girl, tiktok's going to acquit you (the Menendez remix)
I binged the Menendez saga and all I got was this lousy existential crisis.
The Menendez brothers stare at me from my Netflix queue, their 90s-perfect hair and cold eyes daring me to press play. I hesitate, thumb hovering over the remote. The last time I dove into a Netflix true crime binge (hello Worst Roommate Ever), I emerged days later, bleary-eyed and morally confused. This time feels different. This time, I know I'm walking into a trap - a carefully constructed narrative maze designed to challenge everything I thought I knew about truth, justice, and the nature of reality itself.
As I finally hit play, I realise Netflix has concocted a narrative cocktail that's anything but simple true crime. They've created a new form of storytelling, one that I'm calling "quantum true crime." It's a narrative strategy that exploits the uncertainty principles of quantum mechanics to create a viewing experience that's as unsettling as it is addictive. The Menendez case serves as the perfect petri dish for this experiment, with its conflicting testimonies, shocking twists, and lingering questions about guilt and innocence.
The mechanics of quantum true crime hinge on three key principles: Schrödinger's Narrative, Entangled Storytelling, and the Observer Effect. As I watch Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story unfold, I can feel these principles at work, reshaping my understanding of the case with every scene.
Schrödinger's1 Narrative posits that the "truth" of the Menendez case exists in multiple states simultaneously until the viewer engages with both the dramatization and the documentary. This creates a liminal space where fact and fiction coexist, challenging our notion of objective reality. In one version, the brothers are cold-blooded killers who murdered their parents for inheritance money. In another, they're victims of horrific abuse driven to a desperate act. Both narratives exist simultaneously in the Netflix universe, collapsing into a personal "truth" only when we, the viewers, engage with the content.
Ryan Murphy, the mastermind behind Monsters, clearly revels in this quantum uncertainty. "I wanted to explore not just the crimes but the humanity beneath," Murphy explained. "We live in a world where evil isn't always simple." This philosophy permeates every frame of the show, from the lavish recreation of the brothers' post-murder spending spree to the gut-wrenching flashbacks of alleged abuse. Murphy's approach takes the moral ambiguity of his American Crime Story series and amplifies it exponentially. Monsters follows in the footsteps of Dahmer - Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story starring Evan Peters, marking a continuation of Netflix's true crime anthology series. In both cases, Netflix followed the dramatised series with a documentary, creating a pattern of layered storytelling that blurs the lines between fact and fiction.
Even the title Monsters plays into this quantum narrative. At first glance, it seems to refer to Lyle and Erik – the murderous brothers who killed their parents in cold blood. But as the series unfolds, the meaning shifts. Were the brothers the real monsters, or were they created by monstrous people? The title becomes a Rorschach test, its interpretation changing based on which version of events you believe. Murphy's choice of name is a microcosm of the entire viewing experience – a linguistic sleight of hand that keeps us guessing, forcing us to confront our own biases about victimhood and villainy.
The Menendez brothers' case, however, has achieved unprecedented popularity. The lavish lifestyle depicted in Monsters taps into our cultural obsession with luxury, fueling a TikTok frenzy that transforms true crime into aspirational content. While I'm over here having an existential crisis about the nature of truth, Gen Z is busy turning the Menendez brothers into a whole aesthetic. The song "Girl I'm Gonna Miss You"2 exploded on the platform, with usage spiking 258% as users romanticised the brothers' wealth and style. Suddenly, patricide chic is on its verge of becoming the next fashion trend, and I'm watching Gen Z dance to the unofficial anthem of luxury murder. The cognitive dissonance is giving me whiplash.
Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser
Entangled Storytelling is the second pillar of quantum true crime, and it's where Netflix's strategy gets really devious. The dramatisation and documentary, though separate entities, become inextricably linked through the viewer's experience. Like quantum entanglement, changes in perception of one piece immediately affect the other, regardless of the temporal distance between viewings. This concept of entangled storytelling isn't entirely new. Films like Rashomon or shows like The Affair have played with multiple perspectives, but Netflix's approach takes it to a new level by spanning different formats and release dates. It’s like they've created a narrative quantum field where every piece of content exists in relation to every other piece.
Watching Monsters and the follow-up documentary, The Menendez Brothers, (sort of) companion is like trying to eat a quantum sandwich. Take a bite of dramatised murder, chew on some talking head analysis, and somehow end up tasting your own moral uncertainty. Bon appétit, I guess.
When Monsters dropped, it was impossible to ignore. The buzz was deafening, social media discourse was ablaze, and I found myself swept up in the conversation before I'd even pressed play. The fictionalisation's emotional intensity and visual flair make the documentary's more measured tone feel almost like a cover-up. I catch myself wondering if the recorded voiceovers are hiding something, their calm tone a stark contrast to the raw emotion of Monsters. If I'd watched them in the reverse order, would I be seeing Murphy's artistic flourishes as sensationalism gone too far? The uncertainty is maddening, and I realise that's exactly the point.
Netflix's decision to stagger the releases of Monsters and the documentary serves as a deliberate manipulation of our perception, going far beyond clever marketing. They've done this before, most notably with the "Dahmer" series and its follow-up documentary. By controlling the release schedule, Netflix shapes our engagement with the content, forcing us to sit with one version of events before introducing conflicting information. Netflix's strategy orchestrates a complex symphony of information and emotion, conducted across time and media platforms, with viewers as unwitting performers in this grand production.
