Crime, by its very nature, is murky, shrouded in deception, and open to many interpretations. Adding “true” to the equation implies an objective recounting of events, yet the very essence of crime involves multiple perspectives and biases. The complexity, the murkiness, is only exacerbated when writers, filmmakers and podcast creators become involved in crime, for they are in the business of drama. Turning real-life tragedy into entertainment was of course never a great idea, and even when the creators’ motivations are driven by sound, moral compasses, the mere fact that professional storytellers, like myself, have a vested interest in the retelling of the crime, should be a fair warning to every reader, listener or viewer.
The dangers of the writer getting involved in true crime are starkly evident in the case of Jeffrey MacDonald, an American former Green Beret doctor who was accused of murdering his wife and two daughters in the late 1970’s. While on trial, MacDonald gave author Joe McGinniss the exclusive rights to write a book on his person. McGinniss was a representative of the New Journalism school, made famous by the godfather of true crime, Truman Capote. Like Capote, McGinniss used literary techniques within traditional reporting. He would immerse himself in the story, and although factual reporting remained dominant, he used subjective language to create strong, dramatic plotlines.
The arrangement with MacDonald gave McGinniss extensive access to his subject, including interviews and trial attendance. As McGinniss investigated further, he became convinced of MacDonald’s guilt but continued to maintain a facade of believing in MacDonald’s innocence to retain his cooperation. This deception, at least according to MacDonald, led him to sue McGinniss for fraud and breach of contract, claiming McGinniss pretended to be on his side while preparing a damning portrayal in the book.
During the 1987 civil trial, MacDonald presented letters from McGinniss that expressed sympathy and support, which he argued were deceitful. The jury deadlocked, and the case was settled out of court, with McGinniss’s publisher’s insurance company paying MacDonald $325,000. Afterwards, McGinniss kept defending his actions, stating his change of belief was based on thorough research and trial evidence. He maintained that his primary obligation was to the truth. The controversy between MacDonald and McGinniss prompted writer Janet Malcolm to pen the book “The Journalist and the Murderer,” a critical exploration of the ethics and dynamics within journalism. Malcolm attacked not just McGinniss but journalism as a whole. “Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible.”
Malcolm’s blunt critique, branding journalism as a fundamentally deceitful profession, led to its own undoing. Consequently, the furor surrounding her book was short-lived. Unfortunately, because she did have a valid point, if only Malcolm had stayed focused on the methods used by some journalists to gain access to their stories. I am not a journalist, nor was I trained as one. I started out as a documentary researcher and eventually became a director and producer. Over the past thirty years, I have always questioned why someone would participate in the making of a documentary. This question about the reciprocity between filmmaker and subject lies at the heart of documentary filmmaking. When managed well, it creates a relationship so compelling that it elevates the documentary into a work of art. However, when managed badly, it strips the film of its possible artistic value and may sometimes even lead to litigation.
When I first read about the reasoning behind MacDonald suing McGinniss, it immediately struck a familiar chord. While reading the letters written by McGinniss to MacDonald, I recognized his tactics, persuading MacDonald to commit; to open up, all in the name of storytelling. In one of his letters to MacDonald, McGinniss writes on the interviewing process: “I’m sure as you grow more relaxed and accustomed to the process, you’ll find yourself able to go deeper. Just keep ‘em coming.” I assume most professionals in the business of trying to commit people to open up, will recognize McGinniss’ tactics. ‘Just keep ‘em coming.’ I wouldn’t call the choice of words or the structuring of the letters duplicitous or fraudulent, but I am damned if I don’t recognize the soothing and placating words used by McGinniss. Words which are used to gain trust and confidence. The confidence game journalism or documentary filmmaking sometimes resembles, is here on full display.
A few years ago, producer Jorinde Sorée and I met with Amanda Knox, an American woman known to the public for her conviction of the murder of Meredith Kercher in Perugia, Italy, as retold in the Netflix documentary. Knox, who spent four years in prison, was eventually acquitted and returned to the United States. In 2019 she hosted a podcast titled ‘The Truth About True Crime’. We approached her with the idea of joining a project of ours called ‘False Confessions’ and praised her for the riveting podcast she made on Jens Soering. We had never heard of Jens Soering before and we were intrigued by Knox’s dramatic and cleverly narrated retelling of the double murder he was convicted for.
