The strange case of Aaron Hernandez — the pro football player convicted of murder before dying by suicide — may be the least eye-opening illumination of a slaying ever committed to film.
On a police-procedural level, the events of the past decade explain how the NFL star brazenly walked the edge of murderous madness, making him perhaps pro football’s first serial killer (O.J. was nothing more than a jealous ex).
What remains as mysterious as pi’s square root is why. Hernandez never confessed to all the murders, and hanged himself shortly after the conviction for one. Still, he’s such a mystery that he’ll be the subject of two mini-series this month: Killer Inside: The Mind of Aaron Hernandez and Aaron Hernandez: An ID Murder Mystery premiere Jan. 15 and Jan. 20, respectively, on Netflix and Investigation Discovery. As non-fiction films, both are hindered by the sport’s cavalier attitude toward violence — a rein that prevents both series from galloping.
What both unwittingly uncover, however, is how football does more than shrug at violence. It holds an inherit machismo obsession that creates the very cauldron of violence from which criminals emerge (Simpson, Jim Brown, Michael Vick, anyone? The list is frighteningly long.)
Neither, however, clearly answers the singular question at hand: What prompted a young man with seemingly boundless opportunities to throw his life away?
Instead of an answer, what viewers get are plenty of salacious but conflicting details, which don’t bring us much closer to understanding why.
Netflix’s Killer Inside makes a more valiant effort to find the truth, at least in terms of probing causes of his behavior. Investigation Discovery follows with Murder Mystery, a more dutiful tick-tock of the criminal trial (its primary sources are journalists who followed the case), complete with the usual cheesy reenactments — a tactic that Killer Inside also employs, just a bit more judiciously.
A star athlete in Bristol, Connecticut, Hernandez grew up with a stern father who also played football, becoming a standout in high school and at Florida before being signed by the New England Patriots.
Small wonder that widespread shock greeted the news in 2013 when Hernandez was charged, and later convicted, in the murder of Odin Lloyd, the 27-year-old boyfriend of his fiancee’s sister, and subsequently accused of a separate double homicide.
With a $40 million NFL contract and an outwardly enviable existence, as a friend says, “None of it made sense.”
Both programs try, mostly in vain, to make sense of it, contemplating a host of potential contributing factors, the most serious being CTE, the brain injury caused by repetitive contact that has plagued many football players.
As Killer Inside (and what’s with the unimaginative title? Why not Killer in the Huddle?) makes clear, the league’s emphasis is on protecting its multibillion-dollar product, as opposed to promoting the health and safety of players. Those conflicting goals prevent a full-throated discussion of the dangers.
Other motivations, however, are raised, in some respects undermining — or distracting from — that central thesis. They include the assertion that Hernandez was conflicted about his sexuality, particularly with a high school friend and teammate, Dennis SanSoucie.
Hernandez’s brother, Jonathan, also later spoke about abuse by their father, who died when Aaron was just 16, which resulted in a rift between Aaron and his mother.
In terms of the presentation, the most illuminating wrinkle in Killer Inside involves having access to audio of phone calls Hernandez made from prison, providing modest insight about his post-arrest state of mind and relationships with those closest to him.
For all that, these overlapping documentaries yield an inconclusive portrait. While there’s a tendency to indict football, at every level, for exploiting young talent, there are so many variables baked into Hernandez’s particular tale as to muddy that message.
The Aaron Hernandez story thus remains a tragedy that has defied, and continues to, simple explanation. While documentaries frequently connect their subjects to larger truths, Aaron Hernandez and Killer Inside ultimately feel at least as preoccupied, to varying degrees, with wading through its smaller tabloid trappings.
Both of the films’ ultimate failures are captured in one of Hernandez’s phone calls, taped by prison officials. In it, Hernandez refuses to say goodbye to his daughter, only “talk to you later.” He then discontinues the call, marked by an automated operator that says “The calls hung up.”
Hi, my name is Scott Bowles, and I am a Dallas Cowboys fan.
