True crime is one of the most popular genres today, with surveys showing that nearly half of Americans enjoy it. From Netflix juggernauts like Making a Murderer and Tiger King to an endless stream of top-ranking podcasts, true crime has surged into mainstream culture. While the fever may have cooled slightly, it still commands a massive and devoted following.
But why do we love true crime? Why are we so drawn to gruesome stories about murder and tragedy when the news already offers more than enough of both?
The answer is simpler than it seems. We are naturally drawn to mystery. Stories that keep us guessing, watching, and waiting for the next twist speak to a shared curiosity. True crime offers something even more compelling. It is real. The stakes are higher, the horror more immediate, and the tension more gripping because we know these things actually happened.
A large part of the appeal is that we get to experience fear and danger from a place of safety. Whether you are at home or commuting, you are in control. You get the thrill of a dark story without any real risk. There is no danger, only suspense.
So, who is listening?
A 2010 University of Illinois study found that around 70 percent of Amazon reviews for true crime books were written by women. Podcasts and streaming platforms show similar trends. The majority of true crime consumers are women, particularly white women. This group likely plays a big role in shaping how these stories are told and why they resonate so deeply. For many, true crime offers a space to explore fear, danger, and justice while remaining completely removed from the situations that inspire them.
Patricia Bryan from the University of Iowa suggests that many true crime fans are drawn to these stories because, in most cases, the victim knew their killer. This fact makes the stories feel more intimate and personal. It invites listeners to reflect on their own relationships and surroundings.
Bryan also compares the popularity of true crime to the appeal of haunted houses or roller coasters. It is a controlled brush with danger. You feel the fear, but you know you are safe.
Murder is at the center of the true crime genre. Without a killer, there is no crime. And without a crime, what are you left with? Just ordinary life.
Serial killers are especially fascinating because they are outliers. People are naturally drawn to extremes, whether it is a world-class athlete, a brilliant artist, or a tech billionaire. We admire people who break the mold, and in a strange and unsettling way, serial killers are no exception. They are extreme in the worst possible sense, but we still find ourselves asking the same questions. What happened to them? What made them like this?
True crime lets us psychoanalyze these people from a distance. It allows us to peer into the darkest parts of human behavior without getting pulled in. And that creates its own kind of thrill.
There is also a deeper, more disturbing layer. The more we explore the minds of killers, the more we start to wonder what we are capable of ourselves. Could I be like that? Do I have a dark part of me buried somewhere deep? Most people will quickly say no. But even asking the question is part of the fascination.
This is where the line between curiosity and glorification starts to blur. A clear example is Zac Efron’s portrayal of Ted Bundy, where a charming Hollywood face gives a notorious murderer a strange kind of appeal. The more we look into their minds, the more risk there is of making them feel larger than life.
For many true crime fans, the fascination does not stop at understanding the killer. There is also a strong desire to see justice served. We want the murderer caught. We want them punished. There is a sense of order being restored when the story ends with someone behind bars.
vengeance is mine
That sense of justice is what sets true crime apart from simple horror. In horror, the fear lingers. In true crime, the satisfaction often comes from resolution. Someone is held accountable. The narrative is complete.
This desire for resolution is what makes Vengeance Is Mine such a compelling case study. Directed by Shohei Imamura in 1979, the film tells the story of a killer named Iwao Enokizu. The story is fictionalized but based loosely on the real-life murderer Akira Nishiguchi.
The film opens with Iwao being arrested. The public watches as he is escorted into the police station. People throw objects, shout insults, and unleash their anger. The desire for justice is immediate. Everyone wants to see him pay for what he has done.
But as the film unfolds, that simple desire becomes much more complicated.
As we learn more about Iwao, the film reveals that he was once wrongfully accused of murder. This experience becomes a turning point. He begins to view the world with contempt and slowly shifts from victim to predator. What starts as a twisted sense of justice quickly warps into something far more dangerous.
His initial motive is revenge. But soon, that need for vengeance becomes a hunger for control. He kills not just those who wronged him, but anyone who crosses his path. The violence escalates, and with it, Iwao becomes more detached. His humanity fades.
Iwao’s relationships with women throughout the film also reveal his emotional emptiness. He shows no intimacy, no vulnerability. He uses sex as a way to manipulate and dominate. His actions are driven by instinct, not connection. He becomes a figure consumed by impulse, hiding behind a mask of cold rationality.
