The real-life crime genre has a new medium, or perhaps even a whole new language and grammar: officer-worn camera recordings. Faces of victims, observers and possible perpetrators appear suddenly to the cameras, at times in the harsh glare of vehicle beams or flashlights as the police arrive, their expressions and tones expressing wariness or fear or anger or suspiciously contrived innocence. And we frequently catch sight of the expressions of the law enforcement personnel, one waiting impassively while the other asks the questions with what occasionally seems like remarkable hesitation â though maybe this is because they know they are being recorded.
We have previously seen the Netflix true-crime documentary The Gabby Petito Case, about the slaying of an Instagram influencer by her boyfriend, whose primary focus was body cam footage and in which, as in this film, the law enforcement seemed extraordinarily lax with the suspect. There is also the acclaimed short film Incident by Bill Morrison, composed entirely of body cam film. Now comes a new film by Geeta Gandbhir about the tragic incident of a Florida mother in a city in Florida, a African American woman whose children allegedly harassed and tormented her neighbor, Susan Lorincz. In 2023, after an increasing number of neighborhood conflicts in which the authorities were summoned multiple times, the accused shot Owens dead through her closed front door, when Owens went to the neighbor's residence to address her about throwing objects at her children.
The investigating authorities found evidence that Lorincz had done internet searches into Floridaâs âstand your groundâ laws, which permit householders and others to shoot if there is a significant presumption of threat. The documentary builds its story with the officer recordings captured during the repeated police visits to the location before the killing, and then at the disturbing and disordered incident site itself â introduced by emergency call recordings of the caller calling the police in a dramatically trembling voice. There is also jail video of Lorincz which has a chilly, queasy fascination.
The documentary does not really imply anything too complex about the neighbor, or any mitigating factors. She is obviously disturbed, although the kids are heard calling her âthe Karenâ, an ugly jibe. The film is presented as an illustration of how self-defense regulations generate senseless and tragic violence. But the fact of gun ownership and the constitutional right (that longstanding U.S. legal right that a late commentator famously claimed made firearm fatalities a necessary cost) is not much emphasized.
It is possible to watch the officer questioning segments here and feel surprised at how minimal concern the officers took in this aspect. When did she buy her gun? Where (if anywhere) did she train in its use? Was this the first time she discharged the weapon? How was the gun kept in her home? Was it just on the couch, loaded and ready? The police arenât shown asking any of these undoubtedly important questions (though they could have inquired in footage that didnât make the edit). Or is possessing a firearm so commonplace it would be like asking about microwaves or bread heaters?
For what seemed to her neighbors a very long time, Lorincz was not even taken into custody and indicted, only detained and even offered a hotel stay away from home for the night (another parallel, incidentally, with the a prior incident). And when she was finally officially taken into custody in the detention area, there is an remarkable scene in which the individual simply refuses to stand, refuses to put her wrists out for the handcuffs, not aggressively, but with the courteously pathetic demeanor of someone whose psychological state means that she just canât do it. Did the gentle handling up until that point led her to think that this might actually work?
It didnât; and the panel's decision is revealed in the closing credits. A very sombre portrayal of U.S. justice and consequences.