Blood Lust

Notorious: A publicity shot of actors Misha Collins and Laura Prepon in the true-crime film Karla. Courtesy True Crime Productions/Quantum Entertainment.

The making of a Karla Homolka biopic was always a matter of when, not if. Homolka and her ex-husband Paul Bernardo have already inspired several true-crime books, a novel, a play and at least two episodes in the Law & Order franchise, as well as hundreds of pages of newsprint and hours of television coverage. The controversy over the upcoming premiere of Karla (formerly titled Deadly) at the Montreal Film Festival — the city where a newly free Homolka is believed to be residing — was just as inevitable.

But outrage over Homolka and Bernardo’s crimes has always been matched by fascination; particularly with Homolka, whose bland prettiness and cheerleader peevishness (she once griped about the fact that Bernardo drank wine with one of their victims out of their special wedding glasses) undermine the perception that extreme violence is a primal male prerogative. She has been relentlessly scrutinized, from the contents of her high-school yearbook to details about her prison romance. All this to puzzle out the one seemingly unanswerable question: just what turns an ordinary, middle-class girl into a monster?

Filmmakers have long understood the push-pull, repulsion-attraction of sociopaths who exultantly smash all taboos and social contracts. It’s seductively dark material, and filmmakers have projected onto the cinematic serial killer our collective sinister impulses as well as myriad theories about what drives a person to kill. Here’s how some notable films have tried to make sense of serial murderers.

M (1931)
Fritz Lang’s noir thriller is one of the earliest serial-killer films and one of the best. Starring Peter Lorre — in a villainous role that would pigeon-hole him for the rest of his career — M is loosely based on the case of Peter Kurten, the so-called Vampire of Düsseldorf, a serial killer whose crimes terrorized Germany in the 1920s. With its focus on public hysteria and the restrictive police crackdown that results, M feels eerily contemporary. Cornered by a gang of criminals who have joined forces with the police, the killer argues that he is a victim of his own violent urges.

In Cold Blood (1967)
Richard Brooks’ stylish, moody quasi-documentary (based on the book by Truman Capote) is both a story of class rage and a folie à deux. Dick Hickock (Scott Wilson) and Perry Smith (Robert Blake) are aimless ex-cons from violent and impoverished backgrounds who target the Kansas home of the respectable, well-to-do Clutter family. After breaking in and finding no money, Smith and Hickock brutally murder the family — despite never having killed before.

Badlands (1973)
Based on the 1958 killing spree of Charles Starkweather and Caril Fugate, Terrence Malick’s stunning debut is notable in that it doesn’t search for meaning at all; the film implies that it’s folly to even attempt to explain human nature. Kit (Martin Sheen) and Holly (Sissy Spacek) can’t articulate or justify their actions, but share a Bonnie and Clyde-like fascination with their growing celebrity.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986)
Loosely based on the murders committed by Henry Lee Lucas and Otis Toole, John McNaughton’s graphic, grisly yet dispassionate film was initially intended to be a straight-up slasher flick. Its artistry and technique, however, elevates it above the genre. In the film’s most disturbing scene, Henry (Michael Rooker) and Otis (Tom Towles) videotape and play back the murder of a family, forcing film viewers to watch the violence from the killers’ point of view.

The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Weighty enough to earn five Oscars, Jonathan Demme’s suspenseful thriller is based on the best-selling series of novels by Thomas Harris. The film’s two killers are a study in contrasts: Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal Lector is an ice-cold cannibal and soulless genius with an almost seductive charm; Buffalo Bill (Ted Levine) makes dresses out of the skin of his victims because he’s really meant to be a girl — a portrayal that earned Demme the ire of gay rights groups.

Kalifornia (1993)
In a morally bankrupt America, bored hipsters (David Duchovny and Michelle Forbes) pick up a trashy couple (Brad Pitt and Juliette Lewis) on their cross-country photo shoot of historic murder sites. Despite posing the big question — “What's the difference between a killer and any one of us?" — the film offers far more style than substance.

Criminal element: Mickey (Woody Harrelson) and Mallory (Juliette Lewis) in Natural Born Killers. Photo Warner Bros./Getty Images.

Natural Born Killers (1994)
Directed by Oliver Stone — from a story by video store-autodidact Quentin Tarantino — white-trash outlaws Mickey (Woody Harrelson) and Mallory (Juliette Lewis) engage in a music video-styled killing frenzy. The film is a send-up of media sensationalism that holds those who produce and consume the news as accountable as the killers themselves.

Seven (1995)
Starring Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman as cops on the trail of a brilliant but bent and sin-obsessed killer played by Kevin Spacey, this gruesome thriller set the tone for a near epidemic of 1990s serial-killer films like Copycat, Jennifer 8, Kiss the Girls and Nightwatch. More interested in entertainment than analysis, these films feature sick yet smart killers (usually a product of bad mothering or sexual dysfunction). They all share a similar pathology and modus operandi: they brood about in grimly lit dungeons hatching Byzantine methods to dispatch their victims, all the while engaging in elaborate cat-and-mouse games with the police.

American Psycho (2000)
Though written by two feminists — Guinevere Turner and Mary Harron (who also directs) — this adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s novel was the target of boycotts and protests for its almost fetishistic depiction of women in peril. With his designer business cards, six-pack abs and thirst for blood, killer Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) is a parody of yuppie excess, another variation on the it’s-our-society-that’s-sick theme.

Monster (2003)
An unrecognizable Charlize Theron won an Oscar for her portrayal of one of the rare female serial killers, abused Florida prostitute Aileen Wuornos (the subject of two documentaries by Nick Broomfield). Avoiding easy explanations, Monster (written and directed by Patty Jenkins) is an intelligent and fearless meditation on Wuornos’s motives as she kills first out of self-defence and then, increasingly, out of blind, unfocused revenge.

Rachel Giese writes about the arts for CBC.ca