Any guy who has consistently followed the counsel of his below-the-waist divining rod can tell a tale of psycho-chick survival, but few will be so harrowing as the cautionary narrative of Play Misty for Me (1971). A logical, reasonable, sane male perceives a bout of recreational sex as a diversion to be indulged for the sake of variety and passing pleasure. The scatterbrained, volatile, lunatic chick who shares this treat of entwined thighs goes away believing that a lifelong commitment has been struck, that soul has melded to soul. Imagine her psychotic distress when the man with whom she has formed this special bond decides to rekindle his relationship with a real-life girlfriend. Romance flicks have seldom made going home alone as attractive as in Play Misty for Me.