The real-life crime category has a new medium, or perhaps even a whole new language and grammar: officer-worn camera recordings. Countenances of those harmed, observers and potential offenders loom up to the cameras, sometimes in the harsh glare of vehicle beams or flashlights as the officers approach, their faces and voices eloquent of caution or panic or indignation or suspiciously contrived innocence. And we often catch sight of the expressions of the law enforcement personnel, one standing by blankly while the other conducts the inquiry with what occasionally seems like remarkable hesitation â though perhaps this is because they know they are being recorded.
We have already had the Netflix real-life crime film American Murder: Gabby Petito, about the slaying of an Instagram influencer by her partner, whose main point of interest 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 a new film by Geeta Gandbhir about the tragic incident of Ajike Owens in a city in Florida, a woman of colour whose children allegedly harassed and antagonized her neighbor, Susan Lorincz. In 2023, after an escalating series of neighbour-dispute incidents in which the police were repeatedly called, the accused shot Owens dead through her locked door, when the victim went to the neighbor's residence to address her about throwing objects at her children.
The arresting officers found evidence that the suspect had done online research into the state's self-defense statutes, which permit householders and others to use firearms if there is a reasonable belief of danger. The movie builds its story with the officer recordings captured during the repeated police visits to the location before the shooting, and then at the horrific and chaotic crime scene itself â prefaced by emergency call recordings of Lorincz contacting authorities in a dramatically trembling voice. There is also jail video of the individual which has a disturbing, unsettling appeal.
The documentary does not really imply anything too complex about Lorincz, or any mitigating factors. She is clearly unstable, although the children are heard calling her âthe Karenâ, an hurtful taunt. The film is showcased as an illustration of how âstand your groundâ laws lead to unnecessary and heartbreaking bloodshed. But the fact of firearm possession and the second amendment (that historic American constitutional privilege that a deceased pundit notoriously said made firearm fatalities a price worth paying) is not much emphasized.
It is feasible to watch the officer questioning segments here and feel surprised at how little interest the police took in this aspect. At what time did she purchase the firearm? Did she receive any instruction on handling it? Had she ever had occasion to fire it before? 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 surely relevant questions (though they may have done in recordings that didnât make the edit). Or is gun ownership so commonplace it would be like asking about kitchen appliances or toasters?
For what appeared to her local residents a very long time, the suspect was not even arrested and charged, only held and even provided accommodation away from home for the night (another point of comparison, incidentally, with the a prior incident). And when she was ultimately formally arrested in the detention area, there is an remarkable scene in which Lorincz simply refuses to stand, will not extend her arms for the handcuffs, not aggressively, but with the politely self-pitying air of someone whose mental health means that she just canât do it. Did the gentle handling up until that point encouraged her to think that this could be effective?
It didnât; and the panel's decision is saved for the end titles. A deeply sobering picture of American crime and punishment.