Film Review: Targets (1968)

Roger Corman, often hailed as the “King of B-movies,” cemented his legacy not merely through his prolific output of low-budget genre films but through his unparalleled ability to identify, nurture, and elevate emerging talent. Among the luminaries who cut their teeth under his mentorship was Peter Bogdanovich, a filmmaker whose sharp critical eye and deep reverence for cinema history would later define the New Hollywood era. Corman’s 1968 production Targets, Bogdanovich’s directorial debut, stands as a testament to this symbiotic relationship. Far from a typical exploitation flick, the film is a daring fusion of genre conventions and social critique, blending the twilight of classic Hollywood horror with the harrowing realities of modern violence. Its ambition and execution not only earned it critical acclaim but also marked Bogdanovich as a director of extraordinary promise, setting the stage for his celebrated career.

The film’s narrative unfolds across two seemingly disparate storylines that converge in a visceral, explosive climax. The first follows Boris Karloff as Byron Orlok, a once-celebrated actor whose career as a screen villain has been eclipsed by the brutal realities of contemporary life. Haunted by the irrelevance of his art in a world where violence is no longer confined to fictional monsters, Orlok plans to retire to England. Yet, at the insistence of young director, Sammy Michaels (played by Bogdanovich himself), he reluctantly agrees to participate in a promotional screening of his final horror film at a drive-in theatre in Reseda, Los Angeles. This subplot serves as a poignant elegy for the fading grandeur of classical Hollywood, with Karloff’s weary performance embodying the quiet despair of an artist grappling with obsolescence.

The second storyline introduces Bobby Thompson (Tim O’Kelly), a seemingly ordinary suburbanite and Vietnam War veteran whose mundane life masks a growing obsession with firearms. One fateful day, Thompson snaps, executing his family and a random man before embarking on a sniper rampage. His path leads him to the very drive-in where Orlok’s film is screening, transforming the audience into unwitting targets. Here, Bogdanovich juxtaposes the artificiality of on-screen horror with the chilling banality of real-world violence. Thompson’s motiveless brutality—a hallmark of the era’s infamous mass shootings—reflects the existential dread simmering beneath America’s postwar complacency.

Bogdanovich’s transition from film critic to director was anything but assured. Targets emerged from a tightrope walk between creative ambition and logistical constraints: Corman’s promise of support hinged on Karloff’s availability for only two days of shooting. Collaborating with his then-wife Polly Platt, Bogdanovich devised a screenplay that honed in on the interplay between art and reality, drawing inspiration from two real-life atrocities. The 1965 Long Beach highway shootings, which left four dead, and the 1966 University of Texas tower massacre, perpetrated by Charles Whitman, provided the blueprint for Thompson’s nihilistic violence. These events, marked by their randomness and public horror, became the film’s moral fulcrum, challenging audiences to confront the dissonance between cinematic spectacle and lived trauma.

Despite its shoestring budget, Targets reveals Bogdanovich’s precocious command of form and tone. Shot in a gritty, documentary-like style—particularly during the highway sequences, which were filmed guerrilla-style—the film balances the elegiac with the visceral. The director’s reverence for classic Hollywood shines through in Orlok’s scenes, which echo the stylized performances of Universal’s horror icons. Yet the film’s true power lies in its tonal duality: the melancholic decay of Orlok’s career mirrors the grotesque immediacy of Thompson’s spree. While the narrative occasionally strains under the weight of its dual focus, Bogdanovich largely succeeds in weaving these threads into a cohesive, unsettling whole.

Karloff’s performance is the film’s emotional linchpin. Though ailing during production, he imbues Orlok with a weary gravitas, particularly in the haunting recitation of Somerset Maugham’s Encounter in Samara, a monologue that bridges the gap between theatrical artifice and raw human vulnerability. His presence, both iconic and fragile, anchors the film’s meditation on legacy and mortality. Conversely, O’Kelly’s portrayal of Thompson is chilling in its detachment, capturing the emptiness at the heart of senseless violence—a quality that would later define screen depictions of mass shooters.

The film’s shortcomings lie in its climax, where the symbolic confrontation between Orlok and Thompson feels both overly contrived and tonally discordant. As Thompson’s rampage reaches the drive-in, the director stages a meta-commentary on horror’s power, with Orlok’s on-screen villainy momentarily overshadowing the real violence unfolding before the audience. While thematically resonant, this moment risks undercutting the visceral impact of Thompson’s actions, opting instead for a narrative neatness that contrasts sharply with the chaos of its inspirations. The real-life shootings Bogdanovich referenced ended in abrupt, unresolved tragedy; the film’s tidy resolution, though intellectually coherent, leaves a faint whiff of artificiality.

Released in 1968, Targets arrived amid a crescendo of national trauma. The assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, coupled with the escalating Vietnam War, had left America reeling. Yet audiences, weary of violence both on-screen and off, largely shunned the film. Critics, however, lauded its unflinching critique of a society steeped in violence, praising its prescience in addressing themes that would dominate discourse decades later, particularly gun control. Over time, the film’s reputation has grown, cementing its status as a bridge between B-movie craftsmanship and the auteur-driven New Hollywood movement.

Beyond its artistic merits, Targets marked a turning point in Bogdanovich’s career. The film’s critical success caught the attention of Paramount’s Robert Evans, who acquired distribution rights and signed Bogdanovich to a seven-picture deal. This pact launched him into the stratosphere of New Hollywood, paving the way for masterpieces like The Last Picture Show (1971) and Paper Moon (1973). In this sense, Targets is not merely a debut but a catalyst—a film that proved Bogdanovich’s ability to transcend genre boundaries and marry personal vision with commercial viability.

In hindsight, Targets remains a strikingly modern work, its exploration of violence’s banality and art’s impotence feeling eerily relevant in an era still grappling with mass shootings and cultural disintegration. While its flaws are minor, its achievements are monumental: a low-budget film that defies its modest origins through audacious ambition, technical precision, and emotional depth. Corman’s faith in Bogdanovich paid off handsomely, but it was the latter’s vision—a fusion of nostalgia and critique, of horror and humanity—that elevated Targets from a minor curio to a landmark of American cinema. It stands as a reminder that even within the confines of B-movie budgets and schedules, true artistry can find its voice.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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