In the 1970s, the American TV movie of the week became a pop culture staple. These weren’t just filler; they were cultural events — mini-features aired during primetime or late-night, often tackling hot-button issues or indulging in genre thrills. Television’s golden age of horror rarely receives proper respect. Before streaming fragmented viewership, few delivered chills and appointment scares more reliably than Dan Curtis. The Dark Shadows creator dominated 70s horror TV with The Night Stalker and Trilogy of Terror (not to mention on film with Burnt Offerings) establishing himself as the genre’s reigning auteur.

Yet four made-for-TV movies Curtis produced for ABC’s The Wide World of Mystery (1973-1978) in 1974 have languished in obscurity until Kino Cult’s archaeological restoration. These videotape-shot thrillers—Shadow of Fear, The Invasion of Carol Enders, Come Die With Me, and Nightmare at 43 Hillcrest—all produced under tight budgets, on videotape, for 11:30 PM audiences seeking something strange before bed, represent time capsules of an extinct format. Their restoration and release reveal both the limitations and ambitions of Curtis’s television empire.

Each film has its own odd charm. Shadow of Fear stars Claude Akins as a disgraced cop investigating unsettling events tied to a troubled housewife (Anjanette Comer). The Invasion of Carol Enders is a psychic possession story — Meredith Baxter plays Carol, a woman attacked and hospitalized, only to awaken believing she’s someone else: Diana Bernard, recently killed in a suspicious car accident and seeking her killer. It’s a weird, lo-fi cousin to Dark Shadows, and the video texture only adds to its eerie soap-opera vibe.

Come Die With Me has George Maharis as a scheming playboy opposite Eileen Brennan’s (Clue) manipulative housekeeper, pushing their cat-and-mouse relationship into noir territory. And Nightmare at 43 Hillcrest subjects a wholesome family to bureaucratic injustice over false drug trafficking charges. It’s a paranoid drama with moments of slow-burn dread, if not outright horror.

Honestly? These films are middling quality at best. Shot on videotape with limited sets and overly theatrical performances, it feels like you’re watching a stage play broadcast from another timeline. Directors Herbert Kenwith, Burt Brinckerhoff, and Lela Swift work within severe constraints—studio sets designed for quick turnaround, simple lighting schemes, basic cinematography. Nothing feels cinematic or particularly special; these get the job done and little more.

The casts try valiantly. Christopher Connelly, Tony Russel, and John Karlen bring genre credentials, while Tom Selleck, Jim Hutton, and Mariette Hartley add star power. But overly broad performances weight the melodrama heavily, everything pitched for maximum effect and played to the back of your living room rather than naturalism.

Kino Cult’s double Blu-ray presentation manages expectations appropriately. The 1080i transfers (accurately interlaced as broadcast) show noticeable warping and articifacts related to tape anomalies. The image remains flat, grainless, and drab—exactly as shot. Yet it’s superior to VHS or broadcast versions, and to tell the truth, the meager quality lends these four titles a strange realism. DTS-HD Master 2.0 audio faithfully reproduces the dated but atmospheric scores with era-specific weaknesses intact.

Where this set really shines is in the extras and the supplements justify this release. House of Dan Curtis author Jeff Thompson’s introductions provide context, while commentaries from Amanda Reyes (author of Are You in the House Alone? A TV Movie Compendium – an essential read), Scott Skelton, Dan Budnik, Robert Kelly, and Heidi Honeycutt offer insights and trivia. Reyes particularly shines across two tracks, though some commentaries feel like animated IMDb entries—informative but lacking deeper analysis.

These films are forgettable curiosities, fascinating as artifacts of TV movie culture’s peak. They’re stiff, creaky, and occasionally baffling. Yet I still miss that format—suburban-set mysteries, families on the brink, whodunits solved before bedtime at a time when even modest TV horror had ambition, personality, and a point-of-view. Studios abandoned them for cheap game shows and talk shows with pithy celebrity hosts. While I appreciate Kino preserving four Curtis productions from Wide World of Mystery, I wish they were stronger examples of his work. Still, for nostalgia buffs and Curtis completists, this archival project succeeds admirably.