This brings us to the Observer Effect, perhaps the most mind-bending aspect of quantum true crime. The very act of watching these pieces changes their meaning. Each viewer's personal history, biases, and the order in which they consume the content fundamentally alters the narrative, making each viewing experience unique and unreproducible.
I find myself hyper-aware of how my own experiences are shaping my perception of the Menendez case. My skepticism towards the U.S. justice system colours my reaction to the trial scenes. Having recently watched both the OJ Simpson documentary and Ryan Murphy's dramatisation (yes I'm SO late to this - I know), I'm acutely aware of how the justice system can falter when dealing with high-profile cases. The Menendez trials, taking place around the same time as the OJ case, inherit this context of a judicial system struggling with issues larger than itself, from police brutality to media circus trials. Even my mood on the day I'm watching affects how I interpret certain scenes. It's a dizzying realisation - not only is the "truth" of the case in flux, but my own role in constructing that truth is far more active than I'd ever considered.
This quantum approach to storytelling creates what French philosopher Jean Baudrillard called "hyperreality" - a condition where reality and simulation become indistinguishable. The Menendez case, as presented by Netflix, becomes more "real" in the public consciousness than the actual historical events. It's a phenomenon we've seen before, perhaps most notably with Oliver Stone's JFK. Stone's visually arresting, emotionally charged interpretation of the Kennedy assassination has, for many, superseded the actual historical record. Netflix has taken this concept and weaponised it, using the binge-watch model and staggered releases to create a sustained state of hyperreality.
Baudrillard called it hyperreality3. I call it the 'Netflix truth vortex.' Real, fake, dramatised, documented - it all swirls together until you can't tell which way is up. And the scariest part? I'm kind of enjoying the ride. You probably are too.
The flood of TikToks and tweets (Xs?) about the Menendez brothers weaves itself into the larger story, shaping how newcomers encounter the Netflix shows. A teenager who's seen dozens of glamorised Menendez inspo videos will engage with Monsters and the documentary very differently than someone who lived through the original trial. The Observer Effect in action, playing out across social media.
Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser
The #MenendezBrothersJustice movement, which predates the Netflix series, gained renewed traction following the release of Monsters. Users on TikTok and other platforms have been advocating for a re-examination of the case, their efforts amplified by the show's popularity. They point to new evidence, evolving understandings of trauma and abuse, and inconsistencies in the original trial. This digital sleuthing adds yet another narrative layer to the quantum mix, blurring the lines between viewer, creator, and activist.
This lack of resolution is a feature, not a bug, of quantum true crime. By presenting multiple, equally plausible versions of events, Netflix challenges the very concept of a singular, knowable truth. This has profound implications for how we understand justice, especially in high-profile cases like the Menendez brothers'.
Thanks to the documentary, we now know that in the second trial, the brothers were convicted in large part because their story of abuse wasn't admissible in court. But in Netflix's quantum narrative, their claims of abuse are given equal weight to the prosecution's arguments. This creates a version of "quantum justice," where multiple, contradictory outcomes feel equally valid depending on which narrative thread you follow. As someone who's always believed in the idea of objective truth, especially in matters of justice, this realisation is profoundly unsettling.
Erik Menendez himself has pushed back against this approach. "Ryan Murphy cannot be this naive and inaccurate about the facts of our lives so as to do this without bad intent," he stated. But even this criticism becomes part of the quantum narrative, another layer of "truth" for viewers to grapple with. I find myself wondering how I would feel if someone turned the most traumatic event of my life into entertainment, and my sympathy for Erik wars with my eagerness to consume the next episode.
As I continue to navigate this quantum maze of content, I realise I'm not really watching a show. I'm participating in a grand experiment in truth-telling, one that challenges our fundamental understanding of reality, justice, and the stories we tell ourselves. Every choice I make - which version to watch first, how long to wait between viewings, which TikToks to engage with - shapes my understanding of the case. The truth morphs from something to be passively consumed into an active construction, built second by second, post by post.
The Menendez story isn't over. It's fractured into a million pieces, scattered across streaming services and social media feeds. Each of us holds a shard, thinking we see the whole picture. But the truth? It's quantum now, baby.
Schrödinger's Narrative keeps guilt and innocence simultaneously alive. Entangled Storytelling ensures that every piece of content irrevocably alters our perception of every other piece. And the Observer Effect? We're all part of it, our biases and backgrounds collapsing the quantum wave function into our own personalised versions of truth.
Welcome to this new era. The truth is out there – everywhere and nowhere, all at once. And we're all trapped in the superposition, forever uncertain, forever searching. Netflix isn't just changing how we watch true crime. It’s rewiring our brains, teaching us to juggle multiple truths like some kind of existential circus act. And let's be honest. We've all signed up for season tickets.
Schrödinger's cat, the famous thought experiment, posits a cat in a box that's simultaneously alive and dead until observed. Netflix has basically put the entire true crime genre in that box, and we're all peering in, unsure if what we're seeing is truth, fiction, or some bizarre hybrid of the two.
The Milli Vanilli connection here is too perfect to ignore. A song by a duo famous for faking it, now soundtracking TikToks about a case where truth is more elusive than ever. The simulation is getting a bit too on the nose, if you ask me.
Baudrillard's concept of hyperreality, introduced in his 1981 work "Simulacra and Simulation," argues that in postmodern society, simulations of reality have become more "real" than reality itself. Netflix's true crime approach seems to be the logical evolution of this idea, creating a hyperreal true crime experience that feels more authentic than actual court footage. Baudrillard, my dude, if you could see us now.