If you’re even a casual observer of the NFL, you know this is no easy admission. I’m from Detroit. An out-of-towner pulling for the Cowboys is like a non-resident pulling for the Boston Celtics (which I do) or the New York Yankees (which I do not).
The Celtics are easy to explain; that’s an inheritance from Dad. The Cowboys, though, are harder to explain. Dad hated the Cowboys. Maybe it was teen rebellion, maybe it was canny teen marketing, maybe it was the Roger Staubach-signed pennant Dad got me when I was in the hospital contracting diabetes. Whatever the reason, the bond was sealed.
I know this union is morally wrong. Sometimes, I feel like Melania Trump. No matter how much cult fans chant I’m doing the right thing in the marriage, sometimes I’ve got to admit I’m with a loathsome creep.
Or was. I’m officially switching allegiances this season. This year I’m rooting for the Baltimore Ravens to win the Super Bowl. And you should, too.
I know I know. It’s heresy to switch bandwagons, especially mid-season. But hear me out. Dallas has always been known as “America’s Team,” thanks to the organization’s slick and ubiquitous self-promotion. But I suggest the Ravens best represent this country, both in toughness and underdog-ness.
Consider:
Miracle turnaround. No one thought the Ravens a serious contender in 2019 — particularly when the hapless Cleveland Browns shelled them early in the year. But a turnaround came primarily thanks to Lamar Jackson, a 22-year-old quarterback who has set the team on fire. Half quarterback, half running back, Jackson was considered a bust of a draft pick last year. This year, he’s led the Ravens to a record of 10-2, the best in the NFL. He’s also the first quarterback in history to pass for more than 250 yards and run for 120 in one game.
Dethroned a king. Last month, the Ravens played the vaunted New England Patriots, home to Hall of Fame quarterback Tom Brady and head coach Bill Belichick. The Patriots, who many consider Super Bowl favorites, were undefeated at the time and expected to roll over the young Ravens. The Ravens shellacked them 37-20.
The political intrigue. This is reason enough to pull for the Ravens. Traditionally, the victorious Super Bowl team gets a trip to the White House and a visit with the president. Last year, the Patriots and owner Robert Kraft happily took up the invitation. (Side note: Kraft, 78, was later arrested for asking a young masseuse to give him a happy ending. Trump is a true ally of pederasts; he doesn’t drain the swamp so much as dunk people in it.)
You remember Trump and “Charm City,” as the state has nicknamed it. Baltimore was targeted by Trump in July, when the president lashed out at Rep. Elijah Cummings, a Democrat whose district included parts of Baltimore city and Baltimore County.
Cummings’ “district is a disgusting, rat and rodent infested mess,” Trump said of the city and the Representative. “If he spent more time in Baltimore, maybe he could help clean up this very dangerous & filthy place.”
Cummings later died, but not the city’s memory of him. When Melania Trump — whose single platform as First Lady is an anti-bullying campaign — showed up in Baltimore for a photo op, the irony was not lost on residents. They swamped the appearance, delayed it for minutes with protest chants and loudly chatted among themselves during Melania’s speech. Charming? Not at all. Of course, neither is taking shots at the dead and dying (insert McCain citation here). Be best!
What theater that would make! Will he invite the team? Will the team accept? How long before Trump mistakes the team for the help?
Whether it was Trump’s diss, Cummings’ death or simply fatigue from marginalization, the Ravens have been a team possessed. Two weeks ago, when the Ravens were making a rare appearance on national television (Monday Night Football), a commentator made a brilliant observation as Baltimore dismantled the glitzy Los Angeles Rams, who hosted the game with stars in the stands and sporting flashy yellow uniforms. As the Ravens mashed the Los Angeles’ uniforms from lemon to dirt-stained coffee brown, the analyst noted “This is The Wire going up against Dancing with the Stars,” a reference to the gritty Baltimore-set crime drama considered one of the greatest shows of all-time. “And the Ravens don’t feel like dancing.”
No, the Ravens aren’t here to dance. They’re here to follow the wisdom of Omar Little, the anti-hero of The Wire: to walk with some swagger; whistle The Farmer in the Dell; and send dope boys scrambling.
