The hundreds of true-crime podcasts are even more revolting. Shows such as My Favorite Murder cover some of the darkest experiences for hours on end. Listeners tune in for hours of casual discussion of school shootings. One host speaks with growing excitement as she describes the crime while the other adds dozens of corporate and obligatory “ew’s” “ugh’s” and “oh my God’s.” The podcast even self-identifies as a “true crime comedy podcast.” Sure, humor can be a useful tool for working through tragedy. But hundreds of episodes covering tragedy nonchalantly only serve to minimize the anguish felt by every victim whose stories they discuss.
Each of these programs takes a real toll on both survivors and the families of victims. Producers and writers have repeatedly covered gruesome stories without receiving any form of consent. Mindy Pendleton begged Netflix to abandon its project to cover the strangulation of her stepson, but, hey, capital calls! It is perfectly legal — writers usually compile their research from publicly available information — but that doesn’t make it any less gross. It is a cheap commodification of crime, and it makes a spectacle of sin. People watch and read in intimate detail about real people at the lowest states of their lives. About the sexual abuses and disfiguring injuries they or their loved ones experienced. It’s utterly humiliating. And the producers, when criticized, hide behind the banner of “raising awareness.” But as we’ve already gone over, this is no excuse. Even if it does raise awareness of what the monsters that roam the earth are capable of, it does not matter. The victims do not deserve to relive their pain or become household names.
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