Mark Reviews Movies: NO MAN OF GOD

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Review by Mark Dujsik | August 26, 2021

There's a jarring moment in No Man of God as a serial killer is interviewed by an evangelical Christian television personality. This scene, like all of the ones in Kit Lesser's screenplay, actually happened (as far as we know), when Ted Bundy recorded a lengthy conversation with James Dobson.

The film reasonably—and, likely, accurately—argues that both men had an agenda. Bundy, who was scheduled to be executed in a matter of hours, wanted the famous Christian's sympathy, which might translate to Dobson putting in a good word with the governor of Florida, who, after a decade of Bundy's legal appeals, quickly set a date for his execution. Dobson wanted the serial killer to confess that his murderous origin came from pornography, which would make a great moral talking point for the Christian's various political fights.

The interview commences in this film, and Bundy, played with eerie calmness and frightening plainness by Luke Kirby, gives his interviewer what the man wants. At one point, we think the purpose of this scene is only to further Bundy's position as a liar. Years prior, the murderer clearly stated that pornography had nothing to do with his beliefs or behavior, so he either was lying then (unlikely, because there was no reason to) or is lying now (almost certainly, because he only has reason to be dishonest).

The real point has nothing to do with either of these men, though. As the Christian TV guy presses and Bundy keeps fibbing, director Amber Sealey's camera occasionally looks over at the crew for the television production and, specifically, one woman on that crew. Her eyes move back and forth between the two men, both of them manipulators in different ways and for different goals.

Those voices fade, as Sealey cuts between the men's faces and the silent, staring woman. Eventually, the voices go quiet. The camera stays on and moves closer toward the crewmember, who becomes increasingly upset with whatever they're still saying and the obvious theater of this moment. That's when the woman look up and forward—directly at us.

She understands and is mortified with why these men are having this conversation, but why, that look seems to ask, are we watching it? It's not an accusatory glare, only a confused one. Then, the tears start, because, even though there's no good answer as to why we care what Bundy or his ilk have to say, we're going to keep listening anyway.

Serial killers—and, recently, Bundy in particular—have become the fodder of documentaries, narrative movies, and prime-time television dramas and news specials over the past few decades. At first, this film seems to be about trying to understand Bundy—what turned him into a serial killer, why he started and continued murdering women and girls, what we can learn from his story, mindset, and methods.

That's the goal of Bill Hagmaier (Elijah Wood), an FBI profiler, who volunteers to start a conversation with and question Bundy in 1984 and continues that interview process until the hours before Bundy's death in the electric chair in 1989. As the deadline for getting any information directly from the source approaches, Hagmaier wants a firm confession from Bundy, so that the families and loved ones of all of his victims can finally know the truth.

To understand Bundy and other serial murderers in prison is, perhaps, to understand similar killers now and in the future. This makes sense for Hagmaier and his FBI colleagues as a matter of professional and investigative utility, but what purpose, beyond sensationalistic and exploitative entertainment, does it serve for us?

More pointedly than most stories about serial killers, this one wrestles with that question. It's far from sensationalistic or exploitative—and intentionally so. The film primarily amounts to scenes of dialogue between Hagmaier and Bundy, based on recordings and transcripts from the real FBI agent's records.

Hence, the only real excitement is in watching the confident, intelligent back-and-forth—a sort of verbal game of cat and mouse—between Wood, straitlaced and buttoned-up and by the books, and Kirby, so ordinary that the infamous murderer almost seems boring. Lest that statement be misunderstood, this is a compliment of the actor's performance, because it cuts through any aura of the odd mystique that has risen around Bundy. If we're waiting for some psychological revelation or explanation for Bundy's desire and capacity to kill, it never comes, because it likely never existed. The reality is, perhaps, even more terrifying: Bundy killed, simply because he wanted to.

There's not even a hint of potentially exploitative material here. Sealey provides no re-creations, photos, or even, until a shockingly effective moment near the end (because the filmmakers show so much restraint to that point), graphic descriptions of Bundy's horrific crimes.

The film is decidedly and intentionally dry, still, and minimalistic. This also means, though, that it focuses on what these characters have to say and why, while also creating a confining, almost oppressive air of discomfort in being so close to this man, his thoughts, and his pathology. Most importantly, Sealey's filmmaking allows the material to become about its assorted ideas—why anyone should or shouldn't listen to or care about Bundy, what becoming caught up in such a way of thinking can do to a person (Hagmaier finds himself almost tempting whatever darkness might be inside him), whether there's any connection between understanding and sympathy.

No Man of God peels away decades of mystery and morbid fascination with Bundy—so much so that Sealey and Lesser basically close the book on the man and his crimes. Let the victims rest. Let the allure and memory of Bundy rot.

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