Rear Window (1954) is a classic Hollywood movie. If you have not seen it, then you should consider: (1) checking it out, and (2) skipping this paragraph to avoid (mild) spoilers. The movie revolves around an incapacitated photographer who spies on his neighbours to pass the time. The casual surveilling takes a grim turn when certain events lead him to believe that one of them may have committed murder. And so the story unfolds, with the characteristic twists and thrills associated with Hitchcockian fare, leading up to a nerve-wracking climax.1
The unsavoury blend of voyeurism and fascination with crime, which was the defining trait of the lead character in Rear Window, is now ubiquitous in the real world thanks to true crime dramas and documentaries. Admittedly, this is not a recent development. Reporting of crimes, particularly gruesome murders, serial killings, etc. have always attracted a great deal of popular attention, and would invariably be front-page news. The public appetite to devour every salacious detail about the crime, the victim(s) and the perpetrator(s), fuels newspapers, books, movies, and now podcasts and OTT streaming platforms, to deliver content that can satiate the consumer. Ultimately, personal loss and tragedy become fodder for public entertainment.
My first brush with true crime documentaries was watching Netflix’s controversial runaway hit, Making a Murderer (2015). Over the course of 10 episodes, the first season of the documentary traces the story of a man, Steven Avery, who was convicted (in 1985) for attempted murder and sexual assault, and later exonerated (in 2003) based on DNA evidence. As he pursued a lawsuit against the county officials for wrongful conviction, he was arrested again (in 2005) and charged with a different murder. This time, his nephew (who was 16 years old at that time) was also arrested in connection with the murder.
It was captivating television. I remember binge-watching the first season and thinking how scripted dramas would pale in comparison to what was playing out on the screen. Stories like these were on the fringes of what one could conceive as being believable, as being real. Perhaps that explains why people are so drawn to true crime content; there is an illicit thrill in knowing that it actually happened, but it seems so far removed from you that you could never imagine anything similar happening to you. It is a remarkable act of disassociation, where one finds the grisly murder alluring but is completely blind to the impact of that crime (and its re-telling, packaged to sell) on the lives of those involved.
I admit that generalizations of this nature may not always be fair. Making a Murderer was wildly successful and resulted in millions of people becoming invested in Steven Avery’s life. It even led to a petition being made to the White House (albeit unsuccessfully) for a presidential pardon to be granted to Steven Avery and his nephew. None of this would have happened if the documentary didn’t exist. There may be instances where true crime documentaries shed light on injustice or could help in bringing closure to a victim’s family. But there is no getting away from the fact that true crime content, especially, when it is dramatized, is designed to sell a tragedy, to commoditize a traumatic event for the entertainment of the masses.
In July 2018, newspapers and TV news channels in India had a field day reporting about the macabre deaths of a family of 11 in Burari, Delhi. 10 of the family members were found hanging from the ceiling, their toes almost touching the floor; the grandmother was found in her room, strangled.2 While the country speculated whether the family had been murdered or committed mass suicide, one of my first thoughts when reading about it was that it would make for a great Netflix show. Let that stew for a minute. 11 people had died and my reaction was, “Wow, can’t wait to watch that while I have dinner 2 to 3 years from now.” As it turns out, Netflix did produce a documentary about the incident (House of Secrets: The Burari Deaths) and it’s as creepy and bizarre as you would expect.
Last week, I watched Only Murders in the Building (2021), a thoroughly entertaining show with a somewhat meta plot revolving around three characters (who love true crime podcasts) making a podcast about a murder in their building. A few episodes in, one of the characters has an epiphany and realises that “Every true crime story is actually true for someone.” It is only when things become personal that this realization dawns upon our hero and he mulls ending their podcast/amateur sleuthing adventure. The moment is, of course, short-lived. Our protagonists continue their podcasting and sleuthing (the show must go on, after all) but it makes a point that is often ignored by true crime aficionados.3
In this poignant, heart-rending piece, the author talks about how a dramatic re-imagination of the murder of her mother by her father and his lover (in the TV show, The Secret) propelled her “into a new world of trauma”. Having lived through a devastating incident, she writes about how spinning TV shows out of her grief seemed exploitative and disrespectful to the victim and their kin. I cannot imagine that she is alone in feeling this way.
It is unlikely that true crime will cease to be a media genre; we are too far gone for that. But perhaps we need to be more empathetic, more mindful about how it is created and consumed, and most importantly, how the creators have (if at all) engaged with the people involved. As the viewer, listener or reader, we hold the key to what sells and can shape the kind of stories we wish to see, hear or read. It may be apposite for us to bear that in mind the next time we pick up a true crime story. And with that, please excuse me while I go and try to figure out which streaming platform has The Secret in its catalogue.
While researching about the movie, I discovered that it was based on a short story (“It Had to Be Murder”) written in 1942 and available here. Rear Window has itself inspired many movies with similar themes.
The media had likened the scene to a banyan tree - drawing a parallel between the perpendicular roots hanging down from the branches of a banyan tree to the graphic image of 10 bodies suspended from the ceiling. This has effectively ruined banyan trees for me, forever.
It is quite enjoyable and funny to boot. Yet another recommendation for you, dear reader.
I appreciate the footnotes –I strongly believe they're severely underutilized in informal writing. Thoroughly enjoyed this. I am still learning how to write reviews but find that it is usually not my place to be commenting on something I know so little about. Would appreciate any pointers to get over this block! Thanks!