In the sultry month of August in the year 2024, the streaming giant Netflix unveiled a tantalizing glimpse of its latest creation – an installment of the revered “Monsters” series delving into the dark tale of the Menendez brothers. Remembered for their horrific act of murdering their own parents back in 1989, this chapter showcased Lyle, portrayed by Nicholas Chavez, and Erik, embodied by Cooper Koch, in a striking and tender embrace that left viewers disconcerted over the implicit romantic undertones between the siblings.
“Why are they poised as paramours in such a tender entwining?” queried one astute X user, whose sentiment garnered nearly 300 agreeable likes. Within a forum thread, a multitude of voices laid blame at the feet of a certain individual.
The mastermind behind this tempestuous project, creator and writer Ryan Murphy, is no stranger to controversy when handling true crime narratives. In the annals of September 2022, Netflix birthed “Monster: A Jeffrey Dahmer Story”, a limited anthology offering a fictitious portrayal of the life and misdeeds of the infamous Jeffrey Dahmer. Reception to this series was varied, with discerning critics noting the voyeuristic allure of centering a show on a real serial killer rather than emphasizing the plight of his victims.
Murphy and his compatriot Ian Brennan, through their stylized cinematic approach and the compelling portrayal by Evan Peters, inadvertently contributed to the embellishment and grandeur surrounding the figure of Jeffery Dahmer. Amidst the shadows of this grim tale, fleeting moments of value appeared when Murphy illuminated aspects forgotten amidst the discussions of Dahmer’s atrocities. In a poignant episode titled “Silenced”, the narrative of Anthony Sears shed light on the ugly facets of racism and homophobia that permitted Dahmer’s heinous acts to persist unseen. Yet, any flicker of positivity was swiftly eclipsed by the anguished response of the victims’ kin.
“I am of the firm belief that Netflix ought to have sought our consent or gauged our sentiments regarding the production,” lamented Rita Isbell, sister of Errol Lindsey, a victim of Dahmer’s savagery. “They extended no invitation for input or engagement, nor afforded us a modicum of respect.” Other bereaved family members of Dahmer’s victims echoed Rita’s sentiments, recounting the absence of compensation, input avenues, or premier access to “A Jeffrey Dahmer Story”. This glaring oversight is particularly egregious in the realm of true crime fiction, where truthful portrayal of victims holds utmost relevance.
The labyrinthine saga of the Menendez clan is fraught with intricacies, delving into harrowing themes such as childhood trauma and neglect. The moral quandary surrounding the crafting of a fictional series that orbits the nucleus of this grim tale is already tenuous. Murphy’s deft touch in narrating this saga appears as fleeting as a wisp of smoke within the tapestry of his acclaimed “Glee” episodes.
From the inaugural installment, the artistic choices of “Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story” raise eyebrows and questions alike. Lyle is cast in the image of a haughty scion, while Erik emerges as a timid, subservient figure under his sibling’s sway. At best, this portrayal is a dramatization of the media frenzy that engulfed the trial; at worst, it embodies character assassination. The initial quartet of episodes chronicles the events preceding and ensuing the grievous act committed by the brothers, adhering closely to the testimonies of Erik and Lyle. Episode 5, however, stands as a beacon of praise and marks a transformative juncture in the series.
Episode 5, christened “The Hurt Man”, pivots around Erik Menendez and his legal counselor, Leslie Abramson, brought to life by the talented Ari Graynor. A singularly entrancing episode, it unfolds with a continuous shot fixated on Erik – Leslie’s presence only hinted by the back of her head. This chapter is a visceral, gut-wrenching exposé on Erik’s tormented past, with Cooper Koch’s mesmerizing performance anchoring the narrative for a gripping thirty-odd minutes.
Upon feasting my eyes upon this saga, recollections of the penultimate act in “Baby Reindeer” and Richard Gadd’s chillingly raw monologue surfaced within my mind. Narratives depicting male victimization serve a crucial societal purpose. “The Hurt Man” thrusts Erik Menendez’s harrowing ordeal at the hands of Jose Menendez into the harsh limelight sans frills or fabrications. This episode, a veritable tour de force, would be nigh perfect were it not for Murphy and the “Monster” series at large.
Though much of the episode mirrors Erik’s actual confessions, a sense of disquiet pervades as Erik recounts a fabricated consensual liaison with a teenage boy – a stark contrast to his professed heterosexuality. In a 1996 interview with Barbara Walters, Erik vehemently denies any homosexual inclinations, attributing the prosecutor’s insinuations to preconceived notions. Murphy’s insertion of such a falsehood diminishes the impact of an otherwise pivotal episode, marring its integrity.
Murphy appears inclined towards interjecting fictitious elements into this narrative of true crime. Notable is a scene where the esteemed crime writer Dominick Dunne weaves speculative motives attributed to the Menendez brothers. While most of his conjectures echo real-world skepticism, one hypothesis sprung forth from the crucible of imagination. Fictional Dunne hints at a clandestine affair betwixt the Menendez siblings, with a climactic scene portraying Kitty Menendez stumbling upon Lyle and Erik in a compromising position within a shower. Such innuendos, alongside an earlier depiction of fraternal intimacy, unfurl a fantastical tapestry within this bleak narrative.
In response to this controversial portrayal, Erik issued a poignant statement via his wife, Tammi Menendez, lambasting the depiction of Lyle and impugning Murphy’s intentions. “With a heavy heart, I declare my firm belief that Ryan Murphy’s portrayal eludes accuracy and inadvertently incites malice,” muttered Erik. Other members of the Menendez clan echoed his dismay, branding the series a waking nightmare. Yet, Murphy remains resolute in his convictions, proclaiming that “Monsters” serves a larger, more noble purpose in spotlighting the Menendez saga.
My sentiments regarding “Monsters” veer from fervent admiration to mild skepticism. On one hand, it ignites conversations of paramount importance, casting anew the spotlight on the Menendez legacy. The forbidden dialogues magnified by “Monsters” parallel the societal ripples entwined with the Dahmer series.
Fiction, that wondrous tapestry that unravels the complexities of the human psyche, bears the paradoxical essence of embodying characters while portraying real individuals. Lyle, Erik, Jose, and Kitty ceased to exist as mere characters, transcending into the realm of reality. Murphy, an unquestionable juggernaut of creative prowess, seems to falter when handling a tale as intricate and multifaceted as the Menendez family murders. Fiction, in this instance, sows more discord than clarity upon this desolate canvas of sorrow.
Today, the advent of October 7th heralds a documentary chronicling the Menendez brethren, yet another creation by the Netflix behemoth. The prospect of this cinematic discourse harmonizing with the iterations of “Erik” and “Lyle” etched by Murphy and Brenman looms large in the corridors of uncertainty.
“Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story” now graces the digital realm of Netflix, awaiting the curious and the intrepid to unravel its intricate tapestry of deception and despair.
