was the basis for the film: you can find the book here.
Incredible bumper music by John Deley.
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