We really need to figure out how and why the most notorious serial killers in history, who happen to be White guys, are roaring back into prominence with the mighty help of well-positioned influencers, who also happen to be White creatives with the power to revive the hideousness of the past with the magic wand of supremeness.
Imagine if a murderous bastard and necrophile like Ted Bundy had been a Black man, who spent his lifetime kidnapping, raping, and murdering young women and girls?
Would you ever imagine that decades later, he would receive the red carpet treatment via the big screen and the streaming of his odious misdeeds?
It seems that America’s love affair with White men, has taken a very dark turn as we are now being bombarded with the nostalgic tendencies of a nightmare come true in the form of questionable entertainment, that permits the fandom of notable criminals who became famous due to the thirst for blood and the deadly quest to quench it in ways that proved their inhumanness.
Definitely it’s fascinating to briefly enter the insidious path of fucked up individuals, who perform acts of violence that boggle the mind beyond reason, and I have indulged in the revealing documentaries that showcase the blood-splattered blueprint of the worst among us, who thrived on the meal of human remains and the unrelenting hunt for more.
But there is a huge difference between listening to experts explain the unexplainable with the flair of giving you some insight into how those nefariously-wired brains tick, and the Hollywood treatment that is currently storming through various platforms, with the ferocity that matches the ultra-violent wiles of infamous subjects.
When Netflix unleashed the highly-anticipated docu-series, Conversations with a killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes, with the motive to introduce the woman-terrorizer to a new generation of Americans, who missed the era when young White women disappeared without a trace in rapid succession, it wasn’t the audacity of Bundy’s resurrection that stunned, but rather the manner in which he was touted.
In the age of Instagram-worthiness, and how crossing over lines of decency has been regulated as the surefire avenue to prosperity, it shouldn’t be shocking that the marketing team at Netflix decided to capitalize on the supposed good looks of a man who gutted his victims after charming them with his boyish candor.
The overall presentation of The Ted Bundy Tapes, seemed to emphasize the seductiveness of a suave murderer, who had all the characteristics of the All-American gigolo, as well as the uncanniness of being able to outsmart law enforcement with his meticulous attention to detail, that always gave him the edge in the engaging game of “cat and mouse.”
While his ability to reinvent the “textbook” description of a cold-hearted killer with his special brand of evil can’t be disputed — we also can’t be blinded to the shameless pursuits that flaunted the desirability of Ted Bundy with the glaring effects of the model pose, paired with the recognizable grin and inviting eyes, that almost cleanses away his grotesqueness.
And as if that wasn’t more than enough, we also have the glitzy reenactment of Bundy’s greatest hits courtesy of Hollywood heartthrob, Zac Efron, who won the role of a lifetime portraying the sexiest serial killer that ever was in a star-studded movie, aptly titled, Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile.
Timing is everything in an industry that operates on that premise, and as luck would have it, Efron’s latest bid for that prized Oscar, was completed just in time for Netflix to nab the rights, which makes sense since the 30th anniversary of Bundy’s death by electric chair incites the need for a national festival in his honor.
Yet how can we dare reject empathizing with the families of the victims, who have to relive the horrific period in their lives all over again, and in the most callous way when you observe the festive season of #BundyFest, and how the monster who stole their loved ones is grossly experiencing a heightened popularity that fails to highlight the depth of his monstrosities.
This extended festival has also managed to include other vital players of The Great American Horror Show, thanks to director Quentin Tarantino’s latest baby, Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood, an ambitious project that is bursting with A-listers like Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, Margot Robbie, and the iconic Al Pacino, who at this point is sailing through any movie set that will have him.
Tarantino is using the epic backdrop of the Charles Manson murders that are commonly referenced by Manson’s depiction of the impending apocalyptic race wars — “Helter Skelter” — as the centerpiece of his film’s narrative.
The real-life character that’s given quite a bit of attention, as evidenced in the sprawling pictorial of the photogenic cast in Vanity Fair, is the late actress Sharon Tate, who was the wife of director Roman Polanski, and was sadly among the five victims that were massacred on that fateful night in the summer of 1969.
Tate’s harrowing encounter with the Manson killers was particularly jarring due to the fact that she was heavily pregnant at the time of her murder with just two weeks left before giving birth.
But all we see is the inappropriate vibrancy of Margot Robbie in costume, as she delights in the impressive resemblance to a woman whose life was cut short by a blasphemous act that should be recalled with the reverence it necessitates.
And right on cue, we’re greeted with the announcement of another historically conceived offering, The Haunting of Sharon Tate, starring actress Hillary Duff in the role of the victim, who would never want to be associated with a slate of items that are poised to usher in the 50th anniversary of the brutal murders, that stole her life and the future of her unborn baby.
All this to say that we really need to talk about America’s sick obsession with White men who kill, and how it reflects the core of White supremacy in the ways that suppress the rights of non-White males, who aren’t allowed the pomp and circumstance around their horrific display of vileness.
Not that any of it allotted to anyone is redeemably okay.
White America seems to be irresistibly drawn to the imagery of unpalatable beauty, in its most ugliest form, and that main attraction is highly problematic when celebrating the lethal hotness of Ted Bundy, and the noteworthy anniversaries of when Los Angeles sizzled under the murderous chill of the summer of 1969.
If Black men were to take the place of both of those certified psychos, there would be no way in hell that Netflix would be spending millions on a marketing campaign that exaggerates the fandom of the most handsome serial killer in American history. And we wouldn’t be feted by upcoming movies that aim to glorify and beautify the landscape of a grisly bear, who considered Hitler a brother, and was so desperate for a race war that he had White people killed so Black people would be blamed for it.
It’s so damn bad, that even White guys who like to fuck their freshly decomposed corpses, get to be fondly remembered for their killer eyes, killer smile and the brilliant staging of their vomit-inducing crime scenes.
If that’s not White privilege — then I really can’t think of anything that qualifies more.