True-crime film and television has become quite possibly the most prominent genre to emerge in the last 10 to 20 years. It has spawned films, shows, books, podcasts, podcasts about films and shows, podcasts about those podcasts, and so on. True crime has seeped into every conceivable facet of life, and while it may be fascinating, it seems to be doing more harm than good. For every Mindhunter, you get another boilerplate streaming show that is more about drama and fear than actually learning anything about the subject it is supposed to be studying. The intense backlash to shows like Dahmer, and the questionable ethics at the heart of that specific show, really highlight how corporate and commoditized the genre has become. For a welcome breath of fresh air in one of the most stale genres we have, you must return to its foundation. Errol Morris’ The Thin Blue Line is in many ways the blueprint many true-crime shows and films follow now. It includes a clear position on the crime at hand, many stylized re-enactments of the crime itself, sit-down interviews, and presents you with an ending and a perpetrator. Yet, where Morris excels in the film is in its simplicity, in its earnestness. Rather than from a nebulous perspective, detached from its creator, the audience knows exactly whose perspective it has the entire time, that of Morris himself.
