The Staircase

Deep in a second lockdown, the last thing you need while trying to account for lost income and no gyms (thanks, Bozza) is a tense and paranoia-inducing documentary about murder, guilt, loss and the flaws in any justice system.  I know this now.  But I didn’t when I decided the time had finally come for me to consume Netflix’s well-known thirteen-part series: The Staircase.  Previously, it had proven easy enough to ignore in the algorithm, particularly with such distractions as the second series of The End Of The F***ing World, a Wales-based attempt at I’m A Celebrity (works quite well, actually) and, thank goodness, despite its dilution by social distancing, Strictly Come Dancing.  Don’t even ask me about season four of The Crown – that will just have to wait (plus it’s not like my enjoyment is at risk from spoilers).  But no, podcast after podcast had conspired to reference The Staircase in heated discussion, bringing out my worst fear: boxset omission.  Here I am carefully curating all my viewing so I can chime in with any conversation, and yet I had missed what sounded like a bit of a classic.  Not that I can interrupt people while podcasting.  I’ve tried that before and they can’t actually hear you so there’s no point.

Potentially a poor man’s Making A Murderer, The Staircase looks like it’s going to offer you the same sort of did-he-didn’t-he, blow-by-blow account of an American crime as examined through the American justice system.  Indeed, both shows err on the side of the subject’s pleas of innocence, highlighting how courthouses are vulnerable to corruption, bias and unfairness, but while the Steven Amery case focuses on a low-income family whose only wealth is in the form of dilapidated cars, the clan at the centre of our story, by the look of their North Carolina mansion, seem to be drenched in riches.

But, they do have an awkwardly poky staircase, and it’s this part of the interior that forms the point of dispute driving the whole series’ narrative.  At the bottom of it, the body of Kathleen Peterson is found in 2001, covered in blood.  Is her tragic death an accidental fall, or the result of murder by her husband, Michael Peterson?  Either way, it’s his frantic calls to 911 that open our story.  It’s a chilling beginning and one seemingly designed to arouse suspicion immediately.  As the trial proceeds and we learn more about the Petersons’ happy family home, containing well turned-out children from previous marriages as well as some adopted daughters, we can only look on as the state brings a case against Michael and appears willing to play every trick to clinch a conviction.  We’re going back twenty years, so attitudes towards sexuality highlight an excess of narrow-mindedness.  Juror response research even yields free admissions that experts with Chinese accents aren’t easy to trust.  The odds stack up against Michael who, out on bail, potters about his large home drinking cans of Diet Coke while his legal team strategise.  He brings to mind an early-season Caitlyn Jenner in Keeping Up With The Kardashians, bemused by the goings on of the young people in the home but ultimately happy in some jogging bottoms.

It’s hard to discuss much more about the case without spoiling the plot.  I was hoping for references to an owl theory that had played out centrally in the podcast discussions that had driven me to the programme, but, unless I blacked out at very specific moments, I totally missed this.  Instead, over the course of many years, we watch a middle-aged man grow very old and suffer, eliciting natural sympathy no matter the verdict.  This is contrasted with the burning hatred that Kathleen’s surviving sisters have for him, which grows only stronger with time, giving some indication of the impetus behind his prosecution.  There’s uneasy viewing throughout, from graphic depictions of Kathleen after her fall to deeply skin-crawling testimonies in the courtroom.

As we progress, you develop a sense of melancholy from all the waste.  All the time, money, energy and emotion that goes into something like this, only for it never truly to be over, highlights the human damage and hopelessness such a case leaves in its wake.  Nothing can bring Kathleen back and nothing can make clear what really happened.  Our perspective is only ever really that of the accused, so sympathies naturally develop there, but nobody really wins.

