As a seasoned observer of the media landscape and its intricate dance with truth and sensationalism, I find myself deeply troubled by the portrayal of the Menendez brothers’ story in Ryan Murphy‘s latest series. Having spent years studying and writing about true crime, I’ve seen firsthand how these narratives can be twisted to suit convenient narratives or feed into cultural biases.
A particular moment within this season’s installment of Ryan Murphy’s Monsters series, which centers around characters Erik (Cooper Koch) and Lyle Menendez (Nicholas Chavez), encapsulates the program’s viewpoint.
Following the trial for the murder of Jose and Kitty Menendez, the brothers’ testimony has concluded, and a conversation ensues between Vanity Fair writer Dominick Dunne (portrayed by Nathan Lane) and defense attorney Leslie Abramson (played by Ari Graynor). “Either those two boys suffered unimaginably cruel abuse at the hands of their parents and they truly deserved their fate,” says Dunne, “or you managed to elicit that performance from a deceitful, cold-blooded killer. I can’t decide which scenario terrifies me more.
In this TV show, Dunne often functions as both a Greek chorus and a town square, discussing the case with acquaintances in various scenes. Essentially, he presents arguments that accuse the brothers of crimes such as murdering their parents for financial gain, burglarizing homes during their teenage years, being fixated on their parents’ will, spending excessively after the murders, and acting suspiciously while testifying. However, the way Dunne’s character portrays survivors of abuse is troubling, as he suggests that closely examining their behavior can help determine the truth of their allegations. This perspective isn’t exclusive to Dunne; rather, it permeates throughout the series itself, which tends to present a binary view of the brothers – either they are highly convincing psychopaths or they were abused – until the very last episodes.
The Monsters series has often found itself in the midst of debates. Last year’s release, Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story, sparked the usual discussions about the ethical implications of exploiting victims’ stories. However, the current criticism and backlash towards The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story have brought forth new concerns, particularly regarding the portrayal of sexual abuse. Representing stories that revolve around criminals who are also survivors of abuse can be tricky, as it blurs the line between victim and offender in a complex manner. Crafting empathetic characters who have been through trauma while also acknowledging the harm they’ve inflicted necessitates careful storytelling. This becomes even more challenging as our discourse on mental health challenges the glamorization of sociopathic and psychopathic behavior.
Previous works within the Murphyverse, such as “The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story” in 2018, received Emmys and critical praise. However, its portrayal of Cunanan’s violence, focusing primarily on the sensational aspect of his actions, aligns with Murphy’s pattern in true-crime productions. His work tends to revisit rather than explore fresh perspectives about these cases. Instead of delving into unanswered questions, he often rekindles those that have already been conclusively addressed.
The TV series “The Assassination of Gianni Versace” delves into the murder spree of Andrew Cunanan in 1997, culminating with his fatal shooting of Gianni Versace. Murphy utilized Maureen Orth’s book, “Vulgar Favors: Andrew Cunanan, Gianni Versace, and the Largest Failed Manhunt in U.S. History,” as a primary resource for this show. This book primarily focuses on an extensive biography of Cunanan, who was born to a Filipino American father and Italian American mother in San Diego, detailing his upbringing and ending with his suicide in a houseboat when the FBI located his hiding place. The book also sheds light on the unsuccessful FBI investigation, humanizing Cunanan’s victims and their families.
The series deliberately shifted focus from Cunanan, even in its title, instead painting a picture of Versace and the final moments of lesser-known victims like David Madson and Jeffrey Trail. It delved into the dynamic between law enforcement and the LGBTQ+ community. This narrative approach is justified. However, despite this, Cunanan’s actions remained the central event in each episode. The show perpetuated ’90s stereotypes about Cunanan as a vengeful psychopath, suggesting he was desperate for fame, had previously encountered Versace, and murdered him out of jealousy.
In the show, Darren Criss compellingly plays Cunanan as a dissociated poser, including sensationalistic scenes of S&M sex. But where did that dissociation come from? In the book, Orth overlooks Cunanan’s experiences as a queer, Filipino American femme in the ’80s and the homophobia surrounding the understanding of his story. After the first murders, the media was rife with anti-gay sentiments that Cunanan was a revenge AIDS killer; that he was in love with Tom Cruise and wanted to kill him, too. (Contemporary with Orth’s reportorial book, queer critic Gary Indiana’s Three Month Fever: The Andrew Cunanan Story did take issue with what he termed the media’s cartoon of tabloid evil.)
Born to parents of different races, Cunanan’s father was overly focused on success and assimilation, which significantly impacted his self-perception negatively. After his demise, the father suggested that John F. Kennedy Jr., a heterosexual white man, portray him in a film. Interestingly, despite feeling at ease with his homosexuality, Cunanan struggled to embrace his identity as a Filipino American.
