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According to the Narrator, It Was a Dark and Stormy Night: Styles of Narration-as-Advocation in True-Crime Documentary Series

2023; University of Illinois Press; Volume: 75; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.5406/19346018.75.2.05

1934-6018

Max Dosser,

Cinema and Media Studies

on october 3, 2014, the world was introduced to the largely unknown story of Adnan Syed, a young man who had been convicted and jailed for over a decade for the murder of his ex-girlfriend. Through the podcast Serial (2014–present), Sarah Koenig, the journalist investigating the story, brought to light how the fourteen-year-old case might not have been as open-and-shut as it seemed. In Serial, Koenig, as the host/narrator, guided listeners through old and new evidence in the case of the no-longer-young Syed. Almost two years after the debut of Koenig's groundbreaking podcast, on June 30, 2016, a judge granted Syed's motion for post-conviction relief and ordered a new trial to be held. Serial, “the most popular podcast in the world,” put Syed's case on the map and led to a new examination of the crime on the grounds of ineffectual counsel (Gamerman).The popularity of Serial led to numerous true-crime podcasts as well as original series for Netflix, HBO, and other networks/streamers being developed at a rapid rate, though true-crime series had proven popular with the public even before Serial.1 The twentieth century saw an industry of true-crime novels, films, and television series emerge (Murley). The first wave of true-crime documentaries began in 1988 with Errol Morris's highly influential The Thin Blue Line, which reassessed the guilt of Randall Adams after he was accused by David Ray Harris of murdering Dallas police officer Robert W. Wood and sentenced to death. What Serial effectively did, however, was thrust the true-crime genre into mainstream consumption. In I'll Be Gone in the Dark, author Michelle McNamara paints the picture of what true-crime lovers were prior to Serial: sitting in the dark, they frequented chat rooms, using pseudonyms so they could talk about victims and who their murderers could be with anonymity (32). With Serial, Syed's case became water cooler talk, as people openly discussed their theories on his innocence or guilt and their interpretations of the newest evidence each week, and the popularity of true-crime media expanded in the wake of Serial's success. The comedy series Only Murders in the Building (Hulu 2021–present) draws on familiar true-crime podcast tropes, specifically the podcasts’ hosts, investigative techniques, and even fans. Rather than being a niche series, Only Murders in the Building became “the most-watched comedy ever on Hulu, by a good margin,” illustrating the popularity and cultural touchstone status that true-crime series have attained (Adalian).This article explores a specific aspect of true-crime series: the narrator. In particular, I analyze how the narrators of prominent true-crime documentary series deploy different strategies to cultivate credibility and convey narrative truth. Since the premiere of Serial, many true-crime podcasts have been created, such as All Killa No Filla (2014–16), In the Dark (2016–20), and Atlanta Monster (2018–present). Additionally, Netflix has released at least one true-crime documentary series and feature each year since 2017, including The Keepers (2017), Evil Genius (2018), and Wild Wild Country (2018). The true-crime phenomenon is not restricted to the United States either; the 2004 French true-crime miniseries Soupçons (or The Staircase) released three new episodes on Netflix in 2018, bringing new attention to the Jean-Xavier de Lestrade series. Additionally, the BBC produced Unsolved: The Boy Who Disappeared (2016), and ITV aired The Investigator: A British Crime Story (2016–18). True Crime Asia (2016–18) is a podcast developed by Beijing native Melissa Powers, with the intention of bringing Asian crimes to Western audiences and addressing Western misconceptions of Asian cultures. Despite the increasing production in true-crime series across media, “there is a lack of serious scholarship on true crime as a narrative form . . . [and] no objective measurement of the genre's characteristics” (Punnett 84). While scholars have discussed many of these popular series (Boling and Hull 92–108; Buozis 254–70; Hardey and James 74–90) and the genre's popular resurgence (Antoniak 83–95; Boling 161–78; Horeck), less work has been done to analyze and classify the differing narrative methods, which is what I propose to do here.In this article, I first detail a brief history of narrators and debates surrounding the narrative paradigm. Second, I propose a taxonomy of different styles of narrators in true-crime documentary series to better understand how they construct credibility and narrative truth, as well as how they characterize the conditions for judgment. This is accomplished through focusing on three true-crime series released in 2014–15 that