Staged and filmed in a single room, "The Deathmaker" (Der Totmacher) is essentially a faithful re-enactment of a series of question-and-answer sessions between confessed serial killer Fritz Haarmann (Gotz George) and Professor Ernst Schultze (Jurgen Hentsch) - as part of a psychiatric profile conducted to determine whether Haarmann is fit to stand trial for the cannibalistic sex-murders of nearly two dozen teenage boys.

Conducted more like an intense stage production than a film, the story is taken directly from six weeks' worth of transcripts conducted during Haarmaan's interrogation at the Gottingen Mental Asylum in 1924. With each session, Schultze's questions peel back layers of repressed memories, revealing a man who is essentially childlike, but not quite a simpleton; a man whose affection for plain comfort - including the attention of young male prostitutes (known as "Joy Boys") - is thwarted often enough to twist his needs into something even more horrible.

Their conversations begin on a very clinical level, as Schultze condescendingly quizzes Haarmaan on his knowledge of Geography and History, trying to determine his mental capacity. As the sessions wear on, and the two men grow more comfortable with one another (although Schultze's revulsion with his subject never really goes away), we don't learn much about Fritz's motives, and we never really get that little horror-movie moment where they reveal that one event in the killer's childhood that pushed him in the wrong direction. This is not Hannibal Lecter, folks (although he did like to eat people). As grisly as these crimes may be - and we get to hear Fritz describe them in loving detail - they were committed by a real, live person.

It's not hard to see a parallel between Fritz's decaying sense of right and wrong and the horror that bred in the impoverished wasteland of post-WWI Germany; but director Romuald Karmakar's camera is completely - and wisely - objective, presenting only the dialogue between the two men, leaving you to draw your own conclusions. Sure, too much analysis might spoil things, but this film isn't for people who don't want to think too much. There are no blood-soaked flashback sequences to entice the morbidly curious. Prof. Schultze doesn't pull out his trusty Luger and pop Fritz in the noggin, shouting "You killed my brother!" The killer is not even once visited by visions of his dismembered victims. In short, this is basically "My Dinner With Andre," if Andre was German, less funny, and liked to kill young boys, grind them to pulp and flush their still-warm remains down the toilet.

I found Gotz George's performance amazing - strong enough to let the entire two-hour weight of this film rest on his shoulders. His ice-blue eyes and range of facial expression force you to do something you really don't want to do, which is feel a twinge of pity for a man who killed again and again without remorse. The feeling is, to put it mildly, icky-poo. But it's a testament to George's skill as a performer.

On the downside, I'm not really confident in Karmakar's skill as a director, since this is not so much a story as a re-enactment of a series of interviews, and is filmed in a fairly clinical way. Changes in lighting and sound are minimal, and the set never changes. It's the actors that bring the story to life; fortunately, they're pretty damn good at it.

My distrust of Karmakar's creative sensibilities deepened - a lot - after seeing the two included short subjects, particularly the laughably pretentious "Demontage," which is essentially comprised of a man suspended by his feet from a high ceiling while another man swings him between two metal sheets, producing a thunderous sound. That's it. No, really. And it goes on for twenty minutes. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back. And. Forth. Crash. Crash. Crash. I think there was some ballroom dancing midway through, but I think by that point I was bleeding profusely out the eye sockets and vomiting green bile.

But back to the nice stuff. Anchor Bay's put together a simple but respectable package, featuring a print that is nearly flawless, with dense, deep contrast that enhances the stark setting and makes Fritz's haunting face hover in the void as he leans into the harsh light of the overhead lamp. The decent mono is sufficient for such a tiny, controlled setting (there's no music or sound effects to speak of). Extras are limited to the aforementioned shorts, which may be more tolerable as visual accompaniment to your favorite Rammstein or Wumpscut CDs. Then again, maybe you have to be German to understand. Hell, I'm half German, and I didn't get them at all. Damn.