⭐️⭐️1/2
An advice columnist receives troubling letters consisting of abuse and murder threats. That’s never good. Worse, the group therapy sessions she attends are running into the little problem of the female members getting themselves murdered. Who is to blame? Is it the victims? Yes, but only because they decided to join a group therapy session run by Klaus Kinski. I mean, what did you expect? Ol’ creepy Klaus is Doctor Pieter Fales and even if he ain’t a murderer, he still has no issue banging his patients. That’s gross… even for Klaus Kinski. Columnist Julie is assured by all the men in her life that the notes she’s been receiving are most likely a hoax and have nothing to do with her dwindling group of therapy seekers. We know that’s bullshit and Julie eventually ignores the idiots she’s surrounded by and realizes there’s a connection. But who is the killer? Is it the most obvious choice? The brooding lunatic running her therapy group? I mean, it’s Klaus Kinski. Is it her ex husband? He is not Klaus Kinski but maybe that’s the perfect cover. Is it the doctor’s daughter? She’s pretty pissed at Julie for boning her papa because there’s definitely something weird going on between dad and daughter. That’s a whole other can of ewwwwww. Perhaps it’s the weirdo building maintenance man (also a member of the therapy group). He may not be Klaus Kinski but his name is Gilbert (he’s also played by national treasure Christopher Lloyd) and that just screams sexual psychopath… the named not the being played by national treasure Christopher Lloyd. Parents, don’t name your son Gilbert. I have a feeling Julie wouldn’t need therapy if she just stopped surrounding herself with mentally ill folks. She needs to get some sort of red flag detector. Victim blaming aside, Schizoid exists in a world where everyone is mentally fucked. The people that should be helping cannot be trusted and the people that are in danger are seemingly hardwired to make questionable decisions… I guess the filmmakers are the real problem. Stupidity mingles with scissor murders and everyone is a suspect and those that aren’t end up a pile of dead flesh. You may also say to yourself: “Sure. They’re suspicious but none of that sounds like schizophrenia.” Well, you’re right and also, shut up. Richard Herd shows up as a “homocide” detective and there’s plenty of unappealing boobs on display. The cast makes this one and the violence may be a bit lacking for this vintage of stabby thrills (plays like an American giallo without the artsy flourishes) but it’s at least worth a watch for the batch of lunatics in front of the camera and Kinski’s awful/alien performance.
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