Anatomy of a Ryan Murphy Queer Murderer Show

As a queer individual who has navigated through societal expectations and prejudices, I find myself deeply immersed in Ryan Murphy‘s latest offerings – “Versace,” “Hernandez,” and “Dahmer.” While these shows are undeniably captivating, they raise profound questions about the portrayal of queer characters, particularly those who commit heinous crimes.

Ryan Murphy, renowned TV producer, is known for genres such as true crime, horror, celebrity stories, and LGBTQ history, with hit shows like “American Horror Story,” “American Crime Story,” “The Watcher” and “Glee.” Sports have not been his usual territory. However, his upcoming docudrama, “American Sports Story,” premiering on FX on September 17, might seem different. But it’s not a complete departure. The first season of the series focuses on the life story of NFL player turned convict Aaron Hernandez, which aligns perfectly with Murphy’s typical themes.

In essence, “American Sports Story: Aaron Hernandez” fits Ryan Murphy’s preferred genre: dramas about homosexual killers. From “The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story” to “Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story,” Netflix has faced criticism for categorizing such content as “LGBTQ.” However, it appears that Murphy is particularly drawn to the real-life tales of men who are gay and have a propensity for violence. Interestingly, Hernandez isn’t Murphy’s only homosexual true crime drama premiering this week. The second season of “Monster,” set to release on September 19th and focusing on Lyle and Erik Menendez, is also promoting a teaser featuring the brothers in an embrace with their shirts off. Unfortunately, as Murphy delves deeper into this specific type of character, his portrayal of the link between homosexuality and murder becomes increasingly ambiguous.

The shows are distinct from each other, differing in mood, organization, and quality. Murphy’s team of collaborators and involvement fluctuate, as do the characters portrayed by the ruthless antagonists. Out of the three series I’ve seen (critics haven’t yet seen Menendez), the first one to air, 2018’s Versace, is undoubtedly the best. Written by Tom Rob Smith (Class of ‘09), this stylish period thriller, primarily set in neon-lit ’90s Miami Beach, features Darren Criss from Glee as Andrew Cunanan, a status-driven serial killer who murdered five people, including the renowned fashion designer Gianni Versace (Édgar Ramírez). Both characters were gay. The show’s unique reverse chronology and sharp satirical elements are reminiscent of American Psycho. It effectively portrays a time, coinciding with the second decade of the AIDS crisis, when the rapid acceptance of queer culture existed alongside intense homophobia.

Murphy, along with his regular partner Ian Brennan, produced and scripted the initial four episodes of “Dahmer”, a grimy, gritty television series that launched the “Monster” anthology in 2022. The breakout star from “American Horror Story”, Evan Peters, portrays Jeffrey Dahmer, the infamous serial killer apprehended in 1991 with his apartment filled with foul-smelling human remains. The grueling first half of the 10-episode season delves into Dahmer’s most abhorrent crimes; viewers witness him ensnare, drug, and struggle with his victims—predominantly Black and brown gay men—before committing acts of cannibalism and necrophilia. Later episodes, some focusing on blameless individuals such as a deaf victim (Rodney Burford) and a helpful neighbor (Niecy Nash-Betts), take on a more educational tone. Characters meticulously elucidate how racism, privilege, and—remarkably, for a show that does not shy away from graphic depictions of real people’s torment—a societal fascination with serial killers fueled Dahmer’s reign of terror. Essentially, it’s a dramatized snuff film followed by a discourse on why one should avoid watching snuff films.

In a different phrasing, the series “Hernandez,” created by Stu Zicherman, known for “The Americans” and “The Shrink Next Door,” is unlike the chilling portrayal of Dahmer. However, both series are criticized for being overly lengthy, with an excessive amount of background information that doesn’t necessarily offer deep insights into their subjects. The story revolves around Aaron Hernandez, a New England Patriots tight end in the 2010s who was convicted of one murder, indicted for two more, and took his own life in prison. Typically, Hernandez’s case is used as an example of the dangers of traumatic brain injuries caused by football. Zicherman adds layers to this narrative with scenes from Hernandez’s tumultuous childhood, hints at his struggles with drug abuse, depictions of his complex relationship with fame, and a detailed exploration of his secretive queer life. However, these elements don’t coalesce into a compelling analysis of Hernandez. Despite a poignant performance by Josh Rivera, Aaron remains a character defined more by traits and circumstances than by a well-rounded personality.

