The Setup: Art-House Murder with a Camcorder Budget
If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like if PBS tried to make a slasher film on leftover pledge-drive money, wonder no more. Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer is the bleakest, grainiest, most relentlessly joyless hour and a half you can spend outside of jury duty. Shot on 16mm with a $110,000 budget, it looks like a student film that got lost behind the gym bleachers and only rediscovered when someone spilled coffee on it.
The premise is simple: Henry, a guy with all the charisma of a DMV line, kills people randomly while mumbling vague philosophy about it. It’s a “portrait” the way a child’s finger painting is a portrait—technically true, but you wouldn’t hang it anywhere.
Michael Rooker’s Debut: Staring Contest with Death
Michael Rooker makes his debut here, and credit where it’s due: he commits. But his “commitment” mostly consists of staring blankly at people until they either die or wish they had. Imagine the intensity of a man waiting for his Hot Pocket to finish microwaving—that’s Henry’s entire emotional range. He kills without passion, remorse, or, frankly, much creativity. It’s not chilling; it’s like watching an insurance seminar where the punchline is always strangulation.
The Supporting Cast: One Eye Roll Away from Collapse
Tom Towles as Otis plays the role of “redneck sleazebag with a mullet,” and he nails it so well you suspect it wasn’t acting. He’s greasy, violent, and about as subtle as a fart in church. Then there’s Becky (Tracy Arnold), Otis’s sister, whose main function is to represent innocence while making you question if innocence has ever actually existed. Her idea of romance? Falling for a serial killer who confesses to murdering his mom in three different ways depending on his mood. Move over The Notebook.
Violence Without Style: The Anti-Slasher
The film’s biggest selling point is its unflinching violence. But here’s the rub: it’s so deliberately matter-of-fact that it stops being shocking and circles back into dull. Murders happen the way laundry gets done—repetitively, without flair, and usually off-camera. The infamous home invasion scene, filmed through a shaky camcorder, should be horrifying, but it’s more like watching a cursed VHS tape from a garage sale.
Slasher fans come for imaginative gore. Here, you get stranglings, stabbings, shootings—like a McDonald’s menu of murder. No spice, no sizzle. Just murder nuggets, served cold.
Themes: Serial Killer as Philosophy Major
The movie desperately wants you to think it’s about something. Henry lectures Otis on how to kill without getting caught: always change your methods, keep moving, don’t get attached. It’s supposed to be chilling wisdom. Instead, it feels like the world’s worst TED Talk—“How to Get Away with Murder: Life Hacks with Henry.” By the time Otis starts enjoying the murders, you’re just hoping someone stabs you to put you out of your misery.
Pacing: Death by Ennui
Clocking in at 83 minutes, Henry somehow feels longer than Lawrence of Arabia. Scenes drag on like the director was paid by the minute, lingering on silent car rides, awkward stares, and the sound of refrigerators humming. The only thing more lifeless than the victims is the pacing.
The Ending: A Suitcase of Sadness
By the finale, Becky thinks she’s found love with Henry. Spoiler alert: she hasn’t. Henry leaves a motel room alone, carrying her suitcase. Later, he ditches it by the roadside, blood seeping from inside. The audience is meant to feel devastated. Instead, you feel like you’ve just sat through the worst Tinder date in cinematic history.
Controversy: The MPAA’s Wet Blanket
The MPAA slapped this with an “X” rating, not because it was too violent but because it was too depressing. The violence isn’t stylized or excessive—it’s just relentless, like being forced to watch C-SPAN while someone whispers, “This is art.” Critics called it groundbreaking. Groundbreaking? Sure—like a shovel breaking ground on a septic tank.
Final Verdict
Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer wants to be a meditation on evil, a raw exploration of the human monster lurking among us. What it actually is: a gray, joyless trudge through bad lighting, worse acting, and murder scenes that make Unsolved Mysteries reenactments look like Scorsese.
Yes, it’s disturbing. But so is stepping on a Lego in the middle of the night. Disturbing isn’t the same as good.
