100 Favorite Shows: #66 — Mindhunter
“I just wish I knew what goes on in that little head of his.”
Based on the 1995 John E. Douglas and Mark Olshaker nonfiction book, Mindhunter: Inside the FBI’s Elite Serial Crime Unit, Mindhunter debuted on Netflix on October 13, 2017. Created by Joe Penhall, Mindhunter chronicles the 1970s development of behavioral science as a valid aspect of investigations into inexplicable criminal activity. Holden Ford (Jonathan Groff), Bill Tench (Holt McCallany), and Wendy Carr (Anna Torv) work together to essentially create the language around serial killers (with real killers portrayed by actors) and how their crimes are understood by modern police and FBI task forces. As if this wasn’t compelling enough, Mindhunter is also produced and directed by David Fincher, whose involvement in 2020’s Mank put the series on indefinite hiatus after two riveting arcs.
(Spoilers for the world of Mindhunter and its two seasons lie ahead in this essay. Those spoilers are for both fact and fiction.)
Throughout the story of Mindhunter we’ve seen so far (hopefully), the BTK Killer (Sonny Valicenti as Dennis Rader) appears in selected vignettes that typically serve as cold opens for episodes of Mindhunter. It’s a persistent reminder throughout the investigative narrative that there are still killers operating without striking. There’s no evidence against them until the serial crime unit develops probable cause from one’s behavior.
Mindhunter sets up a number of these mini-arcs within the show that revolve around defining killers in the era of senseless, threadless murders; they’re the kinds of killers you’d learn about in a modern American crime course that only lasts for ten weeks. And while the progressive concern we derived from watching the operatives of the BTK Killer was eventually abated, the show’s real climax comes as a result of Wayne Williams (Christopher Livingston), the still-debated sycophant behind the Atlanta child murders.
While much of BTK is removed from the primary narrative thrust of Mindhunter, Williams is directly intertwined into the stories of Holden, Bill, and Wendy. After many episodes of interviews, research, and synthesis, the team in the Behavioral Science Unit (BSU) finally has the ability to apply what they’ve learned to the task of actually catching a murderer. It’s the same with anything you educate yourself upon. You learn, read, and research and then to see how much you’ve actually been edified, you apply the principles to a real-life scenario. For the BSU, the scenario was a matter of life and death, justice and hopelessness. In Atlanta, the BSU has a chance to prove that all of their resources and tedium was worth it.
Along the way, the BSU was constantly questioned by their superiors, who were a bit more skeptical about the potential for these unconventional methods of criminal investigations to actually work. The BSU is concerned primarily with the thought processes and emotions in the mindsets of killers. Past police work has been defined by the cold facts and the tangible evidence. But when it comes to behavioral science, the strongest evidence is the testimonial from each killer, honest or otherwise. On the one hand, this opened up the team on Mindhunter to uncovering new crimes in a manner previously thought to be impossible. On the other hand, it allowed for inferences to be drawn by characters like Holden, who was hellbent on affixing clues to narratives that reflected exactly what he wanted to believe.
When beginning the investigation into the Atlanta child murders in season two, for example, Holden presents a conjectured killer without ever traveling to the crime scene to look for clues or hear witness accounts that might have contradicted his profile. Holden is so blind to the possibility that his formula might not work one hundred percent of the time that he becomes arrogantly unwilling to hear anyone else’s protests to it. Coupling this with Holden’s psychological breakdown at the end of season one — due to the fact that he had become enamored with serial killers and was more than happy to think like them — the reverence Bill and Wendy have for his methodology begins to wane.
In season one’s “Episode 6,” there’s good-natured ribbing from Bill about how Holden seems to be from the midwest rather than Brooklyn. It’s innocuous teasing. In season two’s “Episode 5” (from soaring filmmaker Andrew Dominik), though, Bill and Wendy outright vent to each other about how difficult Holden has become to work with; they share no veil of humor here. What started as an interrogation of matter-of-fact killers like Ed Kemper (Cameron Britton) blossomed into something resembling a friendship between Ed and Holden — a fact denied by neither. Therefore, when it eventually comes time to meet with the white whale of the BSU, Charles Manson (Damon Herriman, who also played him in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood), Holden is all too happy to begin the research process. He looks forward to meeting the manipulative mastermind behind the death of America’s last vestige of innocence to the point where he comments on the sonic quality of Manson’s infamous anthem, “Cease to Exist.”
While they wait for Manson to leave his cell, Holden and Bill meet with Ed for a brief preview session. Bill’s obviously against it, but Holden sees a chat with Ed as nothing more than visiting an old friend while he’s in town. When discussing Manson, it’s readily apparent that Ed is jealous of the attention Manson receives, as if he believes serial killing is an art that has been sensationalized by this different kind of predator (it’s later determined by Tex Watson (Christopher Backus) that Manson’s main draw was in his ability to kill by eliminating the fear behind it). “Everybody knows when Charlie takes a shit and if you haven’t heard, he’ll tell you all about it,” Ed enlightens Bill and Holden. “Even if somebody else took the shit for him.”
