As the end credits rolled on Michael Winterbottom's new film "The Killer Inside Me" (adapted from the 1952 Jim Thompson novel of the same name), the audience sat silent as the grave. On the soundtrack, a country and western ditty about 'Shame" warbled away gratingly. Which is what most of us felt about the film: a horrible shame. And then some of us started to boo. For many people I spoke to, this was the low-point of the Berlin Film Festival's selection. And it was no surprise that it went home without any Awards. In fact, many are now debating whether this film will actually receive global distribution, loathsome as it is. Thompson's novel has already been made into an equally ropey movie by Director Burt Kennedy in 1976, and we are no better off with this second attempt.
Following the psychotic misadventures of a small town West Texas Deputy Sheriff, Lou Ford (played by mumbling, monotoned Casey Affleck in an accidental career detour), Winterbottom takes us on a depressing journey through the brutal landscape of a rather unremarkable maniac. The story begins in yet another Hicksville, USA with nothing of interest to look at, and no characters to root for. The cinematography could have been bought off the shelf at Carrefour, and the Musical Score may have been borrowed from some anonymous "Movie of the Week" - it was that forgettable. Soon after this damp squib of an opening, we were plunged into a hell-hole of gratuitous violence and mean-spirited misanthropy. I never walk out of a movie, but 25 minutes in and I was itching for the exit. Unfortunately for me and my movie-going companion Ayse (who was watching through her fingers at the unfolding grimness onscreen), we stayed until the bitter end.
"The Killer Inside Me" trudges in the footsteps of dozens of superior Maniac movies. Winterbottom attempts to tap into this rich narrative vein, but fails to be anything more than an annoying mosquito at the picnic. Going back to 1960, Alfred Hitchcock introduced the notion of the intimate maniac with "Psycho". We may have been repulsed by the transgressive acts of Norman Bates, but we were fascinated by him too. In fact, in the infamous sinking car sequence, Hitchcock playfully dares us to empathise with Norman, if just for a second, as Marion Crane's car refuses to descend into the swamp and cover his murderous tracks. When it does finally sink, we find ourselves breathing an inexplicable sigh of relief. Hitchcock has manipulated our emotions, and let us momentarily look through the eyes of a psychopath. In the same year Michael Powell made "Peeping Tom", inviting audiences to kill a little time with a London serial killer who films his acts of lunacy with a customised deadly cine-camera. Cinema audiences, it seemed, had developed a taste for this brand of vicarious Thriller, and continued to feast on this psychotic Point-of-view for the next 40 years, in such films as Hatchet for the Honeymoon (1970), Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986), White of the Eye (1987), Man Bite Dog (1992) and American Psycho (2000).
Unfortunately, Winterbottom's film comes nowhere near the originality of these previous films, and brings nothing new to the table. If anything, it resembles a Television Movie with an inflated budget and lacklustre, under-directed actors clawing in the dark for some kind of motivation to their characters' empty lives (rumour has it that Jessica Alba stormed out of the film's Sundance premiere in disgust). But Winterbottom's greatest crimes are it's acts of simulated violence, which are neither scary nor well-filmed. They are merely unpleasant and upsetting, and not in a good way (as the best Thrillers and Horrors somehow manage to be). The only two semi-decent characters in this film are dispatched in the most ugly manner possible, and with them goes the audiences' final portion of patience for Winterbottom's drab effort.
Michael Winterbottom is a versatile and prolific Director, and his achievements can't be denied. In his career he has hopped between comedic, musical postmodernism ("24 Hour Party People"), Science Fiction (in the unsuccessful "Code 46"), Middle Eastern drama ("A Mighty Heart") and Historical Epic ("The Claim") to name but a few of the genres he's dabbled in. But with "The Killer Inside Me", he has singularly failed to understand the needs and requirements of the Psycho-Thriller sub-genre. I find it hard to believe that he ever thought we would want to sit through this film and not despise it's cold-hearted, amorally bankrupt soul.
On the other hand, in seeking to get deep inside the mind of a brutal maniac with intimate accuracy, perhaps Winterbottom has succeeded completely. Let's be glad we didn't enjoy the experience. Because if we had, something really would be wrong with us.
Ben Robinson - Education Programmer
Note: the views expressed here belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinion of DTFF.