The Rise of True Crime: A History of a Genre

"Rosenberg's First Law of Reading: Never apologize for your reading tastes."

--Betty Rosenberg

It takes a long time to read a book when you're underlining every second sentence. Even so, I sped through a new title from true crime critic Jean Murley, since it poses and thoughtfully answers the same questions that have devilled me.

Why do people read true crime?

Why do we find ourselves "shamelessly enjoying" tales of human misery? Why are they "oddly reassuring"? Why do women in particular read this "stuff"?

Or as the author of this new genre critique puts it, "Why can't I stop reading this horrifying story?"

In The Rise of True Crime: 20th-Century Murder and American Popular Culture [Amazon; B&N], university professor Jean Murley has converted a Ph.D thesis into clarifying analysis of the true crime genre's various twentieth-century manifestations, from magazines to books to TV to blogs like this one. The author herself recalls that her first book was Ann Rule's The Stranger Beside Me (which happens to be the first book that I can remember reading, too, my gateway drug, if you will). She goes on to question the motivations of both writers and readers in a genre that she clearly loves but which is so "often misunderstood."  As she remarks on the jacket, the book "is written for people who read and enjoy true crime, and who wish to learn more about it."

As much as I consider myself an expert on the subject (and Murley was kind enough to quote my opinions on a few things), I had several "Aha!" moments while enjoying a book that takes apart the toaster to see how it toasts.

Why is the west coast overrepresented? Is that why the east coast literari are so snobbish on the subject? Why is there an emphasis on domestic murders, upper class homicides, and serial killers? What explains the "missing white woman of the week"? The audience, Murley says -- and the strict conventions of the genre, examined at length.

She dissects Edmund L. Pearson, Ann Rule, Harold Schechter, Joseph Wambaugh, Helter Skelter, and every other name and book with which we are familiar. Her analysis impressively reflects real attention to a literary classification "little understood and often devalued as lurid." But she spares no punches: Nancy Grace, for example, is defined as an "incendiary ambulance-chasing pseudojournalist" (which sounds so much more impressive than what I call her: a sob sister).

True crime blogs have an entire chapter unto themselves. Clews is described as "a comprehensive and exhaustive historical true-crime blog... James exhibits an encyclopedic knowledge of the genre in its past and present forms as she explores little known, older, or forgotten cases.... [The] polished and personable writing style invites readers to share an aesthetic appreciation of true crime and its writers[.]" My dry wit is compared to my literary hero. Needless to say, I couldn't be more pleased to see my name in the same sentence as Edmund Pearson, and in a book, no less.

Steve Huff garners praise as the brain behind blogs that are "intelligently done, decently written and entertaining"; The Homicide Report is noted for highlighting the sort of murders that rarely register elsewhere in our media today (and never have, as the author points out); many others are crisply treated.

If we are to truly enjoy true crime, let alone write it, it behooves us to comprehend it. Our ability to identify something and its functions - be it a flower, a hormone, or a paperback we can't put down - helps us appreciate it all the more. Jean Murley's new book is an eye-opener for those who enjoy true crime stories and find themselves wondering why. Maybe you can share it with your patient and occasionally alarmed spouse the next time he wonders why you read this "stuff".

Comments

[Kevin M. Sullivan]

I believe many people treat true crime in much the same way they do a good horror movie; that is, they want to be engrossed by the story and vicariously experience the fear, but for a brief time only. Folks do much the same thing when they read of war and famous battles. However, true crime (unlike war) can be experienced by anyone at anytime and anywhere. No one is immune from the possibility of becoming a victim of murder, rape, or other types of assault, and in the back of our minds we know this. As such, the desire to delve into such things may in fact stem from this possibility , and if so, would mean our need to continually peek into this world of mayhem has deep-seated roots indeed.

I can tell you (and probably have) that many times I've been drawn to research certain homicide cases just to find out what actually happened. And while it's true I would always write a story about the murder, the initial desire to find out how, and perhaps why it happened was what was really propelling me forward.

Sounds kinda personal, doesn't it? Well maybe it is.

[Mark Daniels]

The "CSI" series of TV programs are among the highest rated. Fictional thrillers from Thomas Harris (whom I credit with the boom to the field) to James Patterson are among the best selling books on the shelves. And yet nobody who watches "CSI" or reads Patterson has to defend their tastes. For some reason, we - who essentially have the same interest as those people, only we prefer FACTUAL cases - get the snobby attitude from others when they discover what it is we're reading, and we DO have defend our tastes. Why?

Perhaps it needs saying: for most people, myself included, the fascination and interest lies more with the killers than with the victims. Authors of true crime and the better fictional thrillers know this, and try to give us what we most want: the most depraved minds, the most unusual cases, the serial killers with the largest body counts. We enjoy these books and then sometimes question our own mental health: WHY do I like this stuff?? Am I psychotic or something? We know we are not, and yet can't see a better answer.

It may simply be that "people like looking at the car accident as they pass"; everybody has a certain morbid curiousity about dark things. Being very normal, we do too. And what's wrong with that?

Looks like an interesting book.