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That’s probably not an effective business plan in real life, but it works in the movie. Soon the strange plant (which Seymour has named "Audrey Jr.") is drawing crowds. People are coming to see Audrey Jr. and they’re bringing vast amounts of money with them. Everything seems to be going according to plan, which of course is right when suddenly they aren’t. The plant becomes ill, and nothing Seymour tries can rescue it. Mushnik again gives him a warning - save the plant and save your job. It’s as he sits up all night nursing the bizarro bloom that Seymour discovers what it needs to survive - human blood. Don’t ask how. He just does. You might think this is where the movie stops being funny, because up to this point it is in fact highly amusing. Things do get a little macabre, as you can imagine they do when you’re talking about a plant that dines on human flesh. But they also go from "highly amusing" to "mostly hilarious."

The remainder of the film has to do with Seymour’s attempts to reconcile the plant’s needs with his own sense of morality. And for the most part, it’s effective on many levels other than as humor. He feels obligated to provide for his nutball mother, and his sudden success has drawn Audrey to him. They’re the most boring, idiotic couple in Los Angeles but her fate is connected to his and he isn’t about to let her go. Add to this the fact that as it grows, the plant develops the ability to speak, and it turns out to be smarter than its master. It also has a sense of humor, which it uses to manipulate its bumbling caretaker into some highly depraved things. Seymour tries to resist but in addition to being incredibly stupid, he’s also accident prone - in a way that tends to end badly for others. This ends up being both a blessing and a curse, depending on how you look at it.

The movie is a creature of its time, shot (in under three days) and scored like a television show of the period. In fact, it’s kind of an amusing cross between an episode of The Twilight Zone and the Dick Van Dyke show, whose subject matter is just too disturbing for the small screen. Speaking of disturbing, Jack Nicholson appears in a small, relatively insignificant role. The most efficient description I can give of his performance is that I now believe him to be Crispin Glover’s father. There’s also an occasional narrative provided by an off screen police detective who is clearly meant to be a send up of Dragnet’s Joe Friday. It’s period humor, though, and the reference will be lost on most modern viewers, making it feel tacked on. Not only that, it weakens the film in the same way noir voice-overs usually do. They act as de facto spoilers, often allowing you to divine plot points in advance, depending on who’s speaking and what they say.

I hate to point out that this movie is "not for everyone," partially because nothing is for everyone, It just sounds stupid to say. But if you’re the kind of person who wouldn’t dream of watching a movie more than 120 days old, this film is not for you. If you don’t like black and white films, this is not for you. And if your pop culture radar only extends back two months, I’d suggest you avoid this one. But if you were that kind of person, you wouldn’t be one of my over half-dozen readers. So if you happen to dig this movie, check out other Corman classics like The Fall of the House of Usher (1960) and A Bucket of Blood (1959). Or perhaps The Intruder (1962) is more your taste, especially if you want to see William Shatner channel Archie Bunker. Trust me, you do. I’m telling you, once upon a time Admiral Kirk wasn’t half bad in front of the camera.

Like the musical version a quarter century later, The Little Shop of Horrors is largely a crowd pleaser. But this version is an altogether different beast than its descendant. It has a darker tone, a more sophisticated sense of humor and of course, no singing. And once you’ve seen it, the next time someone asks you if you’ve seen Little Shop of Horrors you can say “Yes! And I loved it!” And when they ask you what your favorite song was, you can proudly say: “Songs? What songs?” Every time you do, Roger Corman gets a pair of wings.

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