‘I Am Not A Serial Killer’ Horror Movie Review: Inside The Fascinating Mind Of A Murderer’s Fanboy

I Am Not A Serial Killer stars the sort of teen who wears a John Wayne Gacy costume to his school Halloween dance.

John Wayne Cleaver (Max Records) is fascinated with serial killers. A diagnosed sociopath, John worries more about mapping to the Macdonald triad (arson, animal torture, bedwetting) than making friends at his school. Sure, he’s creepy; maybe even a serial killer in the making, but I Am Not A Serial Killer makes him one of the most sympathetic young leads of 2016.

When a serial killer comes to Clayton County —tearing through bodies with what may be a chainsaw—John’s life is thrown into disarray. He’s used to adults insisting he act normal and defining society against him. He’s even used to being the outsider, developing fastidious techniques and habits to keep himself from becoming a danger to others (saying something nice has never been this menacing). But now his greatest temptations and fears are playing out in his own hometown.

Fascinated and not in the least afraid, John begins searching for the Clayton County killer himself. I Am Not A Serial Killer begins like a private eye movie starring a detective a little too obsessed with dead bodies (it helps that his day job is embalming bodies at the family funeral home), but turns into something more twisted and unexpected.

The real fun begins when John catches his killer in the act. Witnessing one possible future for himself, John does what any self-respecting sociopath would do and toys with the man, projecting his own insecurities into a cat and kitten game, as he skirts as close to the claws of the killer as possible.

Eventually the threat stretches beyond the natural, a demoniac sphere stretching to encompass John, his elderly neighbor (Christopher Lloyd!) and his wife, then John’s friends and families, as John’s actions force the serial killer into increasingly desperate acts.

Keeping the focus so tightly on John’s mental state and personal life pays big dividends, even if I Am Not A Serial Killer could use a little more external pressure on its lead. Though there’s ample opportunity to envelop him in suspicion, John never emerges as a suspect.

This makes I Am Not A Serial Killer less thrilling or frightening than it might otherwise be, but it’s aims are elsewhere. I Am Not A Serial Killer is chilling in the way that reading a letter from death row is chilling. As John tracks the killer he’s looking into the loneliness and desperation that may be barreling towards him. “Could this be his fate?” proves a more compelling question than your typical whodunnit.