gained both critical acclaim and public adoration. The podcast and television series serving as case studies are substantial in the genre, but as I have already demonstrated, there have been many true-crime series produced since 2015, with their numbers increasing every year. As such, looking at this set of case studies alone will not provide a complete or final categorization of narrators. Film, television, and podcasts, however, are forms that strive for reinvention while remaining the same (Jenner), so it is reasonable to assume that the narrators featured in these prominent series are exemplars of the field. Each series features an example of one of three categories in my true-crime narrator taxonomy: the journalist-turned-advocate, the open advocate, or the hidden advocate.Creating a taxonomy, however, is not without issues. One of the most highly cited taxonomies in film studies comes from Bill Nichols, who defines four, then later six, taxonomic categories or “modes” of documentaries (Representing Reality 65–106; Introduction to Documentary 142–212). Nichols's taxonomy has been criticized for relying on induction and intuition, for its lack of criteria in defining specific voices (mainly the poetic and reflexive modes), and for how it places more weight on contextual than textual elements (Baselga et al. 248–51; Bernstein 413). Despite these many criticisms, Sergio Villanueva Baselga, Mario Perez-Montoro, and Lydia Sánchez, in an effort to validate taxonomic categorizations, have demonstrated that academics can make more use of the modes than practicing filmmakers do and that much scholarship is advanced based on the foundations of categorization (14). Taxonomies aid in “furthering investigation by raising specific questions [and] suggesting analytic strategies” (Small 295). Charles Ramírez Berg, who created a taxonomy of alternative plots, argues that “with a concise taxonomy in place, the scope of . . . narrative tendency becomes apparent, and we can begin addressing analytical questions” (8). Through the taxonomy of narrators that I theorize here, scholars can answer questions such as the following: How is truth presented in popular nonfiction media? How do these narrators establish trust with the audience? What impact does the narrator's presence have on the documentary's argument? What impact might these series have on the world outside the media artifact?Regarding the latter, many significant actions have taken place in the “real world” in response to these true-crime series, such as Syed receiving a new trial, Robert Durst being arrested, and Brendan Dassey's appeal reaching the Supreme Court (Ansari; Bromwich and Stack; Yan and Shoichet). The fact that any actions were taken suggests the need to study how these texts and their narrators create meaning. I argue that with “true crime shows . . . clearly building toward a peak moment in pop culture” (Whitney), creating a taxonomy is critical to enable our understanding of what influences the narrators and the narratives presented in these series can have on the world.The definition of “narrator” is largely unsettled. For example, Katherine Thomson-Jones claims that a narrator is “a fictional agent who tells or shows a story” (79), while A. C. Spearing suggests that “a narrator has come to mean . . . a hypothetical but supposedly necessary figure internal to the narrative” (60). These are two drastically different understandings of what a narrator is and how meaning is affected within the story, and both definitions are limited in understanding the complex role of the narrator. Whereas Thomson-Jones overlooks when the narrator is a real person, such as in nonfiction, Spearing fails to consider that the narrator does not need to be internal to the narrative to be a narrator, as the narrator often serves as an uninvolved third party. Peter Verstraten sides more with Thomson-Jones when applying the concept of narratology specifically to film by arguing that the “main function of a filmic narrator is to show moving images (possibly with printed text) and to produce sound (possibly in the guise of spoken text)” (7), though even this conception of a filmic narrator is limited, as the narrator not only provides images and sound but also can use these elements to make an argument. This is especially important to consider moving forward, as John Grierson argues that cinema, especially documentaries, should be considered “a pulpit” and that regardless of the kind of narrator, cinema can be utilized to motivate audiences to act (7). An amalgam of these definitions provides the contours of the specific rhetorical dimension of a narrator, but all these definitions agree that “there can be no narrative without a narrator” (Barthes 109).2While the various definitions overlap and contradict one another in various ways, they each suggest that narrators can be either homodiegetic or heterodiegetic. Homodiegetic narrators are internal to the story while heterodiegetic narrators are not. Some directors, such as Michael Moore, insert