The true crime genre has a new medium, or perhaps even a completely fresh vocabulary and grammar: police body cam footage. Faces of victims, observers and possible perpetrators loom up to the cameras, at times in the intense brightness of vehicle beams or torches as the officers approach, their expressions and tones expressing caution or panic or indignation or dubiously feigned naivety. And we often incidentally glimpse the faces of the officers themselves, one standing by blankly while the other asks the questions with what occasionally seems like remarkable hesitation – though maybe this is because they are aware they are being recorded.
We have already had the Netflix real-life crime film The Gabby Petito Case, about the killing of an Instagram influencer by her partner, whose primary focus was body cam footage and in which, as in this film, the law enforcement seemed extraordinarily lax with the perpetrator. There is also the acclaimed short film Incident by Bill Morrison, made exclusively of officer footage. Now comes Geeta Gandbhir’s documentary about the tragic incident of a Florida mother in a city in Florida, a African American woman whose children reportedly bothered and tormented her white neighbour, Susan Lorincz. In 2023, after an increasing number of neighborhood conflicts in which the authorities were repeatedly called, Lorincz shot Owens dead through her locked door, when Owens went to the neighbor's residence to address her about hurling items at her children.
The arresting officers found evidence that Lorincz had done internet searches into Florida’s “stand your ground” laws, which permit residents and others to shoot if there is a reasonable belief of threat. The documentary builds its story with the body cam footage captured during the repeated police visits to the scene before the killing, and then at the horrific and chaotic crime scene itself – prefaced by emergency call recordings of Lorincz contacting authorities in a melodramatically shaky voice. There is also police cell footage of the individual which has a disturbing, unsettling appeal.
The documentary does not really suggest anything too complicated about Lorincz, or any mitigating factors. She is clearly unstable, although the kids are heard calling her “the Karen”, an hurtful taunt. The production is showcased as an example of how self-defense regulations generate unnecessary and heartbreaking bloodshed. But the reality of gun ownership and the second amendment (that historic American constitutional privilege that a late commentator notoriously said made firearm fatalities a price worth paying) is not much highlighted.
It is feasible to watch the police interrogation scenes here and feel surprised at how minimal concern the officers took in this point. When did she buy her gun? Where (if anywhere) did she train in its use? Had she ever had occasion to fire it before? How was the gun kept in her home? Could it have been easily accessible and prepared? The authorities aren’t shown asking any of these undoubtedly important questions (though they could have inquired in footage that didn’t make the edit). Or is gun ownership so commonplace it would be like asking about microwaves or bread heaters?
For what appeared to her local residents a extended period, Lorincz was not even taken into custody and indicted, only held and even offered a hotel stay away from home for the night (another point of comparison, incidentally, with the a prior incident). And when she was finally formally arrested in the detention area, there is an remarkable scene in which Lorincz simply refuses to stand, refuses to put her wrists out for the handcuffs, not aggressively, but with the politely self-pitying air of someone whose psychological state means that she is unable to comply. Had the kid-gloves treatment up until that point encouraged her to think that this might actually work?
It was not successful; and the jury’s verdict is saved for the closing credits. A very sombre portrayal of American crime and punishment.