Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story: Delving into the Mind of an Anti-Hero
Two wealthy brothers walk into a Southern California store to buy shotguns. At the counter, they present a stolen ID to validate their purchase. Just two nights later, they use these shotguns to viciously murder their parents— firing at close range, reloading their ammunition numb to even their mother’s pleas for mercy as she crawled on the floor, begging for her life, staining the once pristine Beverly Hills house with the blood of familial betrayal. Would you classify these children as monsters?
Your first instinct might be, “Of course”. Who could commit such a brutal crime against the very people that gave them life? Yet, my answer is no.
This is the story of the two brothers, Erik and Lyle Menendez. Once uncovering more details, you will realize they were victims of abuse, hidden beneath the facade of a privileged life. With the recent release of the hit Netflix series, Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story, the once black-and-white portrayal of the Menendez brothers as monstrous killers begins to shift, revealing the complexity behind their motives as a result of the build-up of abuse they endured. Director Ryan Murphy’s interpretation of the 1989 murders provides a chilling perspective of the Menedez family, and is a horror documentary well worth every true crime lover’s time.
The first few episodes of the show focus on the prosecution's narrative of the Menendez case. They illustrated the brothers’ meticulously planned murder scheme— their alibis, elaborate lies, and extravagant shopping following the homicide— portraying them as malicious murderers who deliberately committed this heinous crime to obtain their inheritance. After all, their life seemed perfect; Jose Menendez was an executive at the record company RCA, and the family lived in a luxurious mansion in Beverly Hills. Lyle Menendez attended Princeton University, while Erik Menendez was a nationally-ranked tennis player. They seemed to be the embodiment of the model immigrant family. With such an ideal life, the jury questioned, what could have possibly driven the brothers to carry out such a horrific act?
In the next few episodes, director Ryan Murphy introduces a new representation of the brothers’ motives. Once they are arrested and questioned by their lawyers Leslie Abramson and Jill Lansing, new revelations begin to surface, exposing years of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse inflicted upon the brothers by their father, Jose, while their mother Kitty intentionally turned a blind eye. Along with the immense pressure to succeed from their father, it is revealed that their primary motive emerged when Lyle discovered their father was still sexually abusing Erik, despite having promised to stop. Following an intense confrontation with their parents, fearing for their lives, the brothers took their two shotguns and viciously killed their parents. Even though the defense illustrated the brothers as scarred individuals driven to a breaking point by years of abuse, this narrative was met with widespread skepticism and extensive media scrutiny due to the societal stigma against male sexual abuse during the 1990s.
With the renewed attention towards this case following the recent release of the Netflix portrayal, there has been much contention over the Menendez brothers’ characters, particularly surrounding the controversial behaviors of Lyle Menendez. His domineering and defensive personality, while protective in some situations, could also appear manipulative, creating doubt on whether or not Lyle influenced Erik into actions he may not have otherwise taken. Such as Lyle pressuring Erik into lying to the authorities, even as the trauma and stress overwhelmed Erik, or Lyle’s assertive demeanor and insistence for Erik to show fake emotion on the stand when preparing for their testimony. This leadsme to question whether Lyle truly felt remorse, or if he was just concerned with securing his defense.
Upon finishing the series, I realized that Lyle Menendez was simply a product of his circumstances, an individual that elicited sympathy and contempt within the audience. I felt torn — horrified by the brutality of his crime yet sympathetic because I understood how his traumatic past shaped him. I couldn’t decide if he was the victim or the perpetrator, so I settled by calling him the anti-hero. Anti-hero’s are not easy to forgive nor condemn, especially in the case of Lyle Menendez. His act of violence was the only way he could escape his situation. In the end, Murphy interpreted his actions simply as a reaction to the wrongs inflicted upon him, thus, I hesitate to call him a monster, leaving me to wonder how thin the line between being a victim versus a villain truly is.