DAHMER controversy explained: The real reasons behind Netflix’s biggest backlash

When Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story premiered in September 2022, it not only climbed to the top of the Netflix charts but also flew to the rank of most-watched shows on the platform. But the very same series that had millions of people glued to the screen in gasping horror also sparked a cultural wildfire, a moral clash of how real crime is portrayed.

It was not just another adaptation of the life of a serial killer. It was a shiny, star-powered reenactment of the crimes of Jeffrey Dahmer (17 murders carried out between 1978 and 1991) created by Ryan Murphy. For some, it was gripping television. To others, it was retraumatization, exploitation, and a moral failure masquerading as storytelling.

The backlash did not have much to do with the traditional complaining of pacing or performances. It rather revolved around questions that went to the core of the real crime entertainment: consent, representation, commodification of trauma, and the perpetually blurry line between illumination and sensationalism.

Critics said that Dahmer was “repulsive” and “morally indefensible,” while others cheered it on as a move to reveal the rottenness of the system that helped Dahmer kill his victims. For every viewer who appreciated its production value, there was another who criticized the series as a cash grab.

Let’s unravel why Dahmer has become the most divisive series on Netflix and how the outrage was rooted in conflicting values of art and responsibility, business and empathy.

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Why true crime is popular on Netflix and the ethical problems it raises

True crime has grown out of a niche interest into one of entertainment’s most profitable genres. Netflix, specifically, has made it an international phenomenon, with dramatizations of Ted Bundy, Charles Sobhraj, and the Atlanta Child Murders, all being sold as both chilling and educational. The jewel in this crown was Dahmer: a slick, binge-watch-ready series that not only promised gore but also insight.

But popularity has a cost. Where do you place the boundary between respecting the victims and taking advantage of their suffering? Netflix insisted that Dahmer wanted to give voice to the people history had silenced and that the system, which was built on racism and homophobia, was what allowed Dahmer to be free for years.

But to many, these were hollow promises. What came out as per them was another voyeuristic deep dive: a show that fed the horror appetite of the audience in the name of empathy.

Scholars have not been shy in pointing out that, though it might sound moral on its marketing side, Dahmer is serving the same purpose as all the true crime blockbusters, which is profit. Critiques in peer-reviewed journals mention its failure to offer anything new, making it seem like a recycled story that exploits atrocity and sweeps under the rug the long-term emotional cost. Behind the gloss of the camera is an industry dynamic as chilling as the crimes it shows.

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Families of Dahmer’s victims slam Netflix over consent and trauma

If the ethical discussion was initially abstract, it became brutally real through the families of victims. Since Dahmer had landed on the platform, the relatives of those killed began to speak out about how the show had torn open wounds that were only just healed. This was not history, they said. It was their misery, repackaged into binge-watchable tragedy without even a phone call.

Rita Isbell, a sister of one of the victims of Dahmer, Errol Lindsey, raised her voice in anger and disillusionment at being caught off guard by the show. In an essay for Insider, she criticized Netflix by claiming that they were making a profit off the trauma of her family.

“It’s sad that they’re just making money off of this tragedy.”

Isbell also claimed:

“I was never contacted about the show. I feel like Netflix should’ve asked if we mind or how we felt about making it. They didn’t ask me anything. They just did it. But I’m not money hungry, and that’s what this show is about, Netflix trying to get paid.”

Another relative, Eric Perry, went on social media to condemn the voyeurism of making real-life sufferers into streaming content for strangers. Their message was to the point: basic decency requires consent.

Showmakers then responded that they had tried to communicate with approximately 20 families and friends over several years, but nobody responded.

Ryan Murphy was further quoted as saying by Variety:

“So we relied very, very heavily on our incredible group of researchers who… I don’t even know how they found a lot of this stuff. But it was just like a night and day effort trying to uncover the truth of these people.”

Critics found that explanation unsatisfactory. Consent, they believed, is not only legal but also ethical. And when the stories are of marginalized victims, it turns into a moral imperative rather than an act of grace.

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Why the Dahmer series sparked LGBTQ representation backlash

Another tempest broke out over what seemed to be a rather trivial but symbolically loaded choice: Netflix had first put Dahmer in its LGBTQ category. The reason was that queer men were the majority of victims, and the show addressed questions of sexuality and structural bias.

The response was disgusting to many in the community to place an LGBTQ label on a show about a murderer who had killed queer men. It marked another instance of trauma being repackaged as representation.

Netflix took the tag down within days, but the controversy did not die away. Ryan Murphy justified the categorization by saying that true queer stories do not necessarily have to have a happy ending. He mentioned that Dahmer also questioned the homophobia and racism that contributed to keeping the killer in the shadows.

The Hollywood Reporter quoted Murphy as saying:

“I also don’t think that all gay stories have to be happy stories. There was a moment on Netflix where they removed the LGBTQ tag from Dahmer, and I didn’t like it, and I asked why they did that, and they said because people were upset because it was an upsetting story. I was, like, ‘Well, yeah.’ But it was a story of a gay man and, more importantly, his gay victims.”

But the scandal revealed a more fundamental question: how do you narrate histories of queer suffering without re-creating harm? What is the boundary between telling the truth and exploitation?

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Dahmer’s streaming success vs. Netflix’s ethical responsibility

When the scandal reached its peak, the series had already broken streaming records, with almost a billion hours watched in a week, and confirmed that Netflix’s billion-dollar wager on high-end true crime was not in vain. Ted Sarandos himself proclaimed Murphy a reinventor of the genre.

However, the mere commercial success does not cancel the moral debt. To critics, such dazzling numbers just highlighted a depressing fact: human misery had turned into Netflix’s biggest commodity.

Of course, Dahmer made us notice injustice within the system. Yes, it did generate discussions on policing, prejudice, and representation. However, as the series avoids the effort of getting inside the lives of those most affected, it leaves us with unpleasant questions.

What does it tell us, and about entertainment, when tales of unspeakable misery are transformed into prime-time thrillers? Where does the quest for art, or ratings, become desecration? In the case of Netflix, the figures speak volumes. To the families, and an industry still struggling with the ethics of true crime, the answer is much messier and more haunting.