themselves into the narrative. By narrating the story from the inside, they become homodiegetic narrators, which is a style often associated with fiction, as the characters within the films provide a voice-over to orient the audience to the events happening in their lives. In most documentaries, however, the narrators are heterodiegetic, regardless of whether they use voice-overs, because they present a narrative they filmed, edited, and produced, but they do not influence the actual events that take place. As will be discussed in greater depth in a later section, regardless of whether the presence of the narrator is made known, there is always a narrating force.A prominent difference between more traditional television crime series, such as Martin Kane, Private Detective (NBC 1949–54), and true-crime documentaries series is that rather than focusing on the crime, true-crime documentaries often focus on the convicted (or in some cases, the acquitted). The narrator is a key component for the crime genre, be the narrator a character within the story or an unknown voice who appears unconnected to the narrative. Through the narrator's framing, one side or the other may appear more sympathetic, and though it may seem commonplace now, narrators siding with the accused is a “new feature of true crime” (Pâquet 75). In most fictional crime dramas, the audience experiences the unfolding drama as the narrator unpacks clues that lead to a conclusion, be it an arrest, an escape, or an acquittal. The audience pieces together the clues presented by the narrator to understand the crime and outcome. With nonfiction, the narrator has a different role since the audience likely knows (or has the ability to easily learn) the outcome. Instead of laying out and explaining unknown facts to create a narrative, the narrator employs forensic rhetoric to tell the story—unpacking or relitigating the process of an event/crime that has already occurred. The narrator as a communicative device gains further significance if an outsider acts as the narrator, as the narrator appears omniscient. If something does not quite make sense, but the narrator says it is so, how can the audience disagree?This invites fundamental questions about the reliability of the narrator, and the question of reliability presumes questions of credibility, reasonability, and awareness. Unreliable narrators have become a trope in crime fiction to the point that whenever a film or television show starts, the audience must ask if the humble and honest Huckleberry Finn is their guide or if the ending will reveal that they were yanked around by the unreliable Keyser Söze from the start.3 Since the narrator is the person who guides the audience through the story, it is easy for them to lead the audience to believe one thing over another, regardless of the veracity of the narration. With nonfiction, there is an “aim for or [an expectation for] a degree of correspondence between the world of the story and the real world. . . . The regulative aim of nonfiction is that what is so according to the narrative be true. But this regulative aim is frequently not met in full” (Currie 75). Because true-crime series are more frequently agents of change, it is particularly important to ensure the audience is aware of or can assess the credibility of the narrator. The credibility of the narrator influences the credibility of the entire narrative, and the idea that there can be no narrative without a narrator helps to fill gaps in the narrative paradigm.Walter Fisher's narrative paradigm states that human beings are homo narrans, or human storytellers, and we use stories to make sense of the world and form arguments (6). Fisher proposed this paradigm as an alternative to the rational world paradigm, which prefers expert, technical discourses. By its nature, this latter preference excludes many people; necessitating technical knowledge puts the general public at a disadvantage because not everyone will have the ability to judge public argumentation that is colonized by technoscientific discourses. Within the narrative paradigm, however, the expert acts as a counselor, and after they have imparted knowledge to the audience, the audience is able to judge for themselves whether the public argument is coherent and reliable so they can act. The judging is based on the concepts of narrative fidelity and narrative probability, where the audience use their own experiences as storytellers to assess the story's correspondence with reality and its internal coherence, respectively. In other words, audiences, whether the narrative is fiction or nonfiction, will seek “certain kinds of truths, especially ethical truths,” and have to answer the question “Does this make sense in the context of the story that is being told and does this square with my larger stories about how the world is?” (Schoen 35–36). The audience shifts from being told what to think to becoming “active participants in the meaning-formation of the stories” (Fisher 13).Fisher's narrative