The mass production of true crime documentaries is just plain disturbing. Call me a cynic, but there’s something weirdly dystopian about major media companies exploiting real people’s darkest moments for monetization and bingeable clips meant to drive speculation online.
So why the hell can’t I stop watching them?
The premise is simple. Take one of the many, many complicated or unresolved real-world murders throughout the last century, bring in experts or involved parties to speak to the camera in front of a light gray background and weave together a fascinating story with spooky visual effects and music in a minor key of your choice.
Do it right, and you’ll have a fascinating murder mystery series made 100 times more compelling thanks to the hook that everything on-screen is a depiction of something that actually happened.
In a way, true crime documentaries are the ultimate form of the long-running murder mystery genre. See, the biggest problem with classic murder mysteries is that the listener has the benefit of reminding themselves that it’s all just make-believe. With a true crime documentary, that luxury doesn’t exist — all the horror and mystery you see on-screen was actually faced by individuals in their real lives, and boy, do streaming services want you to know it.
It’s easy to discuss true crime docs like they’re fictional stories, complete with sensationalized storylines, dramatic sequences and ‘that one guy who I’m pretty sure is the killer (though I can’t be completely sure).’ Getting swept up in online debates or discourse over the killer’s identity or the victim’s innocence usually becomes part of the fun. On the surface, it might seem like this lack of empathy for real victims is the viewers’ fault for forgetting the humanity and real trauma behind these stories — the fact that they’re not just characters on a screen.
But is it really fair to blame the watcher for engaging with a fascinating story, or should the blame be shifted to the storyteller actively optimizing real people’s trauma for profit?
True crime documentaries feel dystopian in a similar way to the world of the 2021 series Squid Game (ironically produced by Netflix, one of the biggest players in the true-crime scene). In Squid Game, the poor, indebted and homeless are brought into a top-secret arena to compete in lethal versions of popular children’s games; these games are shown to the rich and powerful for their personal entertainment.
In other words, the absolute lowest moments for people who are having a tough run in life are broadcast as entertainment for those who never have to worry about ending up in such situations. Those fortunate enough to be on the other end of the games can sit back, relax with a drink, take bets on who they think will survive or prevail as a villain and forget the humanity behind it all.
Sound familiar?
Indeed, this whole process is vaguely similar to the relationship between those on-screen in true crime docs and the people binging them on TV for fun. The murders of innocent people are no longer given the decency to be treated solemn; instead, they’re transformed into amazing stories with plot twists and epic narratives. Much like the VIPs of Squid Game, lots of true crime docs implicitly encourage you to take your opinions to friends and place bets on who you think is really responsible for the latest hot-and-trendy murder. This cycle creates virality, which translates to — you guessed it — more new subscribers to monetize.
One of the biggest problems is that, as much as I hate to admit it, the design behind true crime documentaries just works.
Yes, damn it; they make for fun watch parties. They do make me want to debate my friends over who the killer is. And you bet I’ll be seated for the next episode to see what happens after that cliffhanger.
I can’t help but assume some responsibility for my role in this cycle. I mean, I could just stop watching them. It’s not like a Netflix producer is holding a gun to my head demanding I watch their latest viral documentary.
I just wish they were a little less good at making these stories so interesting. Sometimes it’s nice to just turn your brain off and listen to a fascinating story, even if it’s not the most ethically sound.
This is a pretty common example of the temptation to engage with something unhealthy outweighing the guilt of avoiding it entirely, much like eating junk food. Yes, I know that McDonald’s is bad for me, but it’s so convenient and tasty that oftentimes that just doesn’t matter.
Sometimes, though, a true crime documentary does something so unethical that it breaks my immersion and just leaves me feeling sick.
To see what I mean, watch the first episode of Netflix’s The Idaho Murders: College Nightmare, which is also the documentary that inspired this article.
College Nightmare documents the tragic murder of four students of the University of Idaho: Madison Mogen, Kaylee Goncalves, Ethan Chapin and Xana Kernodle.
On the night of Nov. 13, 2022, a criminology-obsessed Bryan Kohberger drove about ten miles from his residence in Washington to the neighbouring state of Idaho, where he slipped into the students’ shared residence through a sliding glass door and stabbed the four innocent 20- and 21-year-olds to death.
As you’d expect, the quadruple homicide shook the University of Idaho community, especially the two surviving roommates who were not attacked by Kohberger in the house that night. What made the experience even more traumatizing was that it took police five weeks to identify Kohberger — who apparently had never met his victims prior to that night — as a suspect, meaning a mystery killer was at large for some time. In fact, a couple of days after the murders, Idaho police said they were unsure if there was a continued risk to the community.
If you’re a decent human being, you probably recognize how tragic it is that four young students had their lives brutally stolen from them. If you’re a Netflix exec, you probably recognize the scent of a damn good story.
Like clockwork, Netflix soon got to work on transforming this tragedy into an exciting three-part series. And I’ll give it to them: it is indeed an exciting documentary. The filmmakers spoke to police officials and parents of the victims, chronicling the events of the gruesome night, impact on the University of Idaho community and subsequent trial of Kohberger.
If you for some reason only watch the first two episodes of College Nightmare, though, you wouldn’t have any idea who Bryan Kohberger even is, because his name is never mentioned until the third episode. This is because the documentary is too focused on setting up a cliffhanger with a false suspect.
The end of the first episode ends with the documentary building up Kaylee Goncalves’ ex-boyfriend Jack DuCoeur as the supposed killer for a thrilling cliffhanger. The storytellers don’t make any effort to be subtle about this implication, either: the music, editing and pacing fully imply that DuCoeur is hiding something nefarious. It’s hard not to walk away from the series’ first episode feeling like DuCoeur has blood on his hands.
The problem is that this is a real person who is completely innocent.
The documentary preys on online conspiracy theories about DuCoeur directly after the murders, when the Internet went into a frenzy trying to uncover who had killed the four college students. Because of his status as Goncalves’ ex-boyfriend, Internet sleuths quickly identified DuCoeur as a key suspect, despite him being cleared by police early in the investigation.
Unsurprisingly, the online vilification of DuCoeur immediately after the loss of a loved one had a significant impact on him. In an interview with the New York Post, DuCoeur’s aunt said he “lost the love of his life” and was devastated that online critics would suspect him of participating in the murders.
The harassment reached a point where Idaho police publicly disavowed the “large amount of rumours and misinformation being shared” and threatened criminal action against those who engaged in threats or harassment.
Of course, that did little to quell the rage of bloodthirsty online sleuths who insisted that they knew better than professional detectives actively investigating the case. (Notably, DuCoeur was not the only person who faced unwarranted online harassment after the murders; one of the surviving roommates was inexplicably accused as well.)
It’s so unfortunate, then, that Netflix would double down on the cruel harassment of DuCoeur by painting him as the lead suspect in the miniseries’ first episode. And while the series quickly cleared his name at the start of the second episode, that doesn’t change the fact that they still used his experience as a cliffhanger in the first.
It doesn’t matter if you provide red herrings or present characters as suspicious in a fictional tale. But the thing that makes these documentaries so exciting is the same thing that makes them so unethical: these are real people with real experiences, and transforming their trauma into a spectacle for strangers to debate online is nothing short of dystopian, like drinking a diet version of Squid Game.
So yes, I will continue watching true crime documentaries. I’m not going to lie to you: the addictive nature of the storytelling on display makes it far too easy to turn your brain off and tune in to another thrilling tale of horror and woe, and sometimes, turning your brain off is exactly what you need. I’m a part of the system now, Netflix — you win.
But you can’t make me feel good about it.