The 1930s. Classy, elegant Adele (marvelously played with dignified resolve by Debbie Reynolds) and batty, frumpy Helen (the magnificent Shelley Winters going full-tilt wacko with her customary histrionic panache) are the mothers of two killers. They leave their seamy pasts in the Midwest behind and move to Hollywood to start their own dance school for aspiring kid starlets. Adele begins dating dashing millionaire Lincoln Palmer (the always fine Dennis Weaver). On the other hand, religious fanatic Helen soon sinks into despair and madness.
Director Curtis ("Night Tide," "Ruby") Harrington, working from a crafty script by Henry Farrell (who wrote the book "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" was based on and co-wrote the screenplay for "Hush ... Hush, Sweet Charlotte"), adeptly concocts a complex and compelling psychological horror thriller about guilt, fear, repression and religious fervor running dangerously amok. The super cast have a ball with their colorful roles: Michael MacLiammoir as a pompous elocution teacher, Agnes Moorehead as a stern fire-and-brimstone radio evangelist, Yvette Vickers as a snippy, overbearing mother of a bratty wannabe child star, Logan Ramsey as a snoopy detective, and Timothy Carey as a creepy bum. An elaborate talent recital set piece with Pamelyn Ferdin (the voice of Lucy in the "Peanuts" TV cartoon specials) serving as emcee and original "Friday the 13th" victim Robbi Morgan doing a wickedly bawdy dead-on Mae West impression qualifies as a definite highlight. David Raskin's spooky score, a fantastic scene with Reynolds performing an incredible tango at a posh restaurant, the flavorsome Depression-era period atmosphere, Lucien Ballard's handsome cinematography, and especially the startling macabre ending are all likewise on the money excellent and effective. MGM presents this terrific gem on a nifty DVD doublebill with "Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?;" both pictures are presented in crisp widescreen transfers along with their theatrical trailers.

Average viewers looking for any sense of internal coherence in a film should probably give this one a pass. It generates the same feeling as staring at a curious array of individual images that seem to have some relationship one to another, but never coalesce into a totality.
While this isolative approach to creating a kind of cinematic montage may appeal to a few students or critics steeped in the inside language of contemporary filmmaking, it is flatly irritating and condescending to us commoners who just fell off the haywagon. An overt avoidance of accessibility may be the intentional hallmark of auteurs like Kar-wai Wong and Tarantino, but to me it comes across as Andy Warhol warmed over. The only redeeming characteristic I find is in the production values, and them there just ain't going to cut it all by themselfs.
This is one of those productions in which you watch and listen and wait anxiously and in vain for some clever development of an idea or thought to sustain all the remarkable and beautiful individual scenes. Sorry. The calligraphic credits unexpectedly begin to roll just as your interest begins to stir. I get the same big yawn and let-down reading what I guess are very knowledgeable and thorough comments about this film that never lead to anything truly comprehensible. Ideas and images without some external context are not my idea of fun.
Call me a philistine roaming the streets of Hong Kong looking for a bowl of chop suey.