John McNaughton's Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer

It's a scene written with tremendous economy and chilling restraint, as Becky offers her own confessions of a life as a go-go dancer who married a no good husband that wound up in the joint, or an abusive father that would visit her at night and hit her if she fought back. She uses these memories to allow for questions, and asks Henry why he killed his mother. At alternate points in the film, he claims to have shot, stabbed and bludgeoned her to death.

Michael Rooker performs the monologue with dead eyes and barely concealed anger and disgust. His daddy was a drunk and his mother was a wh*re. Sometimes she'd make him stand in the room and wear a dress while she did it. Again, McNaughton keeps his camera steady and doesn't rely on dramatic tricks, only matter of fact filmmaking allowing us to study this serial killer, and perhaps even pity him a little if we even believe all the facts of his disturbing tale.

The Murders

Shot without glorification or suspense, Henry's murders are documented without judgment. His crimes are not given the catharsis of gore or the pleasure of coming up with a good scheme, since they are hastily thrown together, messy, ugly, stupid and, from Henry's eyes, banal. McNaughton and Fire were trying to avoid the slasher movie presentation which doesn't present true depictions of violence or death.

It's not a gory film, but it's disturbing because of Henry's (and, consequently, the camera's) zero empathy toward his victims. It's not the easiest perspective to sit through, a universe without morals or justice. We continue to watch the bleak proceedings out of sheer fascination for the subject matter, which was no doubt carefully researched and accurate. There's always the desire to try to understand the outsider, and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer offers a brief, vivid glimpse into that emptiness.

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