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THE
KILLER SHREWS The Killer Shrews is infamously known for the stunning, biologically correct special effects used to create the frightening pack of shrews….out of dogs. The canines appear to be collies with motley rugs, rat-tails and fierce, jagged teeth fastened on. Think what the Grinch does to Max to make him a reindeer and you’ve got an idea. The rug straps are visible on some shrews near the end. Though there are supposed to be 200-300 shrews surrounding the cast, there apparently wasn’t an abundance of shrew costumes, as several shrew attacks occur by a single shrew at a time. These canines aren’t the best animal actors to hit the screen. A wet shrew shakes himself off as a dog would (even the most naïve filmgoer is going to realize the shrew is a dog) in a scene that show’s Ray Kellogg’s style as a director: why bother to edit the scene out? When the shrews are shot in a group, jumping up on a fence, they look like the doggies want to play. The dogs make this otherwise typical ‘50s creature-out-of-control B-movie stand out as a particularly fun trash experience. The shrews are terrorizing an island of scientists who mutated the rodents by accident while looking for a key to overpopulation (hungry shrews will resort to cannibalism, thus providing an effective means of birth control welfare mothers should try). James Best plays dashing sea captain Thorne Sherman who delivers supplies to a house filled of stereotypes: the old Swedish grandfather-type, his daughter the Miss Universe type (played by 1957 Miss Universe Ingrid Goude), a simpering alcoholic, a Mexican man servant, and the expendable bookworm. Everyone except the manservant are scientists, all brilliant enough not to notice an oncoming hurricane or how to deal with 200-300 100-pound pissed off shrews. We’re told that Jerry, the simpering one, has let the mutant shrews out of their cages in a moment of “drunken stupidity.” But one shouldn’t single Jerry out, they’re all alcoholics. These scientists mix a mean martini. The second notable and fun thing about The Killer Shrews is the amazing amount of cocktail drinking that occurs in the less-than-24-hour time period of the film. “We are self-sufficient here,” old Swedish Dr. Craigis says, unintentionally in front of a well-stocked bar. Thorne has at least six stiff drinks and shows no sign of being buzzed, while Jerry the Simp gets drunk off his ass but shows no signs of being hung-over the next morning. The cast emotionally deals with the shrews by storming off to the bar to get a drink. The bar, by now a featured and colorful character, comes to a violent end when it’s pushed against a burrowing shrew in the wall. Former Miss Universe Goude, a real piece of work here, shows her acting range by playing Ann, a Swedish (this is supposed to make her hot) scientist without any accent. In a romantic scene, she inexplicably asks Thorne about her accent, as if there is a story about it or whether we’re supposed to pretend it’s there. Goude also walks with a hunch, which probably comes from all those modeling lessons with books on her head. When we meet Ann, she is ready to go on Thorne’s boat by wearing her finest business suit and pearls. She later says she’s a good sailor. Is that before or after she does the filing and faxing on the boat? She criticizes Thorne as being “disinterested,” yet the camera captures Goude frequently staring into space. Then, there’s the thrilling duck walk escape sequence. Who will get away? Who will be a shrew snack? Did that shrew just wag its tail? The Killer Shrews is a fun trash classic. Director Kellogg does a hilariously sloppy job with the cast: A piece of dialogue between Jerry and the manservant has unintentional homosexual connotations; Best, for lack of direction, stands with his arms folded during a long dialogue exchange. It’s a blast viewing a cast working with weak dialogue, weak direction, and questionable special effects. A great example of ‘50s monster movies made for the drive-in audience, a sadly forgotten audience today. -Zzilly Gutbuckets
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