I never fully understood some people’s fascination with crime dramas. Every time my roommates were watching “Criminal Minds,” I would walk quickly through the living room with my eyes averted. However, over the years, I have walked slower and averted my eyes less. I sometimes even did the typical dad thing — where I said I didn’t want to watch the show and then proceeded to watch it, leaning in a doorway or perched on the edge of the couch, every so often stating that I was about to leave. Eventually, I decided to wave the white flag, occasionally watching an episode with my roommates and making sure to avoid particularly disturbing episodes.
Despite my tolerance for the show, I still found that certain episodes would leave me feeling uneasy and nauseated. Something about the specific crime or the portrayal of the perpetrator would make me feel physically ill.
Unfortunately, the couple of uniquely upsetting episodes did not keep me from gaining confidence in my ability to handle this type of media. I decided to try out this newfound confidence on the film “Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile” about the serial killer Ted Bundy.
I quickly found out that my confidence was an illusion. I finished the film — but afterward, I felt ill. It was worse than any “Criminal Minds” episode; that nauseated, disgusted feeling in the pit of my stomach was stronger than ever before.
But why? Why did “Extremely Wicked” affect me to such a degree, when none of Ted Bundy’s murders were even depicted? There are plenty of “Criminal Minds” episodes that are much more gruesome.
It wasn’t the violence of “Extremely Wicked” that caused my reaction — It was the portrayal of Bundy. The movie claimed to be telling the story from the perspective of Ted Bundy’s long-term girlfriend, Elizabeth Kloepfer; however, one would never know from watching the film. “Extremely Wicked,” like many other movies about killers, focused on the perpetrator, but it lacked eye-opening depictions of his horrible crimes. Viewers never see Bundy, the cold-blooded serial killer. They only show Bundy, the charismatic, misunderstood, loyal boyfriend.
The movie felt like it had been written by a Bundy groupie. Not concerned with the women he murdered, the film chose to focus on Bundy’s intelligence, charisma and commitment to Elizabeth — whom Bundy admitted to trying to kill at one point by closing the damper on the fireplace so Elizabeth would suffocate from the smoke. It is an incident that the film chooses to leave out, just like the women that Bundy killed, who have been reduced to unnamed and unknown plot devices.
“Extremely Wicked” made me write off true crime movies and shows. I decided I wouldn’t be a part of the commercialization of such tragedy and pain. I stood by that decision, until recently when I heard that the new true crime movie — “Woman of the Hour,” released Oct. 11 on Netflix — was said to be different than “Extremely Wicked” and was a step in the right direction regarding true crime media.
I was doubtful.
Nevertheless, I decided to give “Woman of the Hour” a try. With every light on in my living room and my roommates working on homework in the seats next to me, I queued up Netflix on my laptop. Things always seem a little less scary when on a smaller screen. Despite being one of the top ten movies on Netflix in the U.S., it was nowhere on my home screen. I guess even Netflix knew the film was not my typical cup of tea.
“Woman of the Hour,” which is Anna Kendrick’s directorial debut film, tells the story of serial killer Rodney Alcala — also known as The Dating Game Killer because he was a contestant on the 70s TV show “The Dating Game” in the middle of his killing spree. Alcala was charged with eight counts of murder, but many estimate his total to be closer to 130. The film focuses on one of Alcala’s co-contestants on the show, Cheryl Bradshaw — played by Kendrick — an aspiring actress who goes on “The Dating Game” in hopes of “being seen.”
At first, I found it bizarre that Kendrick chose to make Cheryl the focus of the movie since she was never a victim of Alcala; however, I quickly realized that Cheryl was the perfect choice because of her secondary connection. By focusing on Cheryl, Kendrick avoids the issues that often arise when the perpetrator or a victim is the focus: glorification of the killer and dehumanization of the victim.
Films that focus on the perpetrator often get caught up in the allure of having a cunning and witty “bad guy.” For example, in the case of “Extremely Wicked,” Ted Bundy is depicted outwitting lawyers in the courtroom and sneaking past police officers. It feels as if the film almost wants viewers to be rooting for Bundy. Similarly, when the victim is the focus of the film, filmmakers fall into a trap — wanting to make the story more exciting or compelling for the viewers and in the process twisting the story of the victim. The victim’s story doesn’t need an extra chase scene or a tragic backstory. It is a story about a real person who suffered — and it is compelling enough. When filmmakers change the victim’s story to be more “entertaining,” they use the victim as a tool to advance the story rather than treating them like a human being with hopes, dreams and fears.
While she focused heavily on “The Dating Game” contestant, Kendrick did not shy away from showing the true horrors of what Alcala committed. Kendrick makes sure the viewers never forget what the film is about — a serial killer who targeted young women and girls. Viewers are faced with the heavy subject of the film from the very beginning and sporadically throughout. Similar to Bundy, Alcala was known for being charming and flirty, and this side of him is displayed often throughout the film.
Kendrick, however, doesn’t give viewers the chance to feel connected to this character. She immediately follows Alcala’s moments of wit and charm with depictions of his violence and insanity. One second, he will be flirting with his victims, and then the next, his smile drops, his eyes become distant and he strikes.
Thankfully for my weak stomach, most of the murders are largely implied; however, we do see one woman strangled, revived and then strangled again — a common practice for Alcala. Kendrick attempts to avoid using the murders for entertainment value; instead, she takes the time to humanize the victims. Before each murder, the viewers are introduced to the victims. We learn their names and a little bit of their story. We gain a glimpse into their life before it is taken. They are no longer “victim number one” and “victim number two;” instead, they are a pregnant woman whose boyfriend dumped her and a runaway who is alone and far from home. It moves the victims past being mere plot devices into being real people to be mourned.
Kendrick expertly crafted the story to honor the victims and condemn the perpetrator. “Woman of the Hour” is a step toward what true crime media should strive to be. And while I probably will not watch another true crime film anytime soon, I hope future directors follow in Kendrick’s footsteps.
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