I hate true crime
The pandemic brought new things to our lives, some of them bad, some of them good. The popularization of podcasts was one of them. And along with the podcast hype, one kind seemed to really catch people’s attention: true crime podcasts. Of course, there were plenty of them before, but it became more evident during the pandemic. Since then, YouTube channels, documentaries, and even high-production TV shows have been made and distributed to the public. Everyone seems to love this type of content.
The human mind has always been drawn to the dark, the occult. No wonder horror became such a popular genre, or why sensationalist media has always been a thing. So it’s no surprise that something "based on real stories" became so relevant, and the big (and small) content creators, as always, learned how to profit from it.
I, for some time, became addicted to this kind of content. I could spend hours listening to my favorite podcasts in the genre or jump straight into the next Netflix documentary. I couldn’t get over it, until I realized how bad this kind of content was for me and for others.
I became desensitized. The worst types of crimes became background noise. I could hear about things I don’t even want to write about, because they still make me uncomfortable, and not even flinch. But the worst part was the anxiety. All the negativity it brought into my life. Especially when the crimes were against children or women. Thankfully, not because of any personal trauma, but because I always felt the way these stories were told was just too gruesome, too sensationalized.
The constant feeling of uneasiness was always there when I consumed that kind of content. The anger, due to the injustice in certain cases, and especially the way it was all shared with the audience.
The creators were laughing while giving far too many details about how it all happened. Some were doing makeup, wearing weird clothes, or eating (yes, eating!) while talking about it. The total lack of regard for any of the stories. And then, of course, what I like to call: the Dahmer problem.
I didn’t want to name any monster, but I have to, because that’s the title of the show.
Netflix’s show Monsters, produced by a man who clearly values aesthetics over anything else, shows that clearly in its second season, which portrays the lives of two brothers sentenced to life for their parents’ deaths, in a way that left me in disbelief when I read the real story online. The show not only makes you sympathize with the killers, which I can understand to a point, but also hints at a possible incestuous relationship between them, with apparently no reason other than shock value.
But back to season one. The season focuses almost entirely on the killer, painting him in a complex, even sympathetic light. And, like season two, they made him look hot? Almost sexualized him.
It barely mentions the victims, except to describe how they died.
And despite all that, the worst part of the show is in the background. The families of the victims were never even asked for permission to have their loved ones’ names and stories used.
This is what true crime has become: a spectacle. A profitable genre where pain is packaged for entertainment. Behind every podcast episode, every limited series, every reenactment are real people. Not just the victims, but their families, their friends, their communities. And to some extent, they too are victims. People who still live with the consequences. People who have to see their trauma turned into binge-worthy content over and over again.
Their pain is never a good story, so they don’t tell it. Unless there’s a twist. The media was abusive? Let’s talk about that. One of the family members was a suspect? Good. That sells better.
The worst part? The victims are sidelined. Treated as accessories to someone else’s story. Their names erased and replaced by a number. Their lives, full of accomplishments and memories, summarized only by the way they ended. They are permanently linked to the person who hurt them. And the world remembers that name more than theirs.
Stop giving serial killers cool names. Stop naming them at all. Forget them. Remember the victims. Or, if you can’t do that, let their memories rest in peace.
And remember: every true crime story is actually true for someone.
