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
Bubba’s mom hides him in the scarecrow on their farm field, but the vigilante mob finds him and shoots him dead. And for nothing: Bubba saved the little girl’s life; ’twas a vicious dog to blame for her bloodiness. D’oh! Just desserts arrive as a scarecrow comes a-knockin’ for vengeance, one by one. You might say they get the short end of the straw. (Insert rimshot here.)
One year later, Jane is released from an asylum and moves into the old house where she and Frank used to meet. The blind landlord, Robert (Stanko Molnar), who has a crush on her, is glad she’s back until he starts hearing the sounds of passion issuing from her apartment as she calls out Frank’s name.
Needing money so child welfare can’t split him from his orphaned little brother, who likes to graffiti owls on their kitchen wall, Ty agrees, even though Skeet is involved. All goes according to plan until some asshole hobo has to fuck everything up, and, well, money corrupts, especially when we’re talking enough Benjamins to fund a Dillon vehicle. 
Drawn to Los Angeles to sell her life story to Phil Silvers’ troubled Warkoff Brothers Studios, she decides instead to go the independent route when she discovers that lover/Silvers’ lackey Adam West is an even bigger whore than she is. Naturally, in order to finance the film, the merry madam turns to her crew of pneumatic working girls, who bring in big profits and bigger comedic complications.