paradigm, however, does not theorize the role of narrator, even though, as established, there can be no narrative without a narrator. Critiques leveled at the narrative paradigm center on who is responsible for stitching together the argument made by the narrative. One of the many critics of the narrative paradigm is Barbara Warnick, who questioned how universal the paradigm can be with its focus on ontology (172). She argues that each person will have a different view of what qualifies as narrative probability and narrative fidelity since these are learned through life experience. As a result, the rhetorical critic becomes the arbiter of the argument, so the universality of narratives as public argument is lost. If Warnick is correct, narrators become an even more important feature as the point of identification for the audience to understand or relate to the narrative.In the true-crime narratives that involve technical discourses, narrators guide the audience through the evidence and highlight the relevance or absurdity of certain legal maneuvers. These media stress the need to analyze the role of the narrator in generating narrative probability and fidelity. Many true-crime documentaries focus on cases with “problematic” investigations and/or conclusions. True-crime series as a genre can reiterate “the conventional power relations played out between victims and criminals, between criminals and the law, and between the state and its citizens” to their audience, raising awareness (Biressi 15). Through the telling of these stories, the narrators open up important public arguments for the audience, making them privy to information about the cases that previously may have been outside their understanding.The techniques filmmakers and other media creators use in true-crime documentaries—handheld camera shots, use of interviews and archival material, voice-overs, musical score—all can shift the audience's attention and focus. The arguments presented by the narrators often shift to better fit their specific audiences. Through varying filmic techniques, these documentaries become stories where “truth is established on narrative terms: its coherence and flow as a story, its fidelity to lived experience” (Schoen 157).Through considering Fisher's narrative paradigm, we see how filmmakers and content creators are able to use narratives to construct arguments, and Warnick explores how critics serve as the interpreter of the argument. Both scholars, however, overlook the importance of the narrator in framing and judging such narratives. How do narrators navigate technical discourses to construct meaning through these narratives to present a truth about an event? With this question in mind, I turn to my classification of the three types of true-crime narrators: the journalist-turned-advocate narrator, the open advocate narrator, and the hidden advocate narrator, as seen in Serial, The Jinx: The Life and Deaths of Robert Durst (HBO 2015), and Making a Murderer (Netflix 2015–18), respectively.In 1914, Walter Williams, the first dean of the Missouri School of Journalism, wrote the Journalist's Creed. The creed has an exclusionary tone, seemingly written only for men, but it contains a line that rings particularly true to how Sarah Koenig approaches Serial: “the journalism which succeeds best . . . seeks to give every man a chance and, as far as law and honest wage and recognition of human brotherhood can make it so, an equal chance.” This tenet suggests that a journalist will approach the work they do from as unbiased a perspective as possible in an attempt to give all sides a fair chance. As both a journalist and the narrator of Serial, Koenig must present herself as an “objective” truth teller, driven by the idea of evenhandedness. To do so, she (supposedly) shares all the evidence she can with the audience, whether it supports or harms the side she believes, and ultimately advocates for the truth.Serial is a podcast that premiered in 2014 on This American Life (1995–present), a National Public Radio (NPR) series. The first twelve-episode season of Serial focuses on the story of Adnan Syed, who, at the time of the series’ release, had been incarcerated since he was seventeen for the murder of his ex-girlfriend, Hae Min Lee. Koenig narrates each episode, and throughout the series, she examines evidence provided by both sides of the court case to reassess the innocence/guilt of Syed. She acts as a journalist-turned-advocate narrator, who is characterized by creating credibility through transparency and unbiased reporting while ultimately staking a position on the subject's guilt/innocence.It should be noted that Serial's podcast format means that, unlike the other case studies discussed in this article, all the arguments are filtered through Koenig's literal voice. Her inflections, timbre, and vocal stylings influence how audiences experience the narrative. The fact that Koenig's earnest voice narrates the podcast, as opposed to the stentorian voice of male narrators in traditional