The Menendez brothers’ case is a complex intertwine of privilege, trauma, and justice, captivating every generation with its dark, tangled legacy.
In the late 1980s, nestled behind the high gates of a Beverly Hills mansion, a family tragedy would evolve into one of the most infamous cases of true crime history. The Menendez brothers—Lyle and Erik—weren’t just any pair of rich, siblings. They were the epitome of privilege, wealth, and the kind of American Dream that makes everyone look up from their phones with a pang of envy and desire. When they ruthlessly gunned down their parents, José and Kitty Menendez, in 1989, they shattered this gilded image, leaving behind a macabre story that became a decades-long fixation. But why does our fascination refuse to fade? Why, in 2024, are they suddenly back at the forefront of our cultural consciousness?
In their rise from murderers to media spectacles, the Menendez brothers have captivated audiences for reasons that go far beyond the typical true crime narrative. It began, quite frankly, with shock. Two privileged boys killing their own parents in such a brutal manner was not something that fit neatly into our societal norms. It was the sort of thing we thought only happened in the fever dreams of gothic horror writers or within the crumbling walls of European castles—not on American soil, and certainly not on the manicured lawns of Beverly Hills. This wasn’t merely murder; it was a psychological Rubik’s cube. And America, true to form, was determined to solve it.
Yet, it wasn’t only the crime that drew us in. It was the broadcast of the trials that transformed the Menendez brothers into public figures. In an era before reality television became a staple of entertainment, the courtroom served as a grim precursor. The live broadcasts were raw, unfiltered, and deeply human. We watched every tear, every icy glare, and every emotional outburst as if our lives depended on it. We became invested in their fates the same way we become invested in the cliff-hangers of our favourite streaming series. This was a prelude to what would become a national obsession with courtroom spectacles—think O.J. Simpson, think Casey Anthony. The Menendez brothers were the opening act.
But our collective interest has never been purely about the drama. There’s always been a lurking fascination with the “why” behind their actions. When Lyle and Erik took the stand and alleged that their father had subjected them to years of sexual and emotional abuse, it split the public consciousness. On one hand, we were horrified; on the other, we were unsure how to process the potential reality of their trauma. Could two young men from such immense privilege truly be victims? Did their monstrous acts arise from unspeakable pain, or were they simply greedy, manipulative killers using abuse as a get-out-of-jail card? It’s a question we’re still debating decades later, and one that refuses to find a neat answer.
The fascination, however, doesn’t lie solely in the past. Fast-forward to 2024, and a new generation is re-discovering the Menendez brothers thanks to Netflix’s dramatized retelling in Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story and the accompanying documentary series, The Menendez Brothers. Streaming platforms, our modern campfires, have revived their story, casting it into new lights. For many, these productions offer a chance to see the case with fresh eyes, shaped by today’s cultural sensibilities. In an era that places increasing value on acknowledging abuse and trauma, their allegations are met with a more empathetic ear than they were during their trial. TikTok videos dissect every legal move and tearful plea. Reddit threads debate the nuances of coercion and fear. The case has become a cultural touchstone once again, drawing in viewers who want to understand, judge, and theorise.
The reason for this resurgence isn’t only a testament to the streaming giants’ power but also to our society’s shifting attitudes towards justice and punishment. Back in the 1990s, the brothers’ harsh life sentences seemed par for the course in a climate of “tough on crime” policies. But today, as we grapple with the ethics of mass incarceration, the question of whether they deserve to spend their lives behind bars feels more nuanced. The rise of movements that push for restorative and rehabilitative justice, rather than purely punitive measures, has reframed our view of Lyle and Erik. Should they be forever defined by one night of unimaginable violence, or does redemption—even for them—remain possible? That question speaks to the broader moral struggles of our society, drawing in audiences who see themselves as part of a more compassionate era.
Of course, there is something inherently theatrical about the Menendez brothers’ story. Their lives have always teetered on the edge of Shakespearean tragedy—a narrative of privilege, betrayal, and trauma wrapped in a high-stakes courtroom drama. The paradoxes at the heart of their story are captivating: two young men both privileged and broken, both killers and alleged victims. We see ourselves, our fears, and our worst impulses reflected in their story, even if we don’t want to admit it. To understand them is to explore our own darkest corners.
And then there is the element of social media, our modern colosseum. In 2024, platforms like TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter have become amplifiers for the Menendez brothers’ resurgence. Clips of their testimonies go viral, set to haunting music and captioned with modern-day analysis of trauma. Young people who weren’t even born when the case first gripped the nation find themselves captivated, offering hot takes and emotional reactions. The brothers’ claims of abuse resonate in ways they couldn’t have before, thanks to our increasing understanding of the complexities of trauma. They become memes, symbols, anti-heroes to some, villains to others. Their story, once confined to courtrooms and news broadcasts, now plays out in millions of mini-narratives on our screens.
What keeps us obsessed with the Menendez brothers isn’t just a hunger for darkness, though. It’s a need to understand how and why human beings cross certain lines. It’s a desire to place ourselves in their shoes—to explore whether we would have done the same, given their circumstances, or if we would have chosen a different path. And perhaps, more than anything, it’s a need to make sense of a story that refuses to fit neatly into good or evil.
We’ll continue to watch. We’ll continue to argue. And we’ll continue to see parts of ourselves in the messy, convoluted tragedy of the Menendez brothers. Because in a world that thrives on complex narratives, theirs is one we can never quite put down.