The Secret Night Caller: Psst—Mike Brady’s a Perv!

The Secret Night Caller begins atmospherically enough. A woman walks home alone at night, carrying a grocery bag. She picks up the pace when passing a creepy man who smiles at her and then seems to follow her into the building. Inside her apartment, she locks the door with a sigh of relief—and, seconds later, the phone rings.

Before there was Scream‘s iconic opening scene, in which a mystery caller terrorizes Drew Barrymore’s character, there was this, in a 1975 made-for-TV movie. The woman picks up the receiver and is greeted by that scourge of the pre-caller ID era, the obscene caller. We only hear her side of the conversation: “Hello? Oh, yes, this is Charlotte, who’s this? Well, I’m fine, thank you, but who’s this? I’m sorry, could you speak louder? I can’t hear you.”

Charlotte (Arlene Golonka, of The Andy Griffith Show and Mayberry R.F.D.) grows dismayed, then hysterical. “What?! What did you say?! Hey! Hey, who is this? Who are you? No, stop that! Don’t talk like that! Oh, stop it, stop it!” she shrieks, dropping the phone. That’s how my wife typically reacts to fundraising calls from her alma mater, so it didn’t alarm me too much, but Charlotte’s fright is meant to be contagious.

The next morning we meet Freddy Durant (Robert Reed). His fists clench as he makes breakfast for his family. His wife tries to converse with him but he’s preoccupied. During his commute he watches the world through narrowed eyes and says via voiceover, “You see, Doctor, I begin to think that we all may be mad. What, for instance, are they all thinking? All those people, alone in cars. What fantasies are being lived? What crimes are being dreamed of? Are they like mine?”

When a beautiful woman pulls up beside him at a stoplight, he imagines stepping into her convertible and having sex with her, right there in traffic. (Freddy, who we’ll learn is maladjusted when it comes to sex, finds this a far more troubling and exotic fantasy than it actually is.) Then he goes to work. A pervert like this could only work for the IRS, where he manages the estate and gift tax department, which counts Charlotte among its employees.

The next time she receives a filthy call, she bolts from her apartment in terror, injuring herself in an accident. The mild-mannered Mr. Durant awkwardly offers words of reassurance when he’s summoned to her bedside. After he leaves, she notes that his voice sounds familiar, but she’s scared and medicated and doesn’t trust herself.

Freddy’s secret life includes not only illicit phone calls and strip club visits, but, more recently, trips to a psychiatrist, Dr. Mayhill (Michael Constantine of Death Cruise). Mayhill can tell he’s hiding something and Freddy reluctantly shares his stoplight fantasy before adding, “I have other thoughts, which are disquieting and disgusting.” Like eating bugs, which he has an urge to do; he imagines himself as another, bigger bug. “It’s just appalling to me that I thought of it.”

After Charlotte’s accident, he tearfully unburdens himself to his doctor, who knows him as Dave. Recalling his first obscene phone call, he says, “I called this woman on business. And when she answered, I just, I just started making love to her. I couldn’t stop myself. She kept asking who I was. I just talked into her ear and into her body. I felt this kind of, well, exhilaration, but after it was over, God, I just felt appalled.”

The calls gave Freddy powerful feelings of control, which he enjoyed until Charlotte landed in the hospital. “God, I may as well have raped her,” he despairs. He breaks down, consumed by guilt and self-loathing, and declares, “If that’s what I am, I may as well end my life.” He assumes this realization marks a turning point and resolves to never make another wayward call. Dr. Mayhill knows better.

The first half of The Secret Night Caller is relatively amusing, especially the hamfistedness of Freddy’s calls leading to Charlotte physical injuries. The second half is just plain dark, as Freddy’s already fragile emotional state spirals out of control. His self-loathing and sexual frustration contribute to harrowing physical attacks on both the wife who rejects him and a stripper who shames him.

Chloe (Elaine Giftos), a favorite dancer who recognizes him as her obscene caller, verbally lacerates him during a blackmail attempt. “You know what you are? You’re a pervert, huh. A sickie. Hot stuff on the telephone, huh? What’s the matter, Davey Boy? Can’t do your number without a dial tone? Or is that just, you just don’t like girls? That’s it, huh? Big man in the phone booth, can’t cut it in the bedroom, huh?” 

In the hands of a less capable actor, The Secret Night Caller could descend hopelessly into camp. But Reed, who knew what it was like to privately struggle with a painful secret, gives a wonderfully sensitive, tightly controlled performance. He’s a little like the Jerry Blake character from the original Stepfather, without the darkly comic undertones. Freddy’s sobering self-awareness only deepens his torment.

In the “meh” category, Robert Presnell Jr.’s screenplay flirts with blaming Freddy’s psychopathology on his domineering wife and emasculating mother. Jan (Robin Mattson), his bright, supportive teenager daughter, is perhaps the only woman in his life with whom he shares an uncomplicated relationship. Ultimately, Freddy takes full responsibility for his behavior, and reveals his late father as another of his tormentors.

Hope Lange suffers nobly as wife Pat, whose coldness toward her husband gains new meaning when we learn he has assaulted her before. As Kitty, his status-obsessed mother, special guest star Sylvia Sidney (!) is an ice statue draped in pearls. Constantine is fine as Mayhill, who mostly looks rumpled and smokes and listens. Reed, thoughtful and empathetic, is the main attraction, and makes The Secret Night Caller well worth revisiting. Director Jerry Jameson returned to the torment-on-the-telephone well seven years later, in Hotline (starring Lynda Carter).

Streaming and DVD availability

The Secret Night Caller isn’t currently available on DVD or conventional streaming platforms. You can find an old VHS transfer on YouTube.

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… But wait, there’s more!

As an obscene call palate cleanser of sorts after an emotionally heavy movie, I recommend revisiting this classic, profanity-laden scene from Serial Mom.