documentaries, could complicate the perception of her credibility. Because this article is a taxonomy of different types of narrators, and not all journalist-turned-advocate narrators are female (e.g., Brian Reed in S-Town [2017]) and journalist-turned-advocate narrators are not restricted to podcasts (e.g., Mark Williams-Thomas in ITV's The Investigator: A British Crime Story), the gender of the narrator's voice goes beyond the scope of this article.4The initial unbiased nature of Serial is demonstrated through Koenig's narration, which in the podcast format functions differently than in traditional print journalism. Rather than each episode expanding on a topic, as subsequent news articles do, episodes jump forward in time, presenting certain evidence, and then jump back to explain how Koenig uncovered the evidence as well as its potential implication for Syed's case. Koenig interviews people who argue that Syed is innocent as well as those who believe he is guilty, and she intercuts those interviews where they have the most rhetorical impact, not where they take place chronologically. For example, Koenig provides an episode focused solely on presenting the evidence against Syed (episode six, “The Case Against Adnan Syed”), then has another episode presenting only evidence that suggests his innocence (episode seven, “The Opposite of the Prosecution”). By intentionally separating the evidence for and against Syed, Koenig recreates the feeling of a trial, where the prosecution offers its case, followed by the defense's rebuttal. The presentation of information in this cross-examination-like manner suggests that Koenig seeks objective judgment, communicating her fairness and lack of bias.Before Koenig can explain the arguments for and against Syed's guilt, however, she, like all journalist-turned-advocate narrators, must establish her credibility as a journalist and guide through the story of Syed. One of the first things Koenig tells the audience is “I'm not a detective or a private investigator. I'm not even a crime reporter” (“The Alibi”). She is a reporter on NPR, though, and she establishes that fact in the introduction of each episode with the line “From This American Life and WBEZ Chicago, it's Serial.” Her affiliation with a nationally respected program already has an established appeal to credibility. Koenig tells the audience she is not a detective or crime reporter before she spends twelve episodes investigating a crime and explaining its implications to the audience. It is a self-effacing move that serves to ingratiate her to the audience. Serial is narrated by someone who does not have years of crime experience; rather, it is narrated by a journalist who presents herself as offering fresh eyes, unjaded by years of dealing with crime and with a desire to uncover the truth about a story that seems a bit off—a story that invites questions that require a journalistic approach. Koenig says that she has been investigating the Syed case “for the last year,” getting to know all the players and the facts undergirding the case (“The Alibi”). Many of the stories that journalists report on are merely days old, but Serial embraces the ethos of investigative journalism by revisiting a case nearly fifteen years old. Koenig's statement instills confidence that her story has been thoroughly researched and confirmed and is being shared only after a year's worth of journalistic due diligence.Koenig works to maintain the trust of the audience by establishing transparency in how she creates the narrative, the second key feature of journalist-turned-advocate narrators. Part of her transparency comes from explaining her decisions to the audience, such as when she says, “Normally, I probably wouldn't pursue rumors that on their face aren't connected to the crime at hand. But in this case, I decided it was worthwhile because of where these rumors come from” (“Rumors”). By explaining her thought process and stating that she normally would not do this, Koenig informs the audience (a) that these rumors are important enough to go against her normal style of investigating and (b) how her thought process is working to get to the truth of the Syed case. Koenig shares, at least partially, her process with the audience so that there will be no appearance of trickery in how she creates the narrative. When she excludes evidence from one episode where it may appear relevant, she acknowledges that she does so, even if she does not explain why. For example, in the episode “Route Talk,” she notes, “Over the past few weeks, I've been holding [back] bits of evidence here and there that look bad for Adnan.” The preface for the newly discussed evidence allows Koenig to acknowledge that she has withheld evidence that could better inform the audience of Syed's guilt without making her appear that she is manipulating facts to persuade the audience one way or the other. By being upfront about (some of) her narrative decisions, she fosters trust with the audience. This decision also plays into journalistic norms, as