Cooper Koch and Nicholas Alexander Chavez star in ‘Monsters.’ (Photo courtesy of Netflix)
You know it’s there. It’s been lurking in your Netflix queue for over a month now, taunting you, beckoning you with its sure promise of sexy, lurid thrills, but you’ve been holding back – and we can’t say we blame you. After all, that “Dahmer” show was pretty hard to watch.
For many Netflix viewers, there have been no such qualms; though Ryan Murphy’s “Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story” debuted nearly a month ago, it’s currently the platform’s #3 most-watched series in the U.S., despite mixed reviews from critics and controversy over the way the show’s narrative depicts the facts of the notorious 1989 murder that put the two brothers in the national spotlight through two highly publicized trials. Even if killing their wealthy parents put the Menandez brothers into prison for life, it also put them into the upper echelon of “True Crime” superstars, and that makes anything dealing with their story “must-see TV” for a lot of people.
If you’re one of those who have resisted it so far, it’s likely your reasons have something to do with the very things that make it so irresistible to so many others. It’s hard to imagine a more sensational (or more gruesome) crime story than the tale of Lyle and Erik (Nicholas Alexander Chavez and Cooper Koch), who killed their wealthy parents with multiple shotgun blasts in their Beverly Hills mansion, claimed the deaths were the result of an organized crime “hit,” and then went on an extravagant spending spree with their multi-million-dollar inheritance. Even knowing just the surface details, it’s brimming with circumstances that conjure deep and troubling questions, not least about how two abundantly fortunate young men – Lyle was 21 at the time of the killing, Erik only 18 – could possibly have become capable of such a horrific act; their claim they acted in fear, after years of sexual and psychological abuse from their parents, offers answers that only leads to more questions. It’s easy to see how a morbid fascination could develop around the case (and the perpetrators, who at the time were each charismatic, handsome, and somehow boyishly adorable in spite of the silver-spoon detachment they seemed to exude) in a society endlessly fascinated by the dirty secrets and bad behavior of rich, beautiful people.
That, of course, makes the Menendez saga a natural fit with Ryan Murphy’s brand of television, which embraces the sensationalism of whatever subject it tackles – as we’ve seen from the transgressively macabre twists of “American Horror Story” to the scandal-icious celebrity backbiting of “Feud” to the campy noir-flavored psychopathy of “Ratched.” His “American Crime Story” anthology has delivered its true-life dramas with an equal eye toward creating those “WTF?” moments that inevitably have social media buzzing with both glee and outrage the morning after they drop. The “Monster” franchise is a natural progression, using Murphy’s shrewd knack for cultural provocation to unearth the underlying social dysfunctions that help create an environment in which such killers can be created.
With the inaugural installment, “Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story,” it can be argued that he crafted a chilling masterpiece of binge-able long-form storytelling that not only took viewers into the unspeakable horrors that took place in the killer’s apartment, but into the mind of the man who committed them. Yet while the show proved successful, earning an impressive tally of critical accolades, it was met with a harsher tone – much of it from families of Dahmer’s real-life victims – for capitalizing on his crimes.
For “Menendez,” the reception has been predictably similar, though its critical reception has not been quite as warm, with many reviewers taking issue with Murphy’s signature slicked-up style and the show’s overt homoeroticism. Controversies, however, have come along as expected; objections over the extremely unflattering portrayal of José and Kitty Mendez (the ill-fated parents, played here with star-power intensity by Javier Bardem and Chloë Sevigny), and of the incestuous bond alleged between the title characters themselves, have arisen alongside complaints about the distortion of facts to support a narrative favoring the boys’ version of events that Murphy – who co-wrote the series as well as produced it – wants to advance.
It’s certainly fair to claim that Murphy plays fast and loose with facts; his purpose here is not to transcribe events, like a docuseries, but to interpret them. He and his fellow writers craft “Monsters” theatrically, with bold strokes and operatic moments; they mine it for black humor and milk it for emotional intensity; the series plays up the brothers’ pretty-boy charms, caressing their sculpted bodies with the camera and frequently showing them in various states of near or total nudity; it seems to fixate on the messy, petty, and ignoble traits of its characters, and illuminate the messy personal motives driving their public agendas; it even employs a “Rashomon”-esque approach in which it variously portrays different versions of the same events depending on the character describing them. In short, it’s not a show that is looking for factual truth; it’s searching for a more complex truth behind the facts.
That truth, perhaps, has a lot to do with the shame, stigma, and silence around abuse; the tendency to disbelieve the victims (especially when they are male – a prosecutor during the trials famously argued that a male “couldn’t be raped”); the cultural homophobia that further complicates the dynamic when the abuse comes from someone of the same sex. Does such abuse warrant absolution for murder, especially when the murder is as excessively brutal as the killing of José and Kitty Menendez? That’s a question Murphy and crew leave up to the viewers.
Such moral ambiguity is surely part of the reason that shows like “Monsters” and its predecessor are met with such hostility from some viewers; they offer no easy comfort, no straightforward moral order to reassure us that our perceptions of good and evil are just or fair or even correct – and if you’re looking for a hero to step forward and make sense of it all for us, you’re not going to find one.
If that’s too bleak a prospect for you, or if the notion of criminals as celebrities is something you’re just not comfortable with enough to make allowances for artistic intention, then “Monsters” may not be for you.
For anyone else who has hesitated to watch, however, it’s a show worthy of your time. Though it might seem uneven, even disjointed at times, it paints an overall picture of the Menendez case that is about something much more than the murders – or the murderers – themselves. The performances are all accomplished, well-tuned together to a sort of elevated authenticity, with special note to a jaw-dropping star turn by Koch monologuing his way through a one-shot full-length episode filmed in a single take.
The latter alone is enough to make “Monsters” an awards-worthy piece of television. While it may not be the right show for every taste, it’s not “trash TV” either. It’s a bold and challenging work from one of our most prolific and dedicated queer showmen, and if it leaves you feeling sorry for monsters, is that really such a bad thing?
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