nationalpost.com , we wrote: When true becomes theatre, and criminals become characters

Sadaf Ahsan

For most nine-to-fivers, desperate housewives and graduate students living in their mom’s basements, a 42-minute episode of procedural crime drama — replete with a long-gestating romance, a team of lead detectives offering a host of blue steel gazes and a ripped-from-the- headlines harrowing assault case — is enough to set your DVR for the coming seven-plus seasons (which such a show is certain to be handed by network execs). These programs are like cheap microwavable dinners: fast, easy and not needing a whole lot of brain power to scarf down.

From CSI to NCIS, the popular crime-an-episode story structure is what gives these acronymic series their massive draws with the rush of a detective’s epiphany that presents itself three quarters into each episode, while we sit at home scratching our heads having — we boldly assume — solved the mystery just minutes before (for the record, it’s never Lupus).

We are no longer just viewers but small-time private eyes who can solve these simply by feeling like we can

But if crime procedurals offer the equivalent of Swanson Hungry-Man dinners, the small screen has finally found a gourmet meal worth devouring in . With the likes of , Steven Avery and even O.J. Simpson, viewers are given criminals of questionable morals in series like , Making a Murder and . These series continue to allow us to be the judge and the jury, but also demand our attention thanks to limited episode orders that prompt a higher quality of storytelling.

True crime for television perches on the coattails of procedurals, the training wheels that gave us simple-minded viewers the confidence to believe we are not only a part of these tragic real life cases, but that we can solve them, too. Or at least that’s half the motivation required to watch all 10 episodes in one night of Netflix’s , in which Avery, a Wisconsin man potentially wrongfully convicted following a release from prison 18 years after DNA evidence proved he didn’t commit a brutal attack, struggles to prove his seeming innocence. AP Photo/Sam Mircovich, Pool, File

There’s a stigma attached to reality television that suggests it’s superficial and vapid, but true crime drama isn’t all that different. It’s just replacing the shameful aftertaste with an opportunity for heroism within the role of armchair detective. We are no longer just viewers but small-time private eyes who can solve these crimes simply by feeling like we can, catching clues and facts that real life detectives may have missed, all while feeling a rush of adrenaline not just from after-midnight binge viewing, but at the thought of a terrible crime being something more than an evening’s hour-long drama.

What the latest crop of these series have in common is a question of guilt: did Avery, Durst and Simpson really commit the they’ve been accused of? With each series having whittled years of a case down to the most interesting layers, from subreddits to petitions, viewers have banded together and formed something of a community by collectively believing they can change the outcome, and in some cases, doing just that.

The public is given a sense of being jurors on this case; what would they do? That turns it into the ultimate reality show

“I’ve never seen something that goes behind the scenes like this to see what it’s like to prepare for a serious trial,” said Jerry Buting, one of Avery’s defense lawyers, in an interview with . “That was the reason we agreed to participate in the first place. The public is given a sense of being jurors on this case; what would they do? That turns it into the ultimate reality show.”

Buting is one half of a defense team that also includes Dean Strang, who has become so beloved by viewers that he’s already garnered a fanbase that has made him into a sex symbol, not only for his dad bod, but his Atticus Finch mind. Exceedingly average while ensconced in their cable- knit sweater sets, Strang and Buting are attractive to viewers for being their surrogate mouthpiece, staying by Avery’s side with not only a passion for justice, but a derisive wit. Ray Mickshaw/FX

The appeal of past true crime stories is also tethered to present day issues, being churned out at a time when the justice system is constantly questioned for its morals and ability to, well, do its job, particularly in America. This only encourages discussion where it may not be happening otherwise.

“There are people all over the world who are really picking this case apart now. And they are finding things that we just didn’t see,” said Buting, revealing that viewers have helped to produce new leads. “We are investigating them. We’ve been contacted by scientists from all over the world with areas of expertise that may prove useful.”

Critics will suggest that a televised reincarnation of true crime can trivialize the realities of criminal cases in which actual human lives have been lost. There are real victims to the crimes being portrayed, and this can get lost in the appeal of the show. However, it can also be argued that true crime has the opportunity to offer heightened emotionality where it may not have been otherwise.

The appeal of past true crime stories is also tethered to present day issues, being churned out at a time when the justice system is constantly questioned

FX’s The People v. O.J. Simpson: American Crime Story, a case that was largely viewed under a lens of racial profiling, is as relevant today as when it actually happened, and the series maintains that particular perspective inside of this, unfortunately, still relevant context.

In 1995, people sat at home divided when it came to Simpson’s innocence or guilt, but watched in unison as he attempted to run from Los Angeles police in a freeway chase in his now signature white Bronco. Even then, despite or because of racial tensions, viewers watched with wide-eyed enthusiasm as if it was the World Series or the season finale of a television series. It was as if Simpson was just another television character to root for or against. Except that he wasn’t, and he still isn’t. However, it’s the true to life undercurrent — both now and then — that continues to make his story so compelling.

In a similar vein, the first season of the Serial, created and produced by journalist Sarah Koenig, gripped an entire nation through its telling of the 1999 Baltimore murder of high school student Hae Min Lee. Once again, it wasn’t the victim who was the focal point of the story — it was the man convicted for committing the crime: Lee’s ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, who steadfastly claimed he had been wrongfully convicted.

Thanks to the investigative research of the podcast, Syed was quickly labelled as a “charming” and “innocent-seeming” figure. In February of 2015, three weeks after the final episode of the first season was published online, the Maryland Court of Special Appeals allowed Syed to appeal his conviction on the grounds that his attorney had provided ineffective counsel.

CP/Frank Gunn

While the medium might be different, the appeal of true crime tales is nothing new. The same long-form journalism that won Serial a 2015 Peabody Award, and that lead to Robert Durst essentially incriminating himself at the end of HBO’s The Jinx, began with ’s . Capote’s masterwork was originally meant to detail the 1959 Kansas murders of the Clutter family, but became a profile on the killers, Richard Hickock and Perry Smith, both of whom were also described as “charming” personalities. Once again, their histories attracting the writer, and ultimately the reader, more than the crime itself.

The trend won’t be dissipating anytime soon, because we’ll always have criminals to root against and the innocent to root for. Take, for example, Canada’s latest high-profile criminal worthy of a : former CBC radio host Jian Ghomeshi, who has been accused of sexual assault by several different women. Without the benefit of cameras in the courtroom, many have remained glued to the trial not by the 6 o’clock news and morning paper, but by Twitter, as journalists in the courtroom detail everything from the testimony of witnesses to notable glances made by the accused.

That distilled content, much like a television series, cuts through the nothingness and offers only the action, helping to create entertainment for the masses and further strengthen true crime’s claim as an original form of theatre. And as the spectators — sitting from the safety of our dented couch, warmed by the reflective glare of our television screens — we inform it just as much as it informs us.