a journalist should not proceed with a story until the information has been vetted. Koenig has potentially damning information, but she does not reveal it until she has verified that it fits into the overall story.Koenig also conveys transparency to the audience through editing. In a visual medium, if an interview microphone were to malfunction, the audience would be able to see the person continue speaking even if there was a bump in the audio. In a podcast, however, a sudden change or bump in audio could feel like an editing decision designed to make a person say what the narrator wanted them to say. Koenig is conscious of this fact and clarifies what a person says if there could be any doubt. In the episode “Route Talk,” Koenig plays portions of a recorded interrogation between a detective and a schoolmate of Syed's named Ja'uan. The audio is not the best quality, but toward the end, Ja'uan says, “I think he might have said that they had sex there before.” Koenig jumps in as soon as Ja'uan is done speaking and adds, “In case you didn't hear that, he says, ‘I think he might have said that they had sex there before.’” Koenig's reiteration does two things: first, it ensures that the audience knows what was said, and second, it demonstrates that Koenig is not trying to mislead the audience. She does not want the sound discrepancy to suggest that editing altered the meaning of even a single utterance. Koenig also does this in the episode “Inconsistences” when presenting a recording of a detective interviewing Jay, who was with Syed the day Lee was murdered. In the interview, Jay says, “I'm the criminal element of Woodlawn,” but the audio cuts a little sharply, so it sounds like, “I'm the criminal element of Woodla—.” Koenig follows this cut with “I'm the criminal element of Woodlawn, he says,” then continues Jay's interview, rewinding just enough that the audience can hear the audio is continuous. A journalist can take quotes and move them around in the article as they see fit, but “putting words into your interviewee's mouth . . . can, in fact, be actionable” (Fowler). Koenig retains journalistic integrity by presenting the quotes as completely and in context as she can despite technical issues.By being transparent about her decisions as well as the quotations she uses, Koenig establishes her credibility as both a journalist and a narrator to lead the audience through the story. In fact, through this method, Koenig deftly creates a mutually reinforcing loop of using her credibility as the journalist to gain credibility as the narrator of the story and vice versa. Every time Koenig is transparent about her methods and reasoning for including a piece of evidence, her credibility as a narrator grows. As she explains the prosecution's case against Syed and pokes holes in Syed's story, then flips and does the opposite, her credibility as a journalist grows.Serial differed from other true-crime documentary series in several ways. First, because she put herself into the story through the narrative of her thorough investigation, Koenig's credibility evolved past a mere regurgitation of the case, as she did more than repeat the facts and interview the ones involved. Second, focusing on a case without a clear ending allowed Koenig to craft arguments about what she thought was true and false. After guiding the audience through a ten-hour journey, Koenig does not provide a conclusive ending about whether Syed is guilty or innocent. As a journalist, she is committed to uncovering the facts even if the result is less than definitive, similar to Errol Morris in The Thin Blue Line. In fact, Morris is almost the counterpoint to Koenig: he was an investigator turned journalist/filmmaker, while Koenig is a journalist turned investigator.5 Through these qualities, Koenig establishes herself as a credible narrator, and that is why, in the final episode of season one, when she tells the audience, “I don't believe any of us can say what really happened to Hae [Min Lee]. As a juror I vote to acquit Adnan Syed,” her opinion seems as close to factual as an opinion can (“What We Know”).Koenig expresses her doubts about Syed's innocence repeatedly throughout the season, but when she, our narrator and guide, our fact finder, and our journalist, states that Syed should have been found not guilty, it is a persuasive argument. The rational world paradigm would insist that only the courts can determine Syed's guilt or innocence, as they have the legal expertise to make such decisions, but as seen with Fisher's narrative paradigm, through Koenig's narration of Syed's story, both Koenig and the audience are able to come to their own conclusions as to whether Syed should be incarcerated. Because she established her journalistic credibility so thoroughly over the course of the season, Koenig's statement that she believes Syed should have been found not guilty has more weight than it would have otherwise and turns her from a journalist into an advocate. 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