One recurring theme in most Murphy productions is the exploration of how culture and surroundings influence an individual’s identity and actions. His distinctive, dialogues that instruct rather than show, are reminiscent of opinion pieces in newspapers rather than casual dialogue. Notably, Murphy, who identifies as gay, has frequently used his scripts to advocate for tolerance, making it challenging to name a TV creator with a greater number of queer or trans characters on screen. Characters such as Kurt Hummel from Glee and Blanca Rodriguez-Evangelista from Pose, a period drama about ball culture created by Murphy, Brad Falchuk, and Steven Canals, are portrayed as remarkable individuals. However, as his career evolves, with series focusing on troubled, brilliant gay figures like Truman Capote and Halston, as well as increasingly sensational murder dramas, it appears that Murphy is becoming more intrigued by the potential for society’s prejudice against a seemingly harmless identity to turn queer men into monstrous figures.

This narrative starts with the family unit. In Murphy’s universe, it’s often the case that a harsh or absent father lies hidden behind every murderer who identifies as gay. Dennis Hernandez, who tragically passed away when Aaron was 16, had once shown promise as a local football star but ended up working as a janitor. The character of Dennis, portrayed by Vincent Laresca in Hernandez, exhibits traits such as tyranny, abuse, and homophobia, yet harbors a deep love for his son, which he expresses when Aaron is not around. Andrew Cunanan’s father, Modesto (Jon Jon Briones), abandoned him when he fled to the Philippines to evade embezzlement charges. The penultimate episode of Versace explores how Modesto’s indulgence and eventual departure might have impacted his son. In Dahmer, the title character’s father, Lionel (Richard Jenkins), abandons his eccentric wife and troubled teenage son, only to discover later that Joyce had left Jeffrey home alone for extended periods, allowing him to wallow in his own deviant tendencies. As Jeffrey grew older, Lionel was plagued by guilt over his failure to address his son’s antisocial behavior. (It’s safe to assume that the Menendez brothers struggled with paternal issues as well.)

In a broader context, secondary characters frequently embody instances of systemic oppression or resistance instead of being fully developed individuals. For instance, in the series ‘Dahmer’, the police officers are portrayed as unsympathetic, racist white males who may find Jeff’s sexuality more abhorrent than his criminal activities. They disregard the pleas from Glenda Cleveland (played by Nash-Betts) to investigate Dahmer’s suspicious apartment due to their indifference towards the poor, Black residents of his building.

Occasionally, shows such as ‘Hernandez’ seem to verge on depicting their queer murderers as tragic figures instead of perpetrators. They may show empathy for the victims, with ‘Versace’ being more convincing than ‘Hernandez’ or ‘Dahmer’, possibly because Andrew Cunanan, who killed Versace, remains more well-known than Aaron Hernandez, the man who shot him. (Although it is said that Ryan Murphy’s research team did contact the families.) A recurring theme in Murphy’s series about queer murderers is a reminder that these offenders often target other LGBTQ+ individuals and marginalized communities. The show illustrates how society’s undervaluation of these lives, as reflected by institutions like the police, media, and legal system, can make us all complicit in the actions of a Jeffrey Dahmer or an Aaron Hernandez.

But no amount of socially conscious window dressing can conceal that the real draw is always the killers, who so bankably appeal to our true-crime-addicted lizard brains. That’s not a problem unique to Murphy; it’s endemic to a genre fascinated by psychopathology and fueled by real people’s pain. What’s singularly disturbing about the queer-murderer shows is how closely the portraits they paint of their subjects have come to resemble one another, on a thematic level. The more of them we get, the stronger the message becomes that the formula for homicidal derangement is same-sex attraction + bad dad + broken society, with a side of substance-abuse issues and sometimes a history of sexual abuse. And the easier it gets to internalize the misapprehension that the most salient thing these characters have in common is that they sleep with men, not that they’re cold-blooded killers. Taken together with the Halston and Capote shows (along with no small number of characters in Murphy’s fictional series), the implication is that this specific form of difference predestines a person to loneliness and anger and misery, to killing or being killed, regardless of anything else that might be happening in their lives.

As a devoted cinephile reflecting on the discourse surrounding the hit Netflix series, “Dahmer,” I can’t help but feel frustrated by some of the criticism it’s received. In my view, not all stories about the LGBTQ+ community need to be uplifting or joyous. After all, what are the guidelines now? Should we never create a movie about a dictator? For anyone who values art over adhering to societal norms, the answer is an emphatic ‘of course you should.’

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2024-09-17 17:07