I've been watching Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer for 20 years. Not consecutively or anything, but I first saw it in 1989 and have revisited it probably 25 times since then, up to and including the viewing I've just completed that prefaces and occasions this writing. Something about seeing it tonight unsettled me in a manner more profoundly than any since my first go round.
Serial killers and their attendant phenomena have always fascinated me. I've read a great deal on them and the social, psychological and economic factors that produce them. I've seen countless iterations of their ilk in film and television and followed the media details surrounding actual occurrences that have played out in my own lifetime. With all that exposure and study under my belt, I think I can state with definitive authority that John McNaughton's seminal essay on the subject is the most compelling and authentic account yet produced. Sure, Hannibal Lecter is a great character and Dexter gets boffo ratings and fawning critical accolades: but Dr. Lecter is a Hollywood concoction through and through, albeit an exceedingly entertaining one and the ludicrous exploits of blood splatter analyst Dexter Morgan are a fanciful, borderline offensive piece of irresponsible wish fulfillment aimed at housewives and hipsters. Henry is the messy, terrifying actuality whereas Lecter and Dexter are boiler plate fluff, no more complex or close to reality than Darth Vader. They are the much celebrated "bad guy you love to hate". You don't love to hate Henry as portrayed by Michael Rooker. You fear him and recognize him and pity him and lament the all too common abuse that gave rise to his tragically warped worldview and his subsequent acting upon it.
The world of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer is so cheap, ugly and garbage strewn you can practically see the decay of the surroundings infest the characters souls as the film plays out like some poverty row, inner city Shakespearean tragedy. The scene where Becky and Henry bond while swapping stories concerning the sexual abuse they suffered at the hands of those whose charge it was to nurture them is touching, heartbreaking and despicable all at once. These are characters rich with intricacies and pathos. Even Otis, loathsome, perverted goon that he is, is not entirely without charm or sympathy. Unlike say, Jorg Buttgereit's Schramm, which simply wallows in depravity for depravity's sake, Henry tells an actual story. It's the embellished tale of real life drifter Henry Lee Lucas (whose outrageous claims are in some part believed to be an embellishment in and of themselves) and his partner in crime/lover Ottis Toole. In the film, we see Henry introduce his roommate Otis to murder as recreation and stress relief. Otis, after initial trepidation, takes to it like a parasite to dung. Complicating matters is Otis' sister Becky, come to live with her big brother after escaping an abusive husband and leaving her infant daughter back home with her mother. She instantly takes a shine to Henry, unaware of the nefarious influence he's having on her already unstable and dangerous sibling. Otis becomes more and more insatiable with blood lust, to the point that Henry can't control him, leading inexorably to a shattering conclusion that is surely as morbid, bleak and pitch black as they come.
The first frame contains a succinct summation of exactly how grim the proceedings will be. A slow, Kubrickian pan back from the expressionless face of a woman to reveal her body, naked and lifeless in a field. Jump cut to Henry's hand snuffing out a cigarette in an ashtray, a perfect parable for how he seems to look upon extinguishing a life. For the first half of the film, the focus is on the aftermath of his crimes, which creates an uneasy aura of depravity while allowing the characters to develop unhindered by gross-out set pieces that would certainly detract from the integrity of McNaughton's calculated narrative thrust. There is a refreshing sense of the mundane established in the early stages of the film. There's no masked and bound sociopath's winking at the camera, nor is there any remarkably fit and fashionably attired do-gooder killer hiding blood samples in an air conditioner (so I hate Dexter, so sue me), there is simply impoverished ex-cons living together in relative squalor without a hint of style and less than stellar grooming habits. Even when Becky shows up, she's every bit a woman you see everyday, no more than 5 foot 3 and homely in a very plain way. These are real people you pass on the street and that is what makes this film so effective. They drive shitty cars, drink cheap beer and have dishes piled up in the sink. Matter of fact, when I used to paint houses, I worked with a dude that was the spitting image of Tom Towles Otis, except his jacked grill wasn't an appliance.
If you haven't seen Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, do so, IMMEDIATELY. If you've seen it, WATCH IT AGAIN. I'm not a religious man, but I believe in my heart and soul that people like Henry who walk the earth in real life, are as close to demons as it gets. Born perhaps not of fire, but of abuse and neglect. However brought into existence, demons all the same. I can conjure no more horrific an end to life on this planet than to cross paths with such a monster made living, breathing flesh. Look no further than the videotaped home invasion scene for irrefutable proof that Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer is every bit as terrifying as Friedkin's Exorcist or Kubrick's The Shining.
Speaking of that home invasion sequence, I find it vastly amusing that John McNaughton succeeded in one scene with conveying what Michael Haneke attempted to, 10, then again 20 years later with an entire film, than a shot for shot remake of that entire film. Henry showed us the implicit voyeurism of murder for entertainment and forced us to question our complicity in the whole sordid affair by simply panning back to Henry and Otis sitting on the couch, watching their own murderous exploits with mouths agape, exactly as we in the audience were. So, I guess you could express that monumentally complex and debate sparking concept through one wordlessly visceral and expertly shot minute of film: OR you could make 2 laborious, irritating and let's all admit it, BORING movies to get the same point across. Nice job Mike, have fun being an artiste!
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