Content warning: This article mentions sexual assault, abuse and violence.

There has always been a dark side to human nature. It is why we can’t look away from a car crash or a burning flame. This primal fascination with the morbid is not new but has found a strong outlet in true crime media. 

From bestselling podcasts to hit Netflix series, true crime has become a cultural phenomenon. According to the Interactive Advertising Bureau’s 2018 Podcast Advertising Revenue Study, ​​United States podcast advertising revenue surged by 53% in 2018 to $479 million, up from $314 million in 2017. As the genre has evolved into a mainstream staple, its ethical pitfalls become harder to ignore. 

Over half a year after its release, Netflix’s “Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story” maintains its position as a case study on the exploitative and deficient nature of the true crime genre.

Sept. 19, 2024, marked the second installment in Ian Brennan and Ryan Murphy’s anthology on convicted killers. The season retells the infamous 1989 Menendez case in which brothers Lyle and Erik Menendez were convicted of murdering their parents and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Behind the murder was a motive no one in their Beverly Hills community could have predicted. 

Just in its first week, the show accrued 45 million streaming hours, captivating audiences with the story of the Menendez brothers. Shortly after the show’s release, the Los Angeles County district attorney at the time, George Gascón, recommended a resentencing for the brothers. He cited the newfound public interest in the case as a considerable factor in his decision.  

Seven months later, the Menendez brothers returned to the courts on April 17 to fight for their resentencing. The trial was supposed to span two days but was shot down because of disagreements between the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office and the brothers’ defense team. It has now been rescheduled for Friday. 

Despite the show’s effect on the brothers’ sentencing, Erik Menendez had initially condemned the show for its harmful portrayal of the brothers. On the day of the show’s premiere, Erik Menendez shared a statement on X through his wife’s account. 

“I believed we had moved beyond the lies and ruinous character portrayal of Lyle, creating a caricature of Lyle rooted in horrible and blatant lies rampant in the show,” Erik Menendez said. “I can only believe they were done so on purpose … Murphy shapes his horrible narrative through vile and appalling character portrayals of Lyle and of me and disheartening slander. Is the truth not enough? Let the truth stand as the truth.”

The slander Erik Menendez mentions includes storylines that involve an incestuous relationship between the brothers, erotic scenes displaying Erik Menendez as a gay man and Lyle Menendez struggling with incessant drug use. 

Lacking any real evidence behind them, these far-flung theories were started and perpetuated by Dominick Dunne, a former Vanity Fair journalist whose coverage of the Menendez case became popular nationwide in 1989. 

In reality, the brothers’ motives for murder were rooted in dark secrets the Menendez family kept hidden in their home. 

The brothers claimed to be acting in self-defense against the years of physical, emotional and sexual abuse they endured at the hands of their parents, which the show went deep into. Entire episodes dedicate themselves to showcasing the egregious acts, like the molestation, rape and degradation the brothers experienced.

Despite the brothers repeatedly denying such theories, they were nonetheless included in the show because true crime breeds sensationalism. The genre has always “aimed to arouse strong emotional reactions in the public,” according to Joy Wiltenburg, professor emerita of history at Rowan University, in her paper titled “True Crime: The Origins of Modern Sensationalism.” 

This speaks to a broader problem within true crime: the genre’s reliance on sensationalism to captivate audiences. Sensationalism — using shocking stories at the expense of accuracy — has always been a selling point for true crime. 

The genre’s appeal is undeniable, tapping into our deepest fears and curiosities. However, this appeal comes with responsibility. The stories we consume are not just entertainment; they are real, lived experiences with lasting consequences. 

If true crime is to evolve, it must balance its narrative power with a commitment to truth and empathy. The emphasis on shocking twists and details can overshadow the nuanced realities of a case. 

In “Monsters,” the focus on scandalous elements like incest and drug use can distract from deeper issues, like the brothers’ allegations of long-term abuse by their parents — a pivotal aspect of their defense during the trial.

By turning real-life trauma into entertainment, we risk desensitizing ourselves to the suffering of others. The Menendez case should not be viewed as simply a dramatic courtroom saga. It is also a complex story of familial dysfunction, psychological trauma and legal controversies.

When done responsibly, true crime has the power to educate and inform. It can shed light on systemic issues, advocate for justice and amplify the voices of victims. To achieve this, creators must approach their work with a sense of responsibility and respect. Accuracy should be paramount, with speculation and dramatization distinguished from fact. 

We must prioritize the voices of those directly impacted. Consulting with victims’ families, survivors and legal experts can provide a more balanced and respectful portrayal. 

Even more remarkably, true crime can foster social change and make tangible differences in the lives affected by crime. Perhaps the best example of this was regarding the “West Memphis Three,” three teenage boys convicted of the 1993 murders of three eight-year-old boys in West Memphis, Arkansas. 

Due to the dubious nature of the evidence, the lack of physical evidence connecting the men to the crime and the suspected presence of emotional bias in court, the case generated widespread controversy. It was even the subject of several documentaries, including “Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory.”

The film had a significant effect by bringing widespread public attention to the case, leading to increased scrutiny of the convictions and ultimately contributing to the release of the West Memphis Three. It is widely considered a landmark documentary that helped spark the modern true crime genre, according to Angela Aguayo, associate professor in Media at the University.

“Before the film, counternarratives were silenced in official court hearings and by the mainstream media; without the film’s intervention, these narratives might never have proliferated in a significant way,” Aguayo wrote in her book, “Documentary Resistance: Social Change and Participatory Media.” “These two films acted as a catalyst, galvanizing participatory publics invested in seeing through the process of justice and change.”

As true crime continues to dominate our screens and headphones, it’s worth reflecting on why these stories captivate us. Our fascination with crime may be a natural part of human curiosity, but that doesn’t absolve us — or the creators of these stories — of the responsibility to engage with them ethically. 

The challenge lies in balancing our thirst for gripping narratives with a deeper commitment to truth and empathy. Only then can true crime transcend its darker tendencies and become a means for change and understanding rather than exploitation.

Gurneer is a freshman in LAS.

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