I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone say, “I’m heartsick”: in these modern times, we prefer the misleading catch-all “depressed”. But in my case, it’s the only word that will do. Heartsick. That’s what I felt as I watched Making a Murderer, Moira Demos and Laura Ricciardi’s documentary series about the conviction, possibly wrongful, of Steven Avery and his teenage nephew Brendan Dassey for the murder of a 25-year-old photographer, Teresa Halbach, in Manitowoc County, Wisconsin, in 2005.
People speak of bingeing on Making a Murderer: they liken it to a drug and its host, Netflix, to a pusher. I find this hard to understand. Why would anyone want to binge on such unutterable misery? It was with something close to dread that I’d line up the next episode, aware that I could happily live without knowing fully how hopeless life can be, and how elusive justice. There was a period when I believed I would never see the last two films. When I did finally watch them, I was able to do so only in 15-minute bursts. In the gaps between, I ate buttered toast and googled Amal Clooney.
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