Why ‘Targets’ Is the Underrated Masterpiece That Cements Boris Karloff’s Legacy

When you think of Boris Karloff, the first image that usually pops up is the towering, silent horror icon from the early 1930s—think Frankenstein’s monster, the Mummy, the unseen menace lurking in shadowy corners. Yet, far beyond those classic monster roles, Karloff delivered a performance in 1968 that feels almost prophetic, almost…self‑referential. That performance belongs to Peter Bogdanovich’s low‑budget thriller Targets, a film that, while modest in scope, manages to encapsulate the twilight of an era and, surprisingly, the very heartbeat of horror cinema.

At first glance, Targets looks like any other B‑movie of its time: a split‑screen narrative that follows an aging horror star (played by Karloff himself) and a modern‑day sniper (Bobby… Rash). The juxtaposition is intentional, of course, and it’s the key to the film’s quiet brilliance. Instead of simply pitting monster versus gunman, Bogdanovich invites us to watch two very different kinds of terror collide—the ancient, theatrical fright of the silver screen and the cold, real‑world dread of a gunman hunting his own audience.

What makes Karloff’s turn in Targets so compelling is its raw, unglamorous honesty. He’s not playing a monster here; he’s playing himself, an aging legend who’s aware that the world has moved on. In a scene that’s become almost legendary among cinephiles, Karloff stands on a deserted stage, gazing out at a crowd that will never be there. He delivers a simple line—"I’m too old for this…"—and the words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of decades spent haunting us from behind a mask. It’s a moment that feels both melancholy and oddly triumphant, as if Karloff is whispering a secret to anyone willing to listen.

And then there’s the famous “flashlight” sequence, where the camera follows the beleaguered actress (Bette Davis’ niece, Martha Hyer, playing a budding actress) as she walks down a dark hallway, flashlight trembling in her hand. The tension is palpable not because of jump scares, but because we, the audience, are acutely aware that Karloff’s character—who has spent a lifetime conjuring fear—cannot protect her from the real‑world menace prowling outside. The scene is a masterclass in using silence, in letting shadows speak louder than any scream.

It’s easy to dismiss Targets as just another low‑budget flick, but the film’s production history tells a different story. Bogdanovich, fresh off his documentary work, approached the project with a reverence for the old guard and a curiosity about the new. He cast Karloff not for star power but because he needed that authentic, weathered gravitas. The director famously let Karloff improvise much of his dialogue, trusting the legend’s instincts. The result is a performance that feels…unrehearsed, almost like Karloff is recalling memories from his own past rather than acting.

Critics at the time were divided. Some praised the film’s daring meta‑commentary; others called it an indulgent tribute that would only appeal to horror purists. Over the years, however, a consensus has emerged: Targets isn’t just a tribute—it’s a requiem. It acknowledges that the days of studio‑backed monster movies are fading, but it also hands the torch to a new generation of filmmakers who will find terror in different places.

For anyone who’s only seen Karloff in black‑and‑white Frankenstein makeup, watching Targets is an eye‑opener. It reveals a man who could, in his seventies, still command a screen with the slightest flicker of expression. It shows a performer who understood that horror isn’t just about monsters; it’s about the dread that lingers after the lights go out. And perhaps most importantly, it reminds us that even legends age, and there’s a certain beauty in watching them confront that reality.

So, if you’re compiling a list of Boris Karloff’s greatest works, you might be tempted to put his early Universal classics front‑and‑center. But give Targets a slot at the top. It’s not just a film about a sniper and an aging horror star—it’s a conversation between two eras, a meditation on the nature of fear, and, above all, a fitting swan song for a man who defined horror for an entire generation.