One of the most chilling scenes comes early in the film. When Iwao is first arrested, he calmly asks for a nail clipper. At that point, the viewer knows very little about his crimes. The request feels strange, almost mundane. But when we return to that moment later, after everything we’ve learned, it takes on a different tone. It becomes a symbol of how calculated and emotionally distant he truly is. It is an image of a man more concerned with appearance than morality, more focused on control than conscience.
In that sense, Iwao shares DNA with other fictional killers like Patrick Bateman from American Psycho or Anton Chigurh from No Country for Old Men. These characters are not wild or chaotic. They are controlled, methodical, and terrifying in their calm. They are men who have detached so completely from empathy that even their most horrific actions feel routine. What makes them chilling is not just what they do, but how little it seems to affect them.
The nail clipper becomes a kind of symbol. It is not just about grooming. It represents order in the midst of chaos. A man tidying himself up while the world around him burns. That small act says more about his mindset than any dramatic monologue ever could.
The question that drives the film is the same one that drives so much of true crime: why? Why does he do these things? What happened to him? What turned him into this? We follow that mystery, not just to understand him, but to try and understand something darker in ourselves.
The film moves with a slow, methodical pace that mirrors Iwao’s own careful and calculated nature. At times, it feels more like a documentary than a narrative film. This approach creates a strong sense of realism. It is not sensational or flashy. It is quiet, patient, and unsettling.
Imamura’s directing style is known for its unflinching interest in human behavior, especially behavior considered strange, shameful, or socially taboo. He doesn’t romanticize his characters. He observes them. His camera often lingers too long, capturing awkward silences, strange habits, or sudden outbursts. He is not interested in making anyone look heroic. Instead, he wants to understand why people act the way they do.
In Vengeance Is Mine, that approach is turned inward. The film doesn’t just tell us that Iwao is detached. It shows us, again and again, through quiet moments and visual choices. It avoids melodrama and instead lets the discomfort grow slowly. Imamura does not offer answers. He asks us to sit with the ugliness and decide for ourselves what we’re looking at — a man? A monster? Or something in between?
Imamura uses framing to emphasize Iwao’s emotional distance. He is often shown in the background of scenes, sometimes barely in frame at all. Other characters take up the foreground while Iwao lingers behind them, quiet and unreadable. Even when he is alone, he rarely feels present.
Iwao is almost always seen wearing sunglasses and a hat, a disguise to avoid being recognized. But visually, it does something else. It hides his eyes. It hides his identity. He becomes harder to read, harder to connect with. The sunglasses remove any sense of intimacy or vulnerability. They turn him into a silhouette of a man who has shut the world out.
The camera rarely gives us close-ups of Iwao. He is usually framed in profile, or from a distance. He is always just slightly removed. This choice keeps us from forming a deep emotional connection with him. He is not a character we are meant to empathize with. He is a mystery we are meant to observe.
These choices make the film feel voyeuristic, almost like we are watching him through a pane of glass. It reinforces the idea that Iwao is not part of the world around him. He drifts through it, separate from it, and the camera makes sure we feel that distance.
As the story unfolds, the line between justice and revenge becomes harder to see. Iwao starts with a clear target: the people who wronged him. But that sense of justice quickly decays. The killings become random. The rage becomes unfocused. There is no righteousness left — only destruction.
The more we learn about him, the less clear his motives become. What started as retaliation turns into a spiral of violence and power. Iwao stops being a man seeking revenge and becomes a man chasing control at any cost.
The film asks difficult questions. Can personal vengeance ever truly be justified? Or does revenge always turn the victim into something else, something just as cruel as what they were trying to fight?
In this way, Vengeance Is Mine mirrors what so many true crime stories reveal. Once justice becomes personal, it is almost impossible to keep it clean. The pursuit of punishment often becomes its own kind of violence.
Conclusion
Vengeance Is Mine offers more than just a crime story. It is a deep dive into the human psyche, a reflection on how vengeance can corrode everything it touches. Through its slow pacing, visual restraint, and cold character study, the film avoids the sensationalism found in many true crime adaptations.
It leaves us with haunting questions. Can someone who starts as a victim ever find redemption? Or does the pursuit of revenge change a person so completely that there is no turning back?
Like the best true crime stories, it does not give us easy answers. It leaves us uneasy. And it reminds us that the path to justice can sometimes become a descent into something darker.