In the series “Vulgar Favors,” when Orth queries Cunanan’s father about allegations that he had sexually abused Andrew, he denies it. However, he also denies ever abusing his wife, a fact which was later confirmed to be true. It emerged that Cunanan could have contacted an abuse hotline concerning the cover-ups within the Catholic Church clergy, using the alias Andrew DeSilva. Yet, in this series filled with fictional elements, the possibility that Cunanan might have been both a victim and perpetrator of abuse was seldom addressed, except through indirect portrayals in scenes involving his father in the final episode before the last one in the series.
It’s important to note that while it’s crucial to acknowledge the suffering of Cunanan’s victims, it’s also valuable to ponder why certain Murphyverse projects seem to provide more depth and understanding to violent actions. For instance, “The Assassination of Gianni Versace” faced criticism for its focus on Gianni Versace at the expense of empathy towards his killer. Comparatively, “The Jeffrey Dahmer Story” was criticized for centering Dahmer and being insensitive to his Black victims. Likewise, “American Sports Story: Aaron Hernandez” presents a complex backstory for Hernandez, who murdered three Black men, raising questions about the role of true crime in shaping cultural perceptions of empathy. These observations are meant to spark discussion on the intricate ways that true crime narratives influence our understanding and compassion within these works themselves.
1989 was the year the Menendez murders unfolded, long before society began to openly challenge the way we discuss survivors of abuse and question the actions of law enforcement. As brothers, we found ourselves standing trial twice, asserting our defense as imperfect self-defense – essentially arguing that years of abuse had left us fearing for our lives. The first trial ended in a deadlock; the second resulted in a murder conviction.
Following several decades of journalistic reports presenting conflicting views on their allegations, there is now a general agreement that there was an overwhelming amount of proof indicating abuse. Both Erik and Lyle confided in cousins from different family branches about their experiences as children. Witnesses claimed that Jose Menendez attempted to acclimate them to the idea of child pornography as regular home entertainment; Kitty Menendez’s therapist suggested she was hiding disturbing family secrets. This evidence, however, was either disregarded or scrutinized by media outlets prior to the Me Too movement, including journalists like Dominick Dunne who supported the prosecutors’ claims that they were manipulative liars.
The show’s subtitle is The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story, except it completely sidelines this evidence again. Murphy argued in a recent interview that “you have to get [into] everybody’s perspective so that the audience can then form their own.” But the series never tells the story from their perspective at all. The precariousness of evidence about the childhood abuse is both-sided, instead of contextualized. The show makes all kinds of decisions, from how it orders information, to what information is a snippet of expository dialogue versus a scene, to create doubts.
In the narrative, there’s no fictional portrayal of conversations about childhood abuse, except for their own statements or dialogue. Instead, a powerful scene is presented where one of them confesses the murder to their therapist, Jerome Oziel (played by Dallas Roberts). This choice might seem unusual, but it was strategically placed to fuel doubts about the brothers, as police and prosecutors often pointed to their taped confession of the murder as a reason for questioning why they didn’t reveal their abuse to Oziel, despite confessing to the murder. It’s logical that they might hesitate to disclose anything to Oziel, given he was employed by Jose Menendez, which could potentially lead him to report back to their father.
In a later, extended sequence, Erik discusses his experiences of sexual abuse with his lawyer Leslie Abramson (played by Ari Graynor). She appears to take his account seriously. However, the narrative construction suggests that the abuse was primarily brought up during legal proceedings. Every assertion they make is challenged through numerous scenes and dialogue, such as suggesting they formulated the abuse allegations after reading relevant literature, or that Lyle manipulated Erik into lying. The defense lawyers, Jill Lansing and Leslie Abramson, seem to view these accusations as purely tactical for the courtroom. The series does not delve into the prosecution’s machinations, political motives (such as securing a conviction following high-profile losses like the O.J. Simpson case), or the judge’s decision to exclude evidence of abuse in the second trial.
The show occasionally tries to subtly suggest the intergenerational abuse experienced by Jose Menendez, although not as directly as the film “Assassination” does. However, it often does so in a heavy-handed manner with scenes that are entirely fictional, which can detract from truly grasping the genuine paranoia that the brothers were suffering from.
The backlash to Monsters versus the critical acclaim of Assassination speaks, in part, to a growing sympathy and consensus that has emerged around the Menendez brothers, in spite of Murphy’s efforts. It also speaks to the wider de-stigmatization of the idea of the sociopath or psychopath, which the Murphy oeuvre seem to depend on. Since the show, a more accurate and succinct portrait of Cunanan emerged, for instance, in the Bad Gays history podcast.
Some analysts have chosen to examine more closely the vague connotations of terms such as sociopath and psychopath, along with the potential connection between these labels and the prison-industrial complex – including concepts like “serial killer.” They tend to see these classifications not so much as an entrenched belief about innate wickedness that sensationalized crime narratives have frequently reinforced, but rather as a product of cultural interpretation.
Instead of challenging the outdated norms of the ’90s, Ryan Murphy’s shows sometimes employ a fashionable touch and vibrant color schemes to resurrect rather than critique the ideologies of that decade.
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2024-10-04 21:54