“I just killed my wife and my mother. I know they’ll get me. But before that many more will die…”
As algorithms force-feed audiences videos of war, carnage, and destruction—sandwiched between puppies, pranks, and recipes—it’s easy to understand why some people break mentally. The idea of an ordinary person snapping and committing unspeakable violence has become as ubiquitous as mattress sales on Presidents Day. These violent acts dominate the news cycle, with deep dives into perpetrators’ histories searching for crumbs that might explain their horrors. But what if there weren’t any crumbs? What if someone committed acts of terror just… because? While such questions feel disturbingly relevant today, they might seem out of place in 1960s America. And yet Peter Bogdanovich’s Targets asked them anyway.
Released in 1968, Targets marked Bogdanovich’s theatrical directorial debut and wove together two contrasting narratives. The first follows Byron Orlok (Boris Karloff), an aging horror icon born of the studio system, as he contemplates retirement. Orlok feels out of place in a modern world where young audiences are no longer frightened by old-fashioned horror, remarking that nothing could scare them as much as what they see on the nightly news. The second narrative focuses on Bobby Thompson (Tim O’Kelly), a clean-cut young man whose life seems lifted straight from The Andy Griffith Show. Bobby and his wife live in his parents’ home, both work and contribute to society, and spend their evenings enjoying frozen dinners in front of the television. But beneath this façade of postwar normalcy lurks something dark. Unable to escape intrusive thoughts and ignored by his family when he tries to voice them, Bobby succumbs to the darkness and begins a mass killing spree.
The film’s climax unfolds at a drive-in theater during a special screening of Orlok’s The Terror. Without spoiling the ending, Targets culminates in a confrontation between a traditional on-screen monster and the next generation of horror: a banal, nihilistic mass murderer. Orlok comes to realize that he has been afraid of the youth—not the other way around.
Viewed today, Targets feels eerily contemporary. Its depiction of random mass violence resembles an episode of Black Mirror more than it does The Last Picture Show. The epidemic of mass shootings often feels like a modern phenomenon, yet Targets reveals that it has long been part of the American landscape. Bobby’s character was loosely inspired by Charles Whitman, the man responsible for the 1966 University of Texas tower shooting. The film premiered in August 1968, just four months after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and two months after the murder of Robert F. Kennedy. That summer saw intense political and social upheaval in the United States: protests, antiwar demonstrations, and civil rights marches filled the streets. Though Targets received critical praise, it flopped at the box office—perhaps because audiences, split between unrest and mourning, weren’t ready to confront its subject matter. Over time, the film has been reassessed and now appears regularly on “must see” lists. Many consider it one of Bogdanovich’s finest works.
The film’s technical choices also contribute to its modern feel. Bogdanovich employs long tracking shots that follow Bobby as he drifts through his home before and after murdering his family. While not revolutionary for the time, these shots now feel prescient, anticipating a contemporary trend. Today, entire projects are marketed around “single-take” episodes or films—consider The Bear’s infamous “Review” episode or features like 1917. Unlike many modern examples, which can feel more like stylistic flexes, Bogdanovich’s long takes serve a chilling purpose. They heighten the tension of mundane domestic spaces, trapping viewers in Bobby’s world as he loads his rifle, kisses his wife goodbye, and embarks on his spree. It’s the banality that’s horrifying—a stillness that mirrors the quiet scroll of our news feeds between memes and massacres.
Byron Orlok warned that audiences had grown too fearful of real‑world horror for make‑believe monsters to terrify them. The film’s power lies in that truth—it understood before its time that the next great horror wouldn’t be fictional at all, but the ordinary man turned nihilistic killer. Today, this is no longer speculative fiction but lived reality. Targets remains unsettlingly relevant not because its horrors feel dated, but because society continues to writhe under the same forces it exposed nearly sixty years ago. From the quiet dread of suburban life to morally complex assassinations like Mangione’s, American culture remains haunted by Bogdanovich’s question: Why? When violence erupts seemingly “just because,” it reveals how fragile the veneer of normalcy truly is.
In 1968, Targets revealed the monster next door. In 2025, its legacy compels viewers and society to ask tougher questions: How can the familiar—our homes, workplaces, public spaces—be rendered sites of terror? And what responsibility do we bear for preventing the collapse from quiet desperation into violent destruction? As long as the cycle of mass violence continues—and history shows it will—Targets will feel neither retro nor safe. It’s a warning we can’t afford to ignore.
