Deliver Us From Evil (Amy Berg) Oliver O'Grady Running time: 103 minutes.
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HE stands there in St Stephen's Green, his eyes a-twinkle. You would put him in his early 60s, and he could be any man of that age: a bald head with silver temples, a body slightly crumpled, enfolded in cardigan. His demeanour is soft-spoken; if you could not hear his talk, you would think perhaps he is the kind of man with a quiet word about the weather. Instead, he speaks of evil. This is his candid confession to camera about the grooming and molestation of dozens of children . . . the youngest nine months old . . . over 20 years in California. His eerie calm would chill your marrow.

Deliver Us From Evil is an Oscarnominated documentary by Amy Berg about Irish paedophile priest Oliver O'Grady. A wolf in cleric's clothing, he used his position to insinuate himself into the bosom of unsuspecting families. He then raped their children. The manner in which the Catholic Church turned a blind eye, promoted and then protected its most predatory priest in America will turn you white hot under the collar. O'Grady was deported to Ireland in 2000 after serving seven of a 14-year sentence in jail for "lewd and lascivious acts" on two minors. But the Limerick man admits he spent as much time grooming and abusing children as he did being a priest.

Berg tracked O'Grady down to Ireland, and persuaded him to confess to camera. The result is a grave piece of filmmaking: it takes us inside the mind and methods of a paedophile, and sifts through the 20-year devastation . . . the broken lives, the shattered congregation.

"I want to promise myself this is going to be the most honest confession of my life, " O'Grady says at the start. What he discloses is deeply disturbing: in Dublin's St Stephen's Green, beside a playground, he talks about being sexually aroused at the sight of children. The camera then allows enough space in the frame for a small child to wander past. It's an extraordinary moment that produced gasps in the cinema. But it brings the whole film, and the nature of this man's freedom, into unsettling focus.

Berg connects O'Grady's testimony with interviews from victims, their parents, attorneys and a child abuse psychologist, who tells us O'Grady "is a very dangerous man . . . aggressive, assaultive. . .

he will do anything to have his way with victims." Occasionally, the film surges into a moment of anger: "Every time I get close to a girl, I'd go right back there, " says one angry man in his twenties.

Later, he vents: "I get so angry to think he is still alive. I would kill his mother." But what makes Berg's film so extraordinary is the measured tone it achieves. If Michael Moore were to make a film about child abuse, he would heckle with a bullhorn. But Berg lets O'Grady do the talking . . . and the horror to speak for itself. The sleight of hand is that the villain here is not O'Grady, but the Catholic Church and the bishops who ignored the wolf among their flock. Deposition testimony shows them squirm under questioning.

Roger Mahony, the bishop of the Los Angeles Archdiocese is skewered. The film says he was well aware of O'Grady's behaviour, but moved him, time and time again, to nearby parishes. "I should have been removed and attended to, and he should have attended to the people that I hurt, " O'Grady says.

Bob Jyono, the elderly father of a daughter who was molested for years under his own roof, breaks down. "He was in here saying morning prayers. . . during the night-time, he's molesting my daughter. . . not molesting her, raping her. At five-years-old. How can that happen? That's just what he did."

It is a brave step to put the viewer face to face with the bogeyman, and for that, it is an extraordinary, important document. Watching it stirs conflicting feelings. You wonder what you would do if you passed him on the street, but then anger turns pity: this man is so deeply damaged himself, he is only half-human. The film offers insights into the psychology of a paedophile, and the cycle of abuse.

When asked, O'Grady tells us how he was abused by a family member and a priest. "I'm sure I fit the category of a lot of disorders, " he says flippantly. It is this, disassociated, offhand tone that is most disturbing. A letter he writes to his victims hopes that he can meet with them to apologise. "I don't expect people to hug me, but at least shake my hand, " he says.

Later, he addresses his victims: "God speed, hope to see all of you real soon, " he says. And then he winks at the camera . . . a small, silly gesture that shows you just how removed he is from the enormity of what he has done.