THB #593: Monsters - The Lyle & Erik Menendez Story
I have been kind of shocked to see some of the “same old Ryan Murphy thing” reviews for Monsters: The Lyle & Eric Menendez Story because I found it, by far, the most unexpected of all of Murphy’s real life crime portraits. (The best one is still O.J., but for its own reasons.)
In 1993, I was living in Chicago and I watched almost every minute of The Menendez Trial. So I experienced all the twists and turns in that context. This 9-episode series changes that perspective, from the start, but putting the whole story pretty much in order… of the lives of the Menendezes, the 1989 murders, the aftermath, and eventually of the trial.
The series starts with the memorial for Jose and Kitty. Then we are in the lives of The Brothers soon after, with the memories haunting Erik… which is when the therapist Jerome Oziel comes into the picture and becomes the first leak in the perfect-murder bucket which The Brothers seem to have gotten away with.
And all of this, especially with the meetings with Oziel and all that happens after, becomes this complicated ping-pong match of “they are guilty” and “they are victims.”
What you expect from most shows - including all of Ryan Murphy’s previous true-crime limited series - is a specific perspective that the show comes from. In particular, the perspective has pretty much always been, “they are guilty, but isn’t this other element interesting?”. What I interpreted from the trailer was that this show was going to lean hard into the idea that they were victims who truly acted in self-defense.
But this turned out not to be the case. If you watch the first couple episodes of the series, the show seems convinced that The Brothers were spoiled brats who wanted out from their father’s thumb. But then, in episode 3, with the arrival of Leslie Abramson - played with a perfect blend of bravado and restraint by Ari Graynor - the molestation angle emerges and the show gives it as much credence and space as the vile portrayal of the earlier episodes.
And so the show continues. it doesn’t really pick a side… or not for long. Having experienced the madness of that trial - which lasted from July 20, 2003 until January 28, 2004 - it was striking how much the experience of the series was like the experience of the trial.
No one in the series is really objective, but Dominick Dunne is used as the character closest to having an objective voice. (Nathan Lane is a shoe-in for an Emmy nod here.) He is skewed by the murder of his daughter and the “abuse excuse” having worked for her murderer. But as dead set as he is on being against the defense that Abramson offers up - and being a strong voice in explaining her leanings to being overly willing to accept whatever Erik Menendez tells her, true or not - he is not unmoved by moments that generate real sympathy for The Brothers.
There are not many shows that have the lead character convincingly argue their victimization and a moment later, embrace the success of what he sees as a performance… leaving the audience’s head spinning a bit. Yes, you can take a side and commit to it. But if you are trying to engage with what the show is telling you, it is telling you all kinds of emotionally conflicting things. And every time the show seems to take a firm position, something else is just around the corner. Because we don’t believe these young men… one can’t…. but it feels odd and unfair to dismiss their claims altogether, even if they give you reason to do so.
The superstar episode of the series is #5, The Hurt Man, which is the first directed by Michael Uppendahl, who shares series directorial duties with Carl Franklin and Paris Barclay with single episodes from Max Winkler and Ian Brennan. The episode is a wide shot in the jail’s meeting room and we are looking at Erik - portrayed by Cooper Koch, who could well ride this episode to an Emmy - as Leslie Abramson comes in and sits in front of the camera with her back to it, sharing visual perspective on Erik. The camera never flips to her face… the whole episode is Erik and his story, the camera slowly getting closer and closer. It’s a tour de force and an entire episode that offers only the perspective Erik offers Leslie Abramson. Does that mean “the show” believes him? Well, for this episode.
The next episode, Don’t Dream It’s Over, is the story of Jose’ and Kitty… their perspective on their lives and their sons. I assume The Hurt Man, credited to Ian Brennan and Ryan Murphy as writers, was either an actual real transcript or adapted from one. Don’t Dream It’s Over is clearly not coming from any kind of real dialogue, but is a piece of fiction based on deep research on Jose’ and Kitty. (Murphy and Brennan are credited with this episode too.) Also in the top group of episodes, this is where The Bardem and Chloe S. get to do most of their work. Both are excellent. But there are some major assumptions made in the episode - I assume supported by at least rumors - that seem very specific and very unknowable. But very compelling, regardless.
The Trial starts in Episode 7 and becomes the culmination of everything that came before… and like the real-life trial, the judge (and to some degree, the prosecution) lets Leslie Abramson run wild with high drama and ends up having Lyle’s skill as a performer carry the day. (Lyle is played with scary ambivalence by Nicholas Alexander Chavez.) Later, the retrial shuts all that down. But is that fair or unfair? The series asks the audience to decide for itself, repeatedly, whether we are being played or being ungenerously judgemental.
In the end, I think that the series will probably produce a bit more even tone in your feelings about “the truth,” regardless of which side you took/take.
The question of this era is how much the experiences of one’s life creates or excuses behaviors that are damaging to others… and the scale of our responsibility depending on how we answer those questions.
More simply… we know that hurt people often hurt other people. On what step of that chain do we expect responsibility and at what step do we sympathize and excuse behavior? We are all complicated beings with our own baggage. Where are those lines… for each of us and for those we care about?
I kind of love this series because while it leans this way or that, it is not demanding that you line up with any filmmaker or any of the participants’ specific belief. At least, I felt that way. You may feel differently… which is, again, what I like about it.
At the core of it are the distinct and conflicting differences between the two brothers vs the deep bond that they share. There are 100 little moments in this story that make us consider that disconnect. And that is why this story is of a Shakespearean level. The details reflect a greater view of humanity than the specific story. For me, this series delivers on that idea.
Until tomorrow…