Trigger Warning: This article discusses sensitive topics, including references to sexual assault and murder.
This weekend, a new movie came out on Netflix called Woman of the Hour. It’s a true crime film directed by and starring Anna Kendrick, and the story has stayed embedded in my mind, even two weeks later. The movie is based on the serial killer Rodney Alcala, who appeared on a dating show in the ’70s.
Instead of how many serial killer documentaries tend to focus on the backstory of the killer or delve into the gore and scenes of sexual assault, this movie conveys the experiences of the different victims and the moments when the women realize they are in danger—something I think is incredibly horrifying and not depicted nearly enough. It shows how women have subconsciously learned from other common stories or their own experiences, from the panic of being asked to read back the phone number they provided to “make sure it was the right one,” to having to apologize for feeling uncomfortable being touched, to needing to comfort the man who sexually assaulted them at 15 years old so they can escape at the exact right moment. It captures the hopeless feeling you get from hearing “not that I don’t believe you” from even their fiancé, and how it feels to turn into a crazy person when no one they speak to takes them seriously.
A lot of serial killer movies hone in on the wrong things, as seen in the cases of Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy, focusing on their looks instead of the crimes they committed or on the killers’ backstories. While those backstories can be interesting to consider, I believe that movies about serial killers should not aim to humanize them but should focus on the victims and all the horrific things that happened to them. I think Anna Kendrick’s portrayal of Rodney Alcala was much more impactful for this reason.
The opening scene really sets the chilling, uneasy tone of the movie. Rodney, posing as a photographer, takes a vulnerable pregnant woman out to the desert. She slowly lets her guard down, confiding in him and mistaking his false kindness for genuine warmth. But when his true intentions are revealed, the sudden shift is terrifying as he strangles her to death. He later helps another woman carry a box into her new apartment, and after she rejects his advances, he kills her. Later in the movie, when the main character walks to her car alone at night, sensing him following her, the slow build of dread is almost unbearable. The tension leading up to her assault is more unnerving than any gore-filled horror film I’ve seen. And though some of the victims have been identified, there are over one hundred others that the police could not firmly link to him.
Movies like this are essential, and I’m more than happy to watch these so-called “boring” films, which some viewers dismiss because they feel “nothing happens.” Priscilla is another example of a film that might get dismissed for similar reasons, but both movies reveal crucial perspectives. They challenge the assumptions of people who wonder, “Why didn’t they just leave?” or “If they were so scared, why didn’t they run?” or “Why didn’t they call the police sooner?” These films shift the focus from judgment of the victims to understanding them, illustrating the complex realities they face. Until you’re in that situation, it’s impossible to truly know how you’d react.