You just have to look at its credits to appreciate what a one-of-a-kind movie The Last of Sheila is. Co-written as a lark by legendary Broadway composer/lyricist Stephen Sondhiem and Psycho star Anthony Perkins, the script was directly inspired by the intricate parlor games they both enjoyed devising for their friends.

Beyond their famed intelligence and love of brainteasers, the two men also shared a gleeful fondness for bitchy gossip, which compelled them to cast their mystery with characters based on real-life Hollywood personalities, albeit just loosely enough to avoid lawsuits and inspire some fun guessing games (except in the case of Dyan Cannon’s character, who is so obviously Sue Mengers, you don’t even have to know who Sue Mengers is to figure it out).

In the movie, James Coburn plays a games-obsessed producer who has gathered a group of fellow industry folks (including Cannon, Richard Benjamin, James Mason, Raquel Welch, Joan Hackett and Ian McShane) for a weeklong trip on his private yacht. All of his guests have two things in common: They harbor a potentially embarrassing secret their host knows about, and they were all present at Coburn’s house the night his wife, the titular Sheila, died under mysterious circumstances.

To give away any more of the plot would spoil the fun, but it does say something about the confidence and chutzpah of Sondheim and Perkins that the solution to their cinematic puzzle can actually be found directly in the film’s title. As fun and entertaining as The Last of Sheila is, however, its uniqueness adds a touch of melancholy to its existence. Watching it, you can’t help but wonder what other wonderful games its two famous scribes might have allowed us to play had they decided to work together again. —Allan Mott

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Agatha Christie’s classic novel And Then There Were None has been adapted for the screen many times, but none more swingin’ than schlockmeister Harry Alan Towers’ 1965 production, Ten Little Indians. This version is inferior to the first and best, 1945’s And Then There Were None, directed by René Clair, but don’t let that dissuade you.

Christie’s amazingly influential premise is directly ported onto screen as 10 strangers — a doctor, a judge, an actress, a singer, etc. — are summoned to a weekend in the mountaintop mansion of one Mr. U.N. Owen, a host none of them know. They’re awaiting his arrival when a recording of his voice (a disembodied Christopher Lee) accuses each of them of having commited murder of an innocent. Their punishment is getting murdered in turn, as they’re trapped in the estate until Monday.

Not long after they notice the presence of the “Ten Little Indians” nursery rhyme all over the rooms, one of them dies, and in the exact manner as the rhyme’s first couplet. Just who is this Mr. Owen? Why is he doing this? And will they be able to find out before there are none of them left? You’ll have a ball being stumped.

Only in the ’60s would teen idol Fabian be cast, making some of the strangest facial expressions the screen wouldn’t see the likes of until Daniel Day-Lewis in My Left Foot. Only in the ’60s would the lead roles be given to featherweight actors like Hugh O’Brian and former Bond girl Shirley Eaton (who, however, disrobes twice). And only in the ’60s would it be given a William Castle-esque gimmick in the form of a “Whodunit Break,” a minute-long intermission during which a clock countdowns the seconds, shows you clues and invites you to figure out the solution beforehand. —Rod Lott

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Following a plague of murders committed by the titular beast, a rich man (Lionel Atwill) receives a note that fingers him as the monkey’s next victim, to be killed at midnight. He calls his niece, her fiancée and three bumbling detectives (The Ritz Brothers) to his mansion, which turns out to house a ton of secret passages, which the gorilla uses to terrify the houseguests (which include butler Bela Lugosi).

But director Allan Dwan’s The Gorilla is no horror film — rather, it’s Edgar Allan Poe’s “Murders at the Rue Morgue” mystery rejiggered as a screwball comedy. And the comedy is perfectly stupid, which helps make the movie perfectly enjoyable.

The Ritz Brothers are like a combination of The Marx Brothers, Abbott & Costello and … oh, I dunno, Sammy Petrillo and Duke Mitchell, just to even things out a bit. (Typical exchange: “How do you spell ‘gorilla’? Two Rs or two Ls?” “Gorilla. G-O … Gee! Oh! Gorilla!”)

Every old, dirt-cheap, 66-minute movie should have a killer monkey on the loose running through a hidden maze of corridors, bonking guys on the head. Yeah, I kinda loved it. —Rod Lott

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Years before Bob Clark did the same with Murder by Decree, director James Hill pitted Sherlock Holmes against Jack the Ripper in A Study in Terror, a more-than-servicable entry in Holmes pastiche cinema. Strange how it was promoted with a campaign comparing it to TV’s campy Batman, because the master detective is neither a superhero, nor is this film campy.

It is, however, surprisingly bloody for its time. And pretty good, although slow by today’s rough-and-tumble standards. In his lone appearance as Holmes, John Neville does a terrific job, almost as if he knew this was his one shot; Donald Houston is his Watson, and Robert Morley and Judi Dench are among the supporting players.

Plot? We’ve pretty much already said it. Like From Hell, it’s all about the Ripper ripping up — or stabbing, to be precise — London’s prostitutes. Here, their cups runneth over their corsets, and they’ll all pretty hot. Not so much once they get a knife through the neck, although some people are into that sort of thing.

Producer Herman Cohen cuts some corners, but not when it comes to splashing on ever-vibrant color. The game is afoot … and fun! —Rod Lott

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Passengers plays like a mix of The Sixth Sense, Fearless (the airplane one, not the throat-kicking one) and all the bluish Crayons in the big box with the built-in sharpener. After a commercial jet crashes, grief counselor Claire (Anne Hathaway) is called in to talk to the passengers — hence the title!

They seem to differ on whether there was an explosion and other details. They also seem to disappear one by one, which may have something to do with the shadowy man who stalks them and appears outside the window. But, hey, what’s with the looniest of the bunch, this Eric fellow (Patrick Wilson)? He acts like he just stubbed his toe, not survived the opening of Lost!

Rodrigo García directs with a gloomy crispness that makes all of Canada look like an Architectural Digest spread, but the limp screenplay by Ronnie Christensen jumps from drama to mystery to romance to “how much longer does this have?” It’s not a thriller, as it’s generally classified.

The film is yet another that introduces a lazy twist ending, presented so shoddily it holds no surprise. García doesn’t so much build up to it as he does stumble into it. The actors are passable, but why does Hathaway always look like she just drank cherry Kool-Aid? And is it in Wilson’s contract to show his bare ass in every movie? —Rod Lott

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