A man sits in a room with geometrical architecture and large, paneless windows with a view of the forest. He sits at a table, the surface of which, like a mirror, reflects the vegetation and the architecture. He starts to speak. The shot is static and lasts twenty-five minutes with a monologue in the first person, broken up with very brief pauses. He speaks rapidly and evenly, his voice neutral, his face expressionless. What he is saying has nothing to do with his own life or if he were playing a part. It is the story of anonymous executioners, perpetrators of collective crimes whose statements were taken and kept during the 20th century’s history of concentration camps and genocides. The screen goes black for a second before, another, older man, seated on the other side of the same table, in the same but differently arranged room, begins another monologue. He is not recounting the facts of mass crime; he is trying to ponder its logic, its anthropo-logic. De Facto: facts and their meaning, which defy reason. The approach devised by Selma Doborac offers film an unprecedented capacity to understand mass terror and its dehumanising processes. It works using decontextualisation (we never know which camp or massacre it’s about) and depersonalisation (we never know who’s talking, with the actor’s task reduced to the act of speech, purely reciting the text, its violence and the meditation of it). Simultaneously delving into the deepest depths of the human soul and performance philosophy of the act – the act of telling, the act of killing, the actor’s performance blending with the perpetration of the crime to a dizzying extent – De Facto strips cinema bare to demonstrate, soberly and without effect, its most radical critical power.