The episodes each pivot around a singular development in the case, but we could potentially have zipped through some of them a bit more quickly to tighten up the documentary’s intensity.  The shaky footage from the early 2000s is hardly going to stress out your HD telly, but this is more of an unputdownable story than a visual feast by any stretch of the imagination.  In addition, the camerawork improves as the episodes shift focus nearer to the present day, particularly in the three final editions added by Netflix.  You’ll come away feeling uneasy, knowing what a blow poke is and questioning who gets to decide guilt and innocence, but at least you’ll be about thirteen hours closer to the end of a lockdown.

Making A Murderer

If you’re looking for something to watch while waiting at home until it’s time to go to Heathrow for your evening flight to Cape Town, nervous about your first trip to Africa, apprehensive about the eleven and a half hours in economy, worried about having to wait around Cape Town airport for your next two-hour flight to Pietermaritzburg and suddenly regretting your decision to go alone, don’t watch Making A Murderer.  Going through an airport is tense enough.  What have you forgotten?  Did you accidentally pack an incendiary device in your hand luggage?  Where is your passport?  What if the Tube train gets stuck and you miss the flight?  While Netflix bingeing can provide a welcome escape from these tedious stressors in life, Making A Murderer will only amplify them as it turns the screw episode by irresistible episode until you’re terrified ever to leave the house again.

But yes, it’s a documentary and we’ve not really covered one of them before.  This means it’s all true and about real things and doesn’t contain any attractive acting talent.  The story begins way back in the eighties and takes us right up to 2015 when the show first appeared on Netflix.  Steven Avery is at the heart of goings on, and these goings on revolve around a number of crimes he is accused of and whether he actually did them.  I can’t say more without giving away too much of the storyline’s tension – episode one draws you straight in so go and click play immediately and that will save me the time of regurgitating what happens.

Our setting is Wisconsin, so we’re talking Fargo country here.  We have the accents, which charm throughout, and we also have lots of wistful shots of various buildings relating to law enforcement covered in snow.  But there’s nothing sexy about this. In fact, the name of the county most of this took place in, Manitowoc, is perhaps one of the sexiest things in the whole series.  It’s a fun word to say and conjures up all sorts of imagery of the American wilderness.  Now let’s compare this to the name of the equivalent local government I grew up in here in the UK: Mole Valley.  Even the unsexy parts of the USA are sexier than England.

Anyway, the key point here is that this documentary will reel you in quickly and then not let you go until there’s none left.  Is it entertainment?  In a sick way, yes.  But it’s also deeply interesting and your reaction will be strong – each episode compounds the galling effect of the previous one.  Later episodes show highlights from hundreds of hours’ worth of real courtroom action, and the editing gives it such pacing that you may doubt this isn’t a very realistic drama.  Nevertheless, it’s not quite a romp to the finish, as the trials’ endlessness is hard to avoid, but luckily I have watched enough of How To Get Away With Murder to know exactly what’s going on.

Criticism has been levelled that the programme only shows one side of the story, and you won’t be able to escape wondering if you really have been given the whole picture.  Prosecution lawyer, Ken Kratz, doesn’t seem to be the type of man (or to have the type of haircut) that anyone can trust, let alone twelve people on a jury, but it is gratifying to know he was accused of sexting female clients later on.  Indeed, Kratz as a physical specimen is at the very heart of the show’s unsexiness.

But lo, we are shown the press conferences that took place after each part of the trial.  Among the journalists, there is a surprise handsome individual.  We began to refer to him as sexy journalist.  To his left and right are buck teeth, bad hair, double chins and doughy complexions.  Never have matinée idol looks seemed so out of placed.  While Ken Kratz oozes slime, this guy gives you appearance goals like you’ve never expected: silver fox hair and a jawline carved from granite.  It’s like a bit of Hollywood has been dropped into Manitowoc accidentally.

So when should you watch something so harrowing?  Save it for when you get back from the most amazing trip to South Africa, for when you need to decompress yourself from the sunshine and relaxation so that you can again reacclimatise to the cold, the wet, and the awful people getting in your way on public transport because they can’t tear their eyes away from their smartphones.  After all, at least you’re not in prison.