It’s a change in the times (on the part of both killing and the reactions to killing) that leads to increased reverenced from Holden, as if meeting Manson is akin to meeting a celebrity. Based on the occasional glorification of the Manson family, it might just have been. There’s a palpable size difference between the hulking Kemper and the miniature Manson, but Holden only stands (seemingly involuntarily) when Manson enters the interrogation room. It’s a signal of respect (also evident in Groff’s measured tone. Groff is always perfect) that is not provided in equal measure by Bill (who remains sitting) and it’s one that Manson picks up immediately; the evidence is in Herriman’s body language. In that moment, it doesn’t matter if Manson is a “false prophet” or the “Guru of Munckinland.” He’s already captivated Holden and that’s enough for him to dominate the interview. By the end, he’s sporting Holden’s sunglasses, signing a copy of Vincent Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter with a promise of destruction, and remarking, “No matter how hard I stare, the clocks don’t stop.” His confidence is boundless and it’s enabled by Holden.
That clock crack is the one element of Manson’s nonsense verbiage and meaningless spewing that’s actually true. Manson is no more supernatural than any other killer who’s been seated opposite the BSU with their cuffs off. Even the fact that he appears halfway through season two, rather than as the arc’s climax is evidence enough that Manson is just a sensationalist. And he’ll never be special, no matter how Holden sees him.
Even though Holden and Bill had different approaches (the former was the young, academic hotshot and the latter was the hardened veteran holding a short leash) that could wear on one another, there was still a great deal of trust between them. At the core of Bill’s beliefs, he felt Holden was doing imperative work, even if his approach would have strayed like a Bugs Bunny road trip or a Robert Frost signpost.
For Bill, the meeting with Manson unearthed anxieties about his personal life. To be fair, Manson’s sentiments are the batshit statements of a lunatic, but the severity of projection Bill experiences when he draws connections between his adopted son, Brian (Zachary Scott Ross), and Manson is chilling. While speaking with Manson, Bill has Brian in the back of his mind after his son crucified the body of a dead child in the hope of bringing him back to life (giving a completely new context to Kemper’s position in front of a cross). Bill tends to be more sociable than Holden, but in the Manson meeting, he’s entirely vitriolic, demeaning and challenging Manson at every turn. It’s a manifestation of Bill’s horror at seeing a serial killer unfold in his own family because he now knows all the warning signs. To see someone act so flippantly with a similarly detached, masochistic mindset is the equivalent of an expletive-laden insult for Bill. Manson may be more severe than just remaining silent while playing with Lincoln Logs, but one is just the logical conclusion of the other, as viewed by Bill.
When Bill bemoans Holden’s hubris with Wendy, it’s not as if he’s a paragon of model detective work. Rather, it’s understood that Bill is well-intentioned and Holden lives far too much in the gray area of serial killer’s minds to be placed on an equivalent pedestal. Conversely, Wendy is consumed by every decision she makes, demolished with anxiety over doing the right thing. She’s astutely competent in her work, but when it comes to job offers in Virginia and Massachusetts and how they impact her professional livelihood and her romantic interests, Wendy’s indecisiveness gets the better of her. Ultimately, her apprehension over enacting change in her own life is emblematic of how the BSU has seemingly snuffed out the possibility of a personal life.
For all their inner conflicts, Holden, Bill, and Wendy are not exceptionally thrilling or even all that fascinating characters. For the most part, they’re standard detectives who stick to their work and endure the necessary rehabilitation procedures when they veer from their sworn standards. Most of the dialogue spoken is purely informational, as if delivered in the same manner as the spinning transcript tapes from true crime documentaries, with minimal dramatic flair. This is probably for the best, considering that their stories are based in real life tragedy, but it also makes it clear where the priorities lie for Penhall and Fincher.
The characters have personal depth all their own (and certainly more focus is on their lives, as opposed to a crime show that is more morally black and white like Criminal Minds), but they’re foremost a canvas upon which to investigate the history of the BSU and how we think about serial killers today. As such, adherence to this focus is Mindhunter’s top priority and the monstrous afflictions against the characters are just the added bonus for the lovers of television dramas.
As far as Fincher television dramas go, Mindhunter is certainly more meticulously crafted than House of Cards. In addition to Mindhunter’s stronger focus, it is also vastly more consistent than House of Cards ever was. After all, Fincher definitely seemed to have way more of a hand in Mindhunter than House of Cards, which was more Beau Willimon’s baby. Combining the best elements of Seven and his masterpiece, Zodiac, Mindhunter had the added benefit of being a serial story (although, should we worry about where Fincher’s main interests lie?). Zodiac is my favorite Fincher work of all-time, but it’s still a movie and it can only go so far in depth. That’s why it focused on the Zodiac Killer, while Mindhunter was able to delve into all sorts of cases and killers, as well as the origins of behavioral science — all while still being a procedural series about already-caught murderers who bring less mystery to the series because they don’t feel compelled to lie.
With a small emphasis on mysterious tension, many of the scenes don’t feel the need to build to cliffhangers or “Oh shit” moments in the dialogue from the killers. Instead, the scenes almost always cut away before you want them to, even if the scene is a lengthy, in-depth conversation that had already gone on for over ten minutes. Couple this element with the characters existing as realistic detectives and it’s clear how restrained Fincher is throughout Mindhunter. His emphasis is always on the work being done and never sensationalism. Fincher’s (though he’s not the series’ only director to provide this visual language (I also count Carl Franklin and Asif Kapadia, among others)) widely framed shots help to show how all-encompassing behavioral science was striving to be. Everything we see is everything the BSU sees and it’s hardly stylistic or fervid.
And even though the work gets the majority of Penhall’s and Fincher’s attention, it’s still frequently brushed aside by supervisors in the FBI they’re forced to report to. As it is, they’re already playing catch-