ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET THE KILLER, BORIS KARLOFF (1949)

By the time of their huge resurgence of success with Meet Frankenstein, Abbott and Costello were averaging roughly two movies a year, so after Mexican Hayride (a Cole Porter musical denuded of songs due to audience complaints that their films had too much music) they released another horror-edged comedy, though one less obvious than before. Instead of pitting them against three Universal monsters, this time their opponent was to be the studio’s greatest horror star.

Boris Karloff had shot to overnight stardom in his mid-forties with Frankenstein (1931) and since then had maintained a loyal and grateful relationship with the studio that made his name. In his early flush of fame, the studio’s marketing department had in fact shortened his to just ‘Karloff’ to take advantage of its slightly sinister association. Rather than see this as reductive and demeaning, ever the gentleman Karloff saw it as a rare honour bestowed usually on stellar luminaries like ‘Garbo’. However, there could be nothing but cynical positioning in a title like Abbott and Costello Meet the Killer, Boris Karloff (1949), which must hold a record for managing to mislead fans on three levels. Not only is Karloff not playing a murderer, or appearing under his stage name, but to top it off he isn’t even a main character, reduced instead to a small supporting part that was originally intended for a female character named Madam Switzer. The little Karloff can bring to his brief screen time does aid in edging a simple crime caper movie tenuously into the boys’ horror-comedy sub-series.

Once again, Charles Barton pacily directs a script written by Hugh Wedlock, Jr, Howard Snyder and with added gag polish by John Grant. Set in the Lost Caverns Resort Hotel, Bud plays the hotel’s cigar-chomping house detective Casey Edwards, cousin to Lou’s bumbling bellboy Freddie Phillips. The hotel plays host to an eminent criminal attorney Amos Strickland (a suitably egotistical, short-fused Nicholas Joy), poised to publish memoirs that could implicate a group of former clients who also non-coincidentally happen to be guests. At least he would if not found dead shortly after Freddie’s incompetent handling of him gets the poor schlub fired. On going to his room to apologise, Freddie discovers his dead body and becomes an immediate suspect. The rest of the film is his bid to clear his name helped by Casey whilst Strickland’s ex-clients try to cover their tracks by bumping him off.

The first to attempt Freddie’s murder is Lenore Aubert as Angela Gordon, channelling the same evilness of agenda and vampish charm she had in Meet Frankenstein. She has a femme fatale history of poisoning an ex-husband with champagne cocktails. Lou needs no initial incentive to fall for her though, prompting one of the movie’s best exchanges:

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Yes. It don’t go over so good with the boys”.

Freddie is gullible enough to be persuaded by Angela to write and sign a confession to Strickland’s murder. What he won’t do thankfully is drink the deadly cocktail.

Somehow our hero’s natural stupidity also saves his life when tangling with Karloff’s ‘Fake Swami from Brooklyn’. The role of Talpur is a breeze for the star (his Anglo-Indian ancestry adding a touch of authenticity to the romp); he gamely shows up in elegant silk and a bejewelled turban to serenely dispense a dark lulling mesmerism upon Freddie. This is possibly the funniest scene in the picture as we see, even under hypnosis, dimwit Freddie has enough survival instinct to thwart Talpur’s commands. “You’re going to commit suicide if it’s the last thing you do!” urges Karloff. Freddie sabotages the Swami’s efforts by bringing down a rigged-up hangman’s noose, and jumps backward into the room instead of throwing himself out of it. The creepy urgency of Karloff certainly adds a macabre frisson to the laughs.

The only other scene that earns The Killer its place as a genre hybrid movie is later on after the bodies of two Strickland associates, Mike Relia and secretary Milford (Vincent Renno and Morgan Farley) are found in various locations designed to point the finger at Freddie. He first of all disguises himself as a chambermaid to transport the bodies in a laundry cart, thus earning the amorous and unwelcome attention of employee Abernathy (Percy Helton). Bud and Lou then desperately fake a card game using the two corpses in an impromptu bridge foursome to throw Abernathy off the scent. The sight of the bodies drooping over the table manages a frisson or two within the farcical set-up as Abernathy offers lecherous assistance to the new ‘maid’ – (“You’ve got a stiff there”).

For the most part, this is a standard Abbott and Costello vehicle. No-one could accuse Lou of not giving his money’s worth, although his frantic energy feels forced at times compensating for often weak gags. This may have also been due to the lingering after-effects of his infant son’s tragic drowning in the family’s swimming pool five years before; he was no longer a man as light in temperament as he had been before the tragedy.

The stakes are made high enough by the constant pursuit of intrepid Inspector Wellman (a barking, hard-boiled turn from James Flavin), but there’s no denying this is a disappointing missed opportunity to build a stronger film around Karloff’s wasted marquee value boasted by the title. The climactic staging of a well-realised cavern set (with impressive depth of perspective by art directors Bernard Herzbrun and Richard H. Riedel) gives production value to Freddie’s tangling with the hooded murderer over an incriminating handkerchief, and yet it all plays out as functional mechanics. The final protracted drawing room exposition by Wellman revealing hotel manager Melton (Alan Mowbray) as the real murderer also kills off any momentum.