*Spoiler Alert!*
If this film was really supposed to be an example of an in-depth character study of a serial killer, then, as that study, it was utterly worthless 'cause Henry literally had no character to study. Nope. He sure didn't. He was completely void of any "character".
And, with that in mind, just because Henry had a sick and diseased mind, did that have to mean that he had to be portrayed in such a way as to make him out to be a completely colourless, humourless and one-dimensional non-entity?
Surely (just like everyone else) serial killers also have some notable character dynamics that could be called a "personality" (or a reasonable facsimile there of). But this wasn't the case with Henry. His personality was nil.
I also found it rather puzzling that the approach in which Henry took to killing people was like that of one performing a totally hated job. I got the clear impression that killing someone was the most unfulfilling thing in the world for him, instead of it being the other way around.
I cannot figure out why this serial-killer business seemed to be such a drudgery for Henry (and for me, as the viewer, as well). If killing people was Henry's "thing", his lust, his passion (and this seemed to be the case), then, why didn't this lust & passion show in his murderous actions?
I would think that after each adrenaline rush of a fresh kill, Henry would have been absolutely elated like someone who's flying high on a powerful drug. But throughout the entire course of this film, Henry came across as being a complete and utter dullard who was not worth paying the least bit of attention to.
And, to me, this whole argument about the insufferable dreariness of Henry and his murderous actions was this film's biggest and most damaging downfalls. It ultimately rendered this ugly, vicious and nasty film to the level of being one of the s-h-i-t-tiest "portraits" of anyone that I've ever seen.
And, on top of all of the above, here are a number of other points about this pointless story that just about killed me to pieces -
(1) Henry (who had already spent time in jail) wasn't in the least bit concerned about leaving tell-tale fingerprints, here, there, and everywhere, around each site of every single murder he committed. (Sheesh!)
(2) Henry's amazingly deadly ability to snap a person's neck (thus instantly killing them) by applying the same effortless force that one might use to simply snap their fingers.
(3) Never once, in the entirety of the story, was there any involvement, whatsoever, of a police alert and/or an investigation into this rash of sadistic murders. (Ho-hum!)
(4) The clear fact that Henry was completely repulsed by sex yet a number of his female victims were found to be * as though they had been raped.
I certainly realize that Henry was no dummy (he managed to continue with his murderous activities indefinitely without any concern about being caught) - Yet, time and again, he behaved in such a blatantly stupid fashion which defied logic and common sense. Henry's actions, for the most part, defied the basic instinct for self-survival.
All-in-all - This decidedly unpleasant movie about a brain-dead serial killer and his brain-dead friends and his brain-dead life (none of which I cared one bit about) gave me a serious case of brain-freeze right from the very first moment I was shown the first of Henry's many victims lying dead and naked (and seemingly posed just so) near a pond in some remote woods.
On top of all of its stifled dialogue, its annoyingly wooden performances, and its recklessly seedy production values, Henry: Portrait Of a Serial Killer was nothing but a predictable paint-by-numbers picture whose intended shock-value completely missed its mark and inevitably failed to deliver much of a worthwhile jolt. It only aggravated and bored this viewer to pieces.
So, there!