Collectors

Collectors A film review by Christopher Null - Copyright © 2000 Filmcritic.com John Wayne Gacy, serial killer? Or John Wayne Gacy, artist? The new documentary Collectors lets you decide whether a mass murderer who paints in his cell produces something to be treasured or something to be despised. Not surprisingly, filmmaker Julian P. Hobbs has found plenty of people on both sides of the issue. Collectors largely revolves around the art -- most of it very good -- of Elmer Wayne Henley, who in the early 1970s killed some 27 young boys with the help of Dean "The Candyman" Corll in southwest Houston. In 1973, Corll turned on his accomplice and Henley shot him. Henley is now serving six life sentences for his crimes. He has little to do but paint. Oddly, I grew up in southwest Houston and had never heard of this case until now. Recently has Henley turned up in the news again, as his Houston art shows have been sell-outs, with curious onlookers anxious to own a piece of a killer's psyche. Hobbs takes us inside the overstuffed homes of the serial killer art collectors while providing equal time to the victims' relatives and rights advocates (all staunchly against the sale of the art, despite the fact that up to 1/3 of proceeds go to rights groups). He also visits with authors and shrinks, all anxious to explain why Joe America would dirty his hands with this stuff. Ironically, none of the arguments are compelling on either side. The collectors can't explain their passions, and the naysayers adhere, as naysayers tend to do, to the irrational belief that nothing good should come from the crimes. We are left to our own devices to figure out why someone would want a demon scrawled by the likes of Richard Ramirez. As a documentary, Collectors is nothing short of fascinating. We see countless samples of killer artwork -- much of it atrocious pen-on-paper sketchwork, but some quite good. We get to hear Henley himself, and we see that he is not a monster. As well, Hobbs' choice of music matches the mood of the film perfectly, and the photography is far beyond what anyone would hope for from an independent documentary. Ultimately, Hobbs keeps an even keel and lets you decide what you want to think about Henley and co. But a better question to ponder is this: Which is creepier: the serial killer artists or the collectors themselves?

Collectors by Cathy Thompson-Georges Print Article posted August 1, 2008 10:00 AM The American public is fascinated with serial killers and, in his spare and elegant documentary, Julian Hobbs examines a subculture that takes that fascination to extremes. "Collectors" presents victims' rights advocates and DAs, psychiatrists and art gallery owners--but its focus is on funeral director Richard Staton and his friend Tobias Allen, collectors of serial killer art and memorabilia. Charming, articulate Staton chats wryly about the market value of death row paintings, wrangles with another collector over the acquisition of shrunken heads, and makes pilgrimages with Allen to murder sites to collect souvenirs and videotape the crime scenes. He also arranges a show of killer Elmer Wayne Henley's rather saccharine paintings, to much controversy. Why would someone pursue such a macabre and callous hobby? Staton and true-crime writer Harold Schecter advance some theories, but ultimately "Collectors" chooses not to say. Chilling, thoughtful, and technically polished, the documentary is itself one of the ambiguous art objects it portrays--dark and voyeuristically compelling.

Collectors: Movie Review By Joe Lozito Rating (out of four): Making a Killing in the Art World With the film "Collectors", documentary filmmaker Julian P. Hobbs has unearthed a little known subculture of collectors of artwork done by serial killers in prison. The connoisseurs in the film obsess over the minutia of their artists with a zeal usually reserved for sci-fi conventions. They approach famous crime scenes with the reverence of an archeologist uncovering an ancient ruin. However, as one interviewee points out "they probably can't name any of the victims." The film follows two main collectors and it doesn't give a good indication of how large this subculture is. But the work here is thorough and always interesting. Just when he seems to have revealed all there is, Mr. Hobbs brings to light another interesting tidbit, like a bizarre scene surrounding a proposed serial killer board game. The horrors that surrounded these killer's deeds seems to either have been forgotten by their fans or, more frighteningly, have been so trivialized that the men can distance themselves from it. Happily, much of the would-be artwork is laughable trash. Only one of the killers, Edwin Wayne Haley, shows any real flair. It is doubtful that his artwork will be studied or even viewed in the years to come. If there is any justice at all, however, Mr. Hobbs' fair, evenhanded documentary will remain.

