By Sara Bright
The digital age, with its insatiable appetite for content and its power to forge communities around the most niche of interests, has amplified a phenomenon as old as infamy itself: the unsettling adulation of society’s most depraved individuals. Serial killers, figures who should evoke universal revulsion, paradoxically attract fan followings, their heinous acts dissected, their personas mythologised, and, in some quarters, their visages idolised. This is not merely the morbid curiosity that draws crowds to a spectacle; it is a deeper, more complex engagement that blurs the lines between fascination and fandom. Creativitys.UK will tell you about this disturbing trend, exploring how media portrayals, particularly from Hollywood, intersect with the echo chambers of social media and peculiar psychological underpinnings to cultivate these “killer cults.” The enduring, if macabre, interest in figures like Jeffrey Dahmer, whose grim legacy continues to be re-examined and re-packaged for public consumption, serves as a potent case study.
Hollywood’s Polished Monsters
The recent surge in true crime content, particularly high-production streaming series, has played an undeniable role in shaping contemporary perceptions of notorious criminals. Netflix’s 2022 series, “Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story,” starring Evan Peters, became a global phenomenon, topping streaming charts and accumulating over a billion viewing hours within its first sixty days. It garnered critical acclaim, including a Golden Globe for Peters, yet also ignited fierce debate. While creators Ryan Murphy and Ian Brennan stated their intention was to “showcase the victims’ point of view,” many, including relatives of Dahmer’s victims, felt the series re-traumatised them, presenting graphic details of their loved ones’ final moments without consultation. Critics argued that despite its purported focus, the series inevitably contributed to the perverse mythologising of Dahmer, offering little new insight into his psyche or the societal failings – racism, police negligence – that allowed his spree to continue. This was far from the first attempt to bring Dahmer’s story to the screen; a litany of films and documentaries pre-date the Netflix behemoth, each attempting to “prepar[e] the mind of America’s most terrifying cannibal.” Yet, none achieved the same cultural ubiquity or controversy.
A similar pattern emerged with the 2019 film “Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile,” which cast Zac Efron, an actor renowned for his conventional good looks, as Ted Bundy. Bundy, who murdered at least 36 young women in the 1970s, was notoriously charismatic, a trait he exploited to lure his victims. Director Joe Berlinger, an experienced documentarian, aimed to tell the story from the perspective of Bundy’s long-term girlfriend, Liz Kendall (Lily Collins). However, many critics felt the film, despite its intentions, struggled to avoid glamorising Bundy. By focusing on his manipulative charm and courtroom antics, rather than the visceral horror of his crimes (only one murder is explicitly depicted, as Liz supposedly remained ignorant), the film inadvertently amplified the unsettling duality that made Bundy such a chilling figure. The casting of matinee idols to portray figures of profound evil inevitably sparks discussion: does it humanise them in a way that fosters understanding, or does it dangerously aestheticise their darkness, making them more palatable, even alluring, to a susceptible audience?
The Digital Echo Chamber
While Hollywood productions provide the high-gloss narratives, social media platforms act as potent accelerants for the cult of personality surrounding these killers. In the digital realm, traditional gatekeepers are absent. Users freely create and share content – fan edits, stylised images, even merchandise – dedicated to figures like Dahmer and Bundy. TikTok, in particular, has seen trends where users express attraction or a strange form of empathy for these men, often focusing on their perceived physical attractiveness (especially when portrayed by handsome actors) or constructing narratives of misunderstood anti-heroes. These online communities can become echo chambers, normalising and amplifying sentiments that might otherwise remain on the fringes. The ability to directly engage with content, to comment, share, and connect with like-minded individuals, fosters a sense of belonging, even if that belonging is predicated on a shared fascination with the macabre. The lines between ironic appreciation, genuine curiosity, and outright adulation become perilously blurred.
Psychology of Attraction
The phenomenon of women developing romantic or sexual feelings for incarcerated, often violent, criminals is well-documented and has a name: hybristophilia, sometimes colloquially termed “Bonnie and Clyde syndrome.” Psychologists offer various explanations. Some suggest these individuals see the criminal as a “perfect boyfriend”: they know where he is at all times, he cannot physically harm them (while incarcerated), and they can project their idealised fantasies onto him without the complexities of a real-world relationship. Others posit a desire to “nurture” or “save” the “broken” individual, believing their love can redeem him. There’s also the allure of the “alpha male” stereotype, the dangerous, rebellious figure who defies societal norms, offering a vicarious thrill. For some, it might be a subconscious attraction to notoriety, a desire to be associated with someone infamous, thereby gaining a form of attention themselves. The motivations are complex and often deeply rooted in individual psychological landscapes, but the existence of such attraction is an undeniable component of serial killer fandom.
Mangione: Modern Anti-Hero?
The digital age continually births new figures into this disturbing pantheon. Luigi Mangione, dubbed by some as “Gen Z’s Ted Bundy,” exemplifies how contemporary socio-political narratives can intertwine with this phenomenon. In late 2023, Mangione, a young, educated computer engineer and graduate of the prestigious University of Pennsylvania, was arrested for the fatal shooting of a UnitedHealthcare CEO outside a New York hotel. Following a highly publicised five-day manhunt, his arrest sparked an immediate and intense online reaction. Users on platforms like TikTok declared their attraction, created fan art, produced t-shirts bearing his image, and even got tattoos in his honour. Some labelled him a hero and called for his release. In Seattle, a graffiti mural depicted the 26-year-old as a video game character.
Mangione’s perceived attractiveness and youth played a part, but a significant driver of his online cult status was a narrative casting him as a modern-day Robin Hood. In a nation grappling with a notoriously expensive and often perceived as unjust healthcare system, his targeting of a high-profile insurance executive resonated with a segment of the population, particularly younger individuals on the left, who view corporate power and wealth with deep suspicion. Mangione became, for them, a symbol of resistance against systemic greed, his alleged crime reframed as an act of righteous rebellion. This illustrates how the context surrounding a crime, and the identity of the victim, can radically alter public perception, allowing even an alleged murderer to be lionised by a subculture that sees him as embodying their own frustrations and desires for societal change.
Victim Voices Lost
Amidst the whirlwind of media portrayals, online discussions, and psychological theorising, a crucial element is often tragically overshadowed: the victims and their families. Each crime series, each fan edit, each romanticised depiction risks re-traumatising those who have suffered unimaginable loss. Rita Isbell, sister of Errol Lindsey, one of Dahmer’s victims, spoke powerfully about the pain of seeing her courtroom impact statement re-enacted in the Netflix series without her consent, stating, “It’s sad that they’re just making money off of this tragedy. That’s just greed.” The focus invariably shifts to the perpetrator – their motives, their psychology, their “story” – while the lives they extinguished are reduced to plot points, their suffering a spectacle. This raises profound ethical questions for creators, consumers, and society at large. Is it possible to explore these dark chapters of human history responsibly, without inadvertently contributing to the cult of the killer, and without inflicting further pain on those already grievously harmed?
The enduring fascination with serial killers is a complex tapestry woven from threads of morbid curiosity, the thrill of the forbidden, psychological vulnerabilities, and the powerful myth-making machinery of media. While true crime as a genre can serve to examine societal failings and the nature of evil, there is a delicate and often transgressed line between responsible inquiry and the pernicious glamorisation of those who commit monstrous acts. As long as their stories are told, particularly through the lens of attractive actors and compelling narratives, and as long as digital platforms provide fertile ground for obsessive communities, the disquieting phenomenon of killer charisma and the cults it engenders will likely persist, a dark reflection in society’s ever-watchful eye.
