Editor’s Note: This was originally published for FANGORIA on September 13, 2002, and we’re proud to share it as part of The Gingold Files.
An argument could be made that producing movies about real-life serial killers is an exploitative exercise, one that erases the line between fantasy and reality that allows for the enjoyment of films featuring horrific acts. That argument is harder to make, though, given the surprising general level of quality of such projects in the last decade. None of the more recent examples have matched the power of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, the Cadillac (albeit the lowest-budgeted film) of the bunch, but Ed Gein, Dahmer, even Henry Part 2 and now Ted Bundy all have elevated themselves above muckraking schlock.
The differences in both approach and perception between Ted Bundy (opening in limited theatrical release ahead of its October 1 video debut) and Dahmer are notable, and instructive. Dahmer examined only a portion of its subject’s life, attempting to tease out what made him tick and even venturing toward sympathy for its troubled antihero. Aided by a very persuasive performance by Jeremy Renner, it succeeded in creating a compelling screen persona for Dahmer. But by the film’s end, the movie never addressed the fact that the tortured soul it attempted to humanize was responsible for some of the most ghastly crimes in recent history—and that has to be a necessity when you’re dealing with a real person who murdered real victims.
Ted Bundy, on the other hand, covers its killer’s career from first murder to execution, presenting him as an outright monster whose slayings are sometimes depicted in graphic detail. Yet some of the same critics who praised Dahmer for its “sensitive” portrayal of its subject have been attacking Ted Bundy as being unrewarding and “sick.” But what’s sicker—denying the atrocities of a true-life villain, or showing them for the horrific tragedies they were?
The question then becomes, of course, one of whether horrific “entertainment” should be derived from dreadful events that afflicted real people. Unlike Dahmer, which can’t even be called a horror film, Ted Bundy is an unapologetic shocker, with moments of both grotesque, gory violence and twisted sex. Yet the film doesn’t dwell for too long on any individual act of mayhem, nor does it attempt to stylize the brutality into something that can be “enjoyed.” Writer/director Matthew Bright manages the not inconsiderable trick of telling the story from Bundy’s point of view, yet always keeping identification centered with the victims in the murder scenes.
Bright also has a strong performance at his movie’s center: Michael Reilly Burke doesn’t truly look like the real Bundy, but he has the kind of handsome yet undistinguished features that led Bundy’s unwitting victims to trust him, and Burke convincingly conveys both his charm and his mania. If there’s any message to the movie, it’s that the ’70s (when Bundy committed his crimes) were a more innocent time, when the idea of a good-looking stranger being a dangerous psychopath seemed less conceivable than it does today; the film even informs us that the phrase “serial killer” was coined to describe Bundy. Bright, to his credit, doesn’t push the point; it’s enough just to watch one young woman after another get into his car or follow him into a deserted alley without thinking twice, or—in one of the few humorous moments—to see Bundy load a sheet-wrapped corpse into his car as a group of passers-by take no notice of him.
But back to that previous question: Is there truly a justification for dramatizing such hideous acts, which are still pretty fresh in the public memory, in the name of entertainment? It may be one that can only be answered on a personal basis. I’m giving Ted Bundy a positive review because it is well-made (the period is nicely evoked on a low budget), well-acted (Boti Ann Bliss makes a good impression as Bundy’s girlfriend, and there are effective cameos by Tom Savini and Tracey Walter), sometimes genuinely scary and, crucially, doesn’t aim to make the audience feel anything other than revulsion for Bundy’s actions. It doesn’t ask us to understand, sympathize with or pity Bundy, just to fear him—and at that, it succeeds.