Collectors (review) Self-taught artist Elmer Wayne Henley claims that the act of appreciating nature "calms the soul" -- "it proves to me that there's a God," he says, and so his rather naive paintings depict flowers and landscapes. Henley is serving six life sentences for the sexual torture and murder of dozens of young men, and whether he deserves a calm soul is a question wisely left unexplored in this chilling documentary. Instead, director Julian P. Hobbs focuses on the hobbyists who create the market for the artistic works of serial killers, people like Baton Rouge mortician Rick Staton, who enjoys the "brush with deviant celebrity" and shares his snapshots of chummy prison visits with such notorious murderer/artists as John Wayne Gacy; Joe Coleman, an artist in his own right and collector of death memorabilia, who likens the crimes of serial killers to "pagan rituals"; and Tobias Allen, creator of an infamous serial-killer board game, who says his "obsessive" pastime is an attempt to figure out "what kind of person" commits heinous murder. That's the question that underlies Collectors, though Hobbs approaches it indirectly and from the opposite side: Is there only a degree of difference between the likes of Staton and Allen and the likes of Henley and Gacy, and is an interest in abnormal human behavior abnormal in itself? It's impossible not to sympathize with the angry families of murder victims who wonder here how anyone can glorify killers and lend to their notoriety, or with the victims' right advocates who, incredulous, sputter that these collectors are "pathetic." And it's also impossible to fathom that Staton isn't the least bit creeped out by a portrait of his own very young son by Gacy, who killed little boys like him, and that Allen honestly sees his game as "a spoof on war games." How far can black humor go before it crosses the line into from mere tastelessness into abject inhumanity? And does the fact that I enjoyed immensely this gruesomely mesmerizing film mean I've crossed that line?

SXSW: Tom Joad checks out COLLECTORS Tom Joad here with a quick update from SXSW... The festival is already half over and I'm catching up on all my reviews. Here is the first of MANY reviews to come, including exclusive interviews with Ginger Lynn Allen and William Peter Blatty!!! But for now, here we go with a great little documentary on a subject that I find fascinating: serial killers and true crime. COLLECTORS One of the most unsettling and subtle documentaries I've seen. You'll be left both enlightened by the macabre world of these collectors as well as mortified by their audacity. Beginning with a tingling sensation at the base of your spine that slowly creeps through you, this one will resonate with you for days afterward. Rick Staton, a Baton Rouge mortician, has what many believe to be a very tasteless hobby. Rick is a collector of serial killer and mass murderer memorabilia and relics. He has it all: from personalized artwork from John Wayne Gacy, to brick chips taken from the Tate/Polanksi home, to artwork painted by Houston's most notorious serial killer: Elmer Wayne Henley. Staton has increased his collection over the years in part by writing to many "celebrity" murderers on death row and encouraging him to pick up a pencil or a brush and some paints and begin experimenting. Although one of his biggest regrets is that he was in the early stages of convincing Jeffrey Dahmer to write just before he was murdered in prison. He feels that Dahmer's work could be as popular as those of John Wayne Gacy, Richard Ramirez or Charlie Manson. We're introduced to the artwork of Henley as we discover the preparations for a Elmer Wayne Henley art exhibit to be held in Houston. As we journey with Staton and fellow collector Tobias Allen to the show, director Julian P. Hobbs begins expertly cutting his footage back and forth between Staton and Allen and the grieving families of Henley's victims who are protesting the art show. Here, Hobbs begins to illustrate the dichotomy that exists between life and art - between serial killers and those who seek to diefy them. Staton and Allen stop along the way, visiting the site where Henley deposited his 27 young male victims. They comment on how the site has been changed since their last visit, they gather gravel from the ground and leave some graffiti on one of the buildings. As they chuckle, laugh and walk away, we cut to one of the victim's protesting parents who tell us how Elmer Wayne Henley handcuffed their son to a bed, broke his ribs, raped him, cut off his fingers, and burned him. The editing is fantastic. The comparison between the two collectors also becomes more apparent in a scene where Allen is explaining the rules the serial killer boardgame he invented. Staton, a generation older than Allen has had a lifetime of first hand experience with death during his daily job of embalming the deceased - Allen however, has none and seems much more naïve when it comes to first-hand death. His morbid curiosity reeks of one who doesn't realize the full weight of his actions and obsessions. His game, in which the players assume a fictitious serial killer, roll dice, draw cards and circle the board in an effort to murder more people than their opponent. Similar to Monopoly, the player choose from small characters such as a man digging a grave, and the victim trophy game pieces are little pink fetuses that represent the lives successfully taken by a player. Even Staton shakes his head with a disbelieving chuckle as he refers to the game as sick. Stopping off in California on their road trip, they visit the Tate/Polanski home where Manson made history. After lying about the floor in the same places and positions the deceased were found in, they made their way through the house (which was apparently when Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails was recording The Downward Spiral, we never see him, but his keyboards litter the place!) and chipped off some brick pieces for a keepsake. Upon arriving at the art exhibit, we meet a young girl who purchased an oil painting of Henley's that depicts a thunderstorm. She launches a five-minute spiel on how she interprets the art before telling us how happy she is that it matches her apartment scheme perfectly. We also meet a man who is upset with the fact that this murderer is having an art show. He talks with Staton and Allen for a time about how holding this exhibit is an abortion of justice. Soon after, he purchases a $600 pencil sketch of a nude girl (that looks an awful lot like a boy) and burns it in the street so that "no pervert can enjoy it". Marching off, seemingly vindicated, we watch Allen drop to a knee and immediately begin scraping the ashes into an envelope to add to the collection. Amazing parallels throughout, this is an incredibly gripping and eerie documentary that should not be missed!