On the night of a full moon, poor Arlene is murdered. One of her socks is missing from the scene, proving we live in such a Mundo Depravados — that is, depraved world. Need further proof? Before the crime photographer snaps his pic, Arlene’s dress is lowered to bare a nipple. Say “cheese,” ya hot corpse!

Then our nonsensical, Naked City-wannabe narration kicks in: “Yes, this is your city. It has more than a million eyes. … But tonight, all these eyes are blind. They listen, but they do not hear. They touch, but they do not feel.” Whatever. All viewers need to know is that a killer of lovely ladies is on the loose; all of his victims belong to the Temple of Beauty Health Club; and everyone refers to him as “the sex monster.”

The good news is that two police detectives (“comedy cops” Johnnie Decker and Larry Reed, reunited from Al Adamson’s Psycho a Go-Go) are on the case. The bad news is that the two police detectives exhibit as much horndoggedness as the film’s multiple Peeping Toms, so of course they’re eager to partner with Tango, a stripper pal of Arlene played by real-life stripper Tempest Storm, whose pendulous breasts keep Mundo Depravados from being completely inert. They cannot distract, however, from her emotionless line readings.

Who would give her such a plum role? Singing cowboy Herb Jeffries, in his one and only attempt at writing and directing. He was married to Storm at the time — but just barely, as their union dissolved the year of Mundo Depravados’ release. Semi-sleazy for its time, the movie plays rather static today, peekaboo nudity and all. —Rod Lott

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If “giallo” could be translated to Español, the term applies to 7 Murders for Scotland Yard, a Spanish-language film set in London, but primarily shot in Italy — home of the violent whodunits whose formula director José Luis Madrid wishes to replicate.

His star is Paul Naschy (who co-wrote the screenplay) as Pedro, a former circus acrobat now saddled with a limp, a drinking problem, abject poverty and a girlfriend who makes her living on her back. No sooner do we meet her than she becomes the latest prostitute to be murdered by an out-of-retirement Jack the Ripper, or perhaps merely a fan of the legendary serial killer. Either way, each lady has a vital organ removed from her newly expired body, and Pedro is unfairly pegged by police as their prime suspect.

The mystery as obvious as Naschy is mutton-chopped and barrel-chested; even viewers paying only half-attention will finger the culprit correctly. Of course, in movies like these, “who” takes second (or third) chair to “how,” and Madrid stages the Ripper’s stabbings up-close. The penetration of the blades into pink latex skin likely was more convincing in its day; the red stuff spills regardless.

No matter the vehicle, Naschy is fun to watch. I love that the slightly lumpy man was unafraid to show off that he was not in tiptop shape; it gives him more empathy than already comes built-in. Matching his groovy duds is the prolific Piero Piccioni’s music score, driven into the ground. Finally, while on the subject of driving, the exposition-heavy ending concludes with an injured character in the backseat attempting to deliver a joke: “Stop at the next hospital, Tom … because I don’t want to be Jack the Ripper’s last victim!” ¡Ja-ja! —Rod Lott

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John Willard’s classic mystery in the vein of Agatha Christie, The Cat and the Canary, has been adapted for the movies many times, dating back to the silent era. The 1978 version represents the most recent of tellings, as well as the lone film for director Radley Metzger (The Lickerish Quartet) since his 1961 debut not to wade in the big-people pool of erotica.

In 1934, on a dark and stormy night, a handful of distant relatives gathers at Glencliffe Manor for the reading of the will of patriarch Cyrus West (Wilfrid Hyde-White, The Third Man). Speaking via newfangled reels of film, Mr. West begins by berating them, “You’re all a bunch of bastards,” then reveals the sole heir of his fortune. There’s one caveat: The gang will regroup in 12 hours to learn the identity of the runner-up, if West’s first choice should be killed or found insane.

The good news for Annabelle West (Carol Lynley, Bunny Lake Is Missing): She’s named the sole heir. The bad news for Annabelle West: It’s highly likely she’ll be killed or found insane within the next 12 hours, what with a homicidal maniac on the loose who thinks he’s a cat. This murderer skulks about the old, dark house through its secret passageways and trick doors, looking for a torso to rip open with his claws.

Similar to Mary Roberts Rinehart’s The Bat, another oft-filmed stage whodunit, the PG-rated The Cat and the Canary seems to be an odd choice for Metzger, but he embraces the challenge and all its baroque dressings. Purposely fuzzy at the edges, the picture is buttoned-up and beautiful, and contains notes of comedy and romance to balance out any horror. The cast is terrific, too, including Olivia Hussey (Black Christmas), Michael Callan (Mysterious Island) and, speaking of Cat, Pussy Galore herself: Goldfinger girl Honor Blackman, who livens up the party as a tart-tongued lesbian. —Rod Lott

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Who else but a black-gloved killer could provide the menace for a giallo? (That’s rhetorical.) In Seven Blood-Stained Orchids, the staple of such Italian films murders lovely women, leaving them half-naked and clutching an amulet shaped like a crescent. The press dub him “the Half-Moon Maniac,” and among his victims are a street prostitute, an abstract artist and a newlywed in a train.

The latter, Giulia (Uschi Glas, The Sinister Monk), survives, but the cops and her metrosexual fashion-designer husband, Mario (Antonio Sabato, Grand Prix), stage a funeral to give them the upper hand, as well as protect her. Mario and Giulia whisk away on their honeymoon, but instead of putting their parts against one another where they belong, they stick their noses where they don’t, investigating leads in hopes of uncovering the killer’s identity before he kills again.

Or at least before he kills too many times again, as the man is quite prolific.

Once revealed, the motive for his madness strikes one as underwhelming, but it’s the getting there that counts, and Seven Blood-Stained Orchids is enjoyable up until those final few minutes. It bursts with great pedigree among Italian cult cinema: Umberto Lenzi (Spasmo) directs and co-writes with Roberto Gianviti (Don’t Torture a Duckling), based upon an Edgar Wallace novel; Riz Ortolani provides a superb, groove-laden score; and standing out among the eye candy is the gorgeous Marisa Mell (Danger: Diabolik). —Rod Lott

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The fourth of Universal Pictures’ six-film Inner Sanctum Mystery series, The Frozen Ghost stars a lean Lon Chaney Jr. as mentalist Gregor the Great. He puts on bravura stage shows in which he hypnotizes his assistant/fiancée, Maura (Evelyn Ankers, reuniting with Chaney after The Wolf Man), into being able to read the thoughts and Social Security numbers of audience members.

One clearly soused skeptic thinks it’s a whole lotta phooey, so Gregor invites him onstage. Unfortunately, the drunk dies while under Gregor’s trance. Although doctors dub it a case of natural causes, Gregor believes he killed the guy with his eyes, so he breaks his engagement and wallows in guilt.

He hopes to begin life anew at a wax museum, of all places, but the beware-the-stare problem rises again. “Tragedy is determined to follow me wherever I go,” bemoans poor Gregor. As with all the hourlong Inner Sanctum pictures, what seems supernatural is easily explained by the unremarkable end.

While the museum boasts likenesses of Cleopatra, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Atilla the Hun, Lady Macbeth and the head of Marie Antoinette, the setting is not used to its full potential. Don’t expect the creepiness of 1933’s Mystery of the Wax Museum. Also, don’t expect a ghost — frozen, thawed, room-temp or otherwise. —Rod Lott

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