Samuel Fuller’s Shock Corridor is an unconventional mystery unlike any other, and not just because it opens with a quote from that ancient playwright Euripides. Newspaper reporter Johnny Barrett (Peter Breck, The Crawling Hand) narrates the whacked-out, envelope-pushing drama, about his feigning a sexual fetish to enter mental hospital to solve a murder. It’s easier to do behind the door rather than peeking through the keyhole.

Johnny’s girlfriend, Cathy (a knockout and excellent Constance Towers, who reteamed with Fuller for 1964’s The Naked Kiss) is against the idea, but he sees infiltrating Ward B’s hall as the “magic highway to the Pulitzer Prize.” She’s also pretending in a way, spending her nights as a singing stripper, playing upon her audience’s lurid desires.

Inside the snake pit, Johnny has no shortage of suspects, because every patient is seriously unhinged, from the man who believes he’s a Confederate general (James Best, TV’s Dukes of Hazzard) to Trent (Hari Rhodes, Detroit 9000), who steals pillowcases and, despite being black, espouses white-supremacist rhetoric.

Predictable is one of the last adjectives anyone could affix to Shock Corridor — one moment, Johnny’s being attacked by women at dance therapy; another, Cathy taunts him sexually while appearing as a slumberland specter. This black-and-white exercise in abnormality about the abnormal is a fever-dream masterpiece, and its sterling reputation as a before-its-time classic more than deserved. —Rod Lott

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In Italy, a serial killer leaves a calling card alongside his victim’s corpses: vintage illustrations from a book of fairy tales. What a plot! A Plot of Fear, one might say. Our intrepid investigator is the horny Lomenzo (Michele Placido, The Divine Nymph), who learns that the dead have something in common: being founders of a wildlife organization called the Fauna Club, which collects endangered species and smokes a lot of hash, although not necessarily simultaneously.

The fur flies big-time after a cop discussing the case on live TV is shot in the head. Lomenzo gains an ally and a bed partner in Jeanne (Corinne Cléry, The Story of O), a pro whore who tells him of a Fauna Club shindig she recently attended, where rich men, Phyllis Diller-esque hookers and one chimpanzee got drunk, watched a pornographic cartoon, played an X-rated party game at the dinner table, then nearly fed a call girl to a tiger. But she died of fright first, the party pooper.

Directed by Mondo Cane creator Paolo Cavara, Plot of Fear is so narratively muddled, I didn’t initially realize the above flashback was a flashback, but I also didn’t care. I was too distracted by the plentiful nudity, pig carcasses, hammer attacks, Tom Skerritt’s haircut, and racist dialogue like, “You’re worse than a black man!”

Questionable lines prove to be a theme, with a cuckolded hubby reacting to pics of his cheating wife thusly: “Look at that ass! And her tits, they’re so slutty!” Better is this exchange between Lomenzo and a fellow cop while rifling through LPs at a late-night record shop:

Lomenzo: “Do you like classical music or not?”
Fellow Cop: “No.”
Lomenzo: “Just fuck off.”

Speaking of, Lomenzo and Jeanne engage in a sex scene with so much aggressive, wide-open French kissing, one wonders if their taste buds were forever wonky afterward. —Rod Lott

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Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Academy Award winner Ray Milland in one of his final features … giving the universal hand gesture for masturbation. Based loosely on a 1934 true crime in Australia, the Italian-made The Pyjama Girl Case is a methodical mystery cast in a quasi-giallo style by director/co-writer Flavio Mogherini, who puts his art and production design experience to fine use.

On the beach, a woman’s body is found charred, violated, shot and with her head bashed in. The uncharacteristic brutality of the case prompts retired inspector Thompson (Milland, Dial M for Murder) to come out of retirement on a volunteer basis to help local police sort this puzzler out.

Meanwhile, we meet Linda (the striking Dalila Di Lazzaro, Phenomena), whose sexual partners always hide her panties, and believe me, she has many — partners, that is. Despite being married, she’s still sleeping with past lovers, who include a physician sugar daddy and a lovely woman with a pair of yellow PJs.

Linda’s several conquests are poorly introduced, but not in a way that clouds the narrative. Besides, like a skilled police procedural should, the focus is on Milland, pursuing leads such as grains of white rice. Mogherini pulls off a near-masterful turn in the final third, but even if you see it coming, you’re bound to genuinely be disturbed by the public gawking at the body on display, and even more at Linda throwing all reason away in a moment of self-destruction. —Rod Lott

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Being the most pure mystery of the bunch, Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase is arguably the most enjoyable entry of the four-film franchise, even if the leads’ antics are entirely rote by now. The important thing is, they still amuse, and go out on a high note. It’s kind of a shame there weren’t more.

In this adventure, two sister spinsters announce plans to donate their estate to a children’s hospital. The catch is their father once upon a time designated they must live in it every night for 20 consecutive years, and now, they have roughly two weeks to go. When their chauffeur turns up dead, it’s obvious to us someone’s trying to scare them away by murdering the man and, thus, foil the old maids’ good intentions.

To the loony, incompetent authorities, however, led by Capt. Tweedy (Frank Orth, The Lost Weekend), it’s a long jump to a conclusion of suicide. Luckily, Nancy (Bonita Granville) and platonic pal Ted (Frankie Thomas, whose lower register suggests dropped testicles post-Nancy Drew … Trouble Shooter) appear on the crime scene to fiddle with pieces of evidence and plant a false one. Oh, kids!

When Nancy learns the twist — the one we get from the start because, oh, y’know, it’s in the title — she exclaims, “Boy, isn’t this a pancake!” And that sums up the clean-behind-the-ears appeal of this picture, strengthened by anachronistic plot devices as ice delivery and telegrams. At an hour long, Staircase is hardly taxing. To borrow another two dated exclamations that could sub as a review, “Swell!” and “Hot diggity!” —Rod Lott

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Nancy Drew’s third big-screen adventure gets under way when her lawyer father (John Litel) is alerted to come help Matt (Aldrich Bowker), a crabby old farmer accused of murdering a neighbor. Matt says the sheriff is “a gol darn liar.” Mr. Drew frames their sudden getaway as a farm vacation so Nancy won’t stick her snoopy nose in his gol darn business. She does anyway.

Coincidentally, vacationing there at the same time is Ted Nickerson (Frankie Thomas, TV’s Tom Corbett, Space Cadet), Nancy’s clumsy, platonic-for-now pal who quickly tires of her investigating nature: “Now, look, will ya cut the bubble-gum talk and give?” (I’m not sure what his problem is; he’s the one wearing a sweater with a hand-drawn sailboat on it, surrounded by random names like Butch Hogan, Darby McGraw, Popeye, Jimmy, Jiggs, Jeepers Creepers and Fanny W.)

I expected Nancy to get herself involved in crazy farm shenanigans; I didn’t expect to encounter one of the era’s cringing African-American dumb-goon stereotypes. Here, it’s in the form of Apollo (Willie Best, aka Sleep ‘n’ Eat, The Ghost Breakers), who tries to hide a hot roasted chicken up his shirt and pass off the pain with, “I guess I jes’ born jitterbug.” Almost as bad, he’s terrified of ghosts, which causes Apollo to burst through fences when Ted is accidentally covered in flour. Repeat: flour.

Racism aside, franchise director William Clemens has a knack for staging some lively set pieces that double as both action and physical comedy, from Nancy and Ted running from a live bull (caveat: via sped-up film) to trying to land a biplane after the pilot bails. Loop-de-loops ensue. As far as patience goes, Trouble Shooter is no trouble at all. —Rod Lott

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