By Katherine Moody
moodykat@grinnell.edu

It would be hard to understate the popularity of true crime entertainment in 2018. While true crime has always been popular, the recent surge in the popularity of podcasts has increased the reach of the genre. Ushered in by the wild and unprecedented success of the first season of Serial in 2014, which according to CNN averaged 3.4 million downloads per episode, a boom in new true crime podcasts has commanded the attention of millions of Americans. My Favorite Murder, a comedy podcast in which two friends, Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark, joke about their “favorite” murders, emerged out of this boom. The podcast averages 19 million listeners every month; it has been heralded by some as a feminist retooling of true crime, a genre notorious for its tendency to fetishize violence and enshrine violent criminals. After listening to several episodes, I can promise you, it is not. Instead, My Favorite Murder reveals the problems inherent in the true crime genre.

True crime often revels in violence against women, who make up most of the genre’s fan base. According to a 2010 study in the Social Psychological and Personality Science journal, women are more likely to be drawn to true crime stories than men.

Marni Feuerman, a licensed clinical social worker, attempted to explain this finding during a 2018 interview on INSIDER. According to Feuerman, “Women have to live in fear on a daily basis that they can easily become a crime victim.” Feuerman also noted that true crime stories often end with the capture of the perpetrator, which can be comforting to women.

A 2017 Buzzfeed News article praising My Favorite Murder reflects much of what Feuerman said. The piece asserts that the podcast “sets itself apart by helping female listeners gain a sense of protection, control, or at least reassurance.” What the article fails to consider is that it does so at the expense of crime victims.

The episode “My Second Best Murder” begins with both Kilgariff and Hardstark introducing themselves and exclaiming, “We love murder!” Kilgariff explains that they, “love to talk about bad things that have happened to good people.” Then Hardstark jumps in, playfully proclaiming, “Hopefully they won’t happen to us if we talk about it enough!” About eleven minutes into the episode, after a frolicsome back and forth, Kilgariff agrees to talk about her favorite murder for this episode. Kilgariff recounts the case of Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka and how, in the 1990s, Homolka helped Bernardo abduct, rape and murder young women, starting with Homolka’s own 14-year-old younger sister. Hardstark exclaims, “I love this one!” And Kilgariff continues, describing how they drugged Homolka’s younger sister before Bernardo raped her while Homolka videotaped it. “This was her younger sister,” says Kilgariff through laughter. My Favorite Murder is, after all, a comedy podcast.

It is true that not all true crime entertainment laughs openly at stories of rape and murder; some, like Serial, profess to draw attention to flaws in our criminal justice system and illuminate miscarriages of justice. However, My Favorite Murder reveals the problem inherent in the genre: it turns stories of horrific violence and trauma endured by real people, often recent enough that the victims’ families and surviving victims are still alive, into entertainment for audiences to consume. Try to imagine your own death or trauma being laughed about by two women and the millions of people who laugh along with them. Imagine those two women monetizing the story of your death or trauma, selling merchandise and a $39.99 annual subscription to a “fan cult” which includes access to a “cult forum” where your murder or trauma will be a fascination.

The Buzzfeed article about My Favorite Murder says that the podcast helps women “regain control of their own survival narratives” and quotes a woman using a pseudonym as saying her interest in true crime was precipitated by her own molestation as a child. Imagine women justifying their fascination with the public spectacle of your trauma as healing or educational, but refusing to use their real names when discussing their own traumas.

My Favorite Murder, along with the vast majority of true crime, frequently reduces victims, including survivors, to nothing more than props. Symbolically, a correction to the Buzzfeed article notes that a previous version had misidentified a murder victim. It might seem strange to think about the privacy and dignity of a dead person or someone we’ve deemed a “survivor” of crime, but given the ubiquity of true crime entertainment, it’s something our culture needs to grapple with.