As part of her advocacy for the wrongly convicted, Amanda Knox began speaking with Jens Soering by phone while he was still incarcerated. Through their conversations, she became convinced of his innocence. She wasn’t the only one; actor Martin Sheen and author John Grisham also championed his cause. On her podcast, Knox’s interviews with these celebrities generated momentum for Soering’s case, ultimately leading to his release and deportation to Germany in 2019, where he now lives as a free man.
Knox’s belief in Soering’s innocence stemmed from his demeanor during their calls, a demeanor shaped by her pleasant and somewhat placating questioning. She never put Soering on the spot or employed overly critical lines of questioning. Instead, she offered empathy rooted in her own experiences of wrongful conviction. As a listener, I couldn’t help but conclude that if Amanda was innocent, then Jens must be innocent as well.
In May 2024, the American magazine The Atlantic published a long read by Amanda Knox, in which she withdrew her support for Jens Soering, expressing doubts about his innocence after new evidence came to light. This reversal underscores the volatility of public advocacy in true crime. Influential endorsements can shape public opinion and legal outcomes, but Knox’s change of heart, though admirable, also reveals the fragility of perceptions molded by compelling storytelling.
Philosophically, the pursuit of truth in true crime is inherently fraught with challenges. The essence of justice lies in objectivity, yet our narratives are often coloured by subjective experiences and dramatic flair. Plato’s allegory of the cave reminds us that our understanding of reality can be distorted by shadows and illusions. Similarly, the dramatization in true crime can obscure the truth, leading us further from justice.
Adding drama has become almost mandatory in today’s true crime media, yet it takes away the word ’true’ from the genre. Sticking to the facts is essential for the integrity of the genre and the only sustainable way to report on crime. Any form of subjectivization or fictionalization leads to a departure from the truth. While questions of guilt or innocence provide compelling narratives, even the simplest dramatization introduces a fluidity that challenges the very notion of ’truth’ in true crime. This fluidity complicates our understanding of justice and advocacy, underscoring the need for a steadfast commitment to factual reporting in the pursuit of genuine justice.
Jack Henry Abbott (1944-2002) was an inmate who had spent much of his life in and out of prison for various offenses, including forgery and manslaughter. While incarcerated, he began corresponding with American author Norman Mailer, who was impressed by Abbott’s writing ability and literary talent. Mailer played a significant role in promoting Abbott’s writing. He helped Abbott publish his book ‘In the Belly of the Beast’ in 1981, which was a collection of letters Abbott had written to Mailer about his experiences in the prison system. Mailer also advocated for Abbott’s early release, writing letters of support to the parole board and leveraging his literary fame to highlight Abbott’s potential for rehabilitation. Shortly after his release, Abbott killed Richard Adan, a 22-year-old aspiring playwright and actor, during an altercation outside a restaurant in New York City on July 18, 1981. The ethical quandaries of this form of advocacy, and the role of celebrity influence in the parole process, poses significant challenges. The subsequent controversies underscore the ethical dilemmas when true crime writers imbue compelling storytelling with factual accuracy.
As a documentary filmmaker and producer, I have often explored the boundaries of the documentary genre. I have used fiction in documentaries to enhance drama and improve the viewers’ experience. Although I believe the persuasion involved to get subjects of documentaries to participate is justified once they agree and both filmmaker and interviewee share a journey based on mutual respect, I have come to understand that the true crime genre is inherently flawed. Too much emphasis is placed on compelling storytelling, with ingenious techniques used to secure the audience’s undivided attention.
American writer John McPhee’s words resonate deeply as I navigate these ethical waters: ‘Things that are cheap and tawdry in fiction work beautifully in nonfiction because they are true. That’s why you should be careful not to abridge it, because it’s the fundamental power you are dealing with. You arrange it and present it. There’s lots of artistry. But you don’t make it up.’ McPhee’s insight is a vital reminder for true crime creators to uphold the integrity of nonfiction, ensuring that their artistry does not overshadow the truth.
As journalists, writers, podcast creators, and filmmakers, we must remain vigilant, questioning the narratives presented to us and demanding truth over sensationalism. Only then can we hope to preserve the integrity of true crime and honour the real lives and stories at its core.