John Cleaver is a psychopath. To him, other people are just things, inconvenient bags of meat walking around and getting in his way. John knows he is very likely to become a killer at some point in his future, but he’s working to stay in control of his psychopathy. He may not be able to empathize with his fellow humans, but he might manage to keep his murderous tendencies in check and learn to pass for “normal.” However someone is killing people in his small town, and now John is on the hunt for the murderer as he tries to tame the demons inside himself.

That’s the premise for I Am Not a Serial Killer, the film adaptation of the book of the same name by Dan Wells. As premises go, it’s just okay. If you’re just reading about it you’re likely to say to yourself, “Didn’t we basically get this with Dexter? Also, this kid’s actual name is ‘John Cleaver‘ and he’s in high school? This is just Dexter in high school, isn’t it?!”

But despite a premise that could have easily been mangled or dumbed-down, I Am Not a Serial Killer executes that premise with power and precision. From beginning to end, the film hums with a kind of raw energy, weaving tension into every scene. The cinematography is clear and purposeful, but there is very little beauty on display here. Even grain of the film gives the movie a sense of visceral grit and abrasiveness that calls to mind the raw look of City of God. This is the dead of winter in a small grey town buried under a blanket of grey snow.

The film’s representation of John’s mental condition is as far from Hollywood’s idea of psychopathy as it is possible to imagine. John is a psychopath, but he doesn’t want to be a bad person. He takes his regular meetings with his therapist seriously, and he follows a strict set of self-imposed rules to keep his darker nature in check. For John, psychopathy is a burden.

And yet, the film reminds us that John isn’t as different from the rest of us “normals” as we’d like to think. Time and time again, a shot lingers on a half-eaten chicken bone or the bloody juices from a piece of steak, a reminder that we all dance with death.

But then there’s the issue of the actual mystery in I Am Not a Serial Killer. And here’s where we’re straying off into spoiler territory. Because the film is in limited release, this is the part where I tell you that if you don’t read further I can definitely recommend that you to check it out for yourself. And if you plan to do so, stop reading now to avoid spoilers.

Nobody left but us chickens? Good.

So here’s the rub: I Am Not a Serial Killer is a genre film that is ashamed of its genre. The film’s first act reveal is somehow both the weakest part of the movie and the strongest part of the story. John discovers that the killer is actually some kind of demon thing hiding inside the body of an old man (Christopher Lloyd) who is killing in order to live just a little longer with his human wife.

From the perspective of story alone this leads to some interesting comparisons and contrasts with John’s own condition. John, while dealing with his own inner darkness, is trying to understand someone who has an actual monster inside of them. But whereas John is unable to feel anything for his family or friends, this monster is killing because of love.

But in the context of the movie everything feels so grounded and real that an actual demon showing up makes almost no sense. What’s worse is that the filmmakers seemed to sense this dichotomy, and they deal with it by avoiding it almost entirely. John barely reacts to the revelation that his next door neighbor is a body-snatching demon, and because our glimpses of the thing’s dark power are so brief it led to some confusion on my end as to what exactly was supposed to be happening in those scenes. Even when the creature shows itself in its final form at the end of the movie, no one is screaming, “There’s a demon monster thing, how is that even possible!?” Which is something they absolutely would have been screaming in real life.

But in spite of this, I Am Not a Serial Killer is an impressive effort. The tone is absolutely impeccable, and the few weak points of the plot seem to stem from moments where the film hewed a little too closely to the book.

It feels rough and raw by design, peeling back the protective skin of the human condition and revealing the ugliness that pulses just under the surface. But in the end it is a hopeful portrait of two monsters: one who cannot feel, but chooses to do the right thing; another who kills because he cannot bear to let go of love. And between these two monsters is stretched out the whole horrible hopeful spectrum of humanity.



