This sleazy British science fiction draws on the long history of American B horror, but is regenerated by its transfer to swinging London and the glorious stunt casting of Boris Karloff as the scientist. Yes, they used to call him mad. He invents a machine which allows him and his wife to live vicariously through Ian Ogilvy's decadent playboy.
There is a poignancy in seeing the elderly Karloff in such a familiar role, but fallen on hard times. Living in the squalor of a damp slum. But Catherine Lacey absolutely steals the film as the elderly wife who seeks to exploit the machine to satisfy her grotesque megalomania. Soon she has Ogilvy killing sexually available Bohemian girls.
Which makes it feel like satire on the prurient hypocrisy of the readers of British tabloids, getting their kicks from the perceived horror of the modern world. What could be more British!? The film looks like a tacky bootleg, with gaudy colour, cheap lighting setups and homemade effects, which adds to the guilty pleasure.
This heady rush of mod-psychedelia was the second of only three film made by Michael Reeves. It's an auspicious effort which overcomes the limitation of its meagre funds with imagination and a deep understanding of the genre. It's a weird acid trip, a cheapo head movie. It takes a tired old genre and gives it new life.