And they are all the more disturbing because they so often seem so normal – a father shopping in the mall with his wife and pretty teenage daughter, another lying in bed blowing gum bubbles with his young kid, one man playing golf (“Relax and Rolex,” he says), another showing his crystal collection and the fake fish that plays, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” And yet the man shopping in the mall admits to once walking down the street killing every Chinese he saw, including his own girlfriend’s father. His own girlfriend’s father. And not all these thugs had blood literally on their hands; a newspaper publisher admits to interrogating suspected communists and then, with a nod of his head, sending them to their deaths. It was all so casual, like walking down the street.
“I wore jeans for killing,” says Congo.
Perhaps the most surprising thing about "The Act of Killing" is how paradoxically enjoyable it is to watch. It grabs you from the first moment and doesn't let go (and may never let go). Those who would shy away should see it. It corrects history, for both Indonesians and Americans, whose government tacitly supported these horrors, or at least their ends. But the film's greatest accomplishment may be to make the viewer actually feel for a monster – and yet also feel that whatever he suffers is well deserved, and too little too late; to recognize even just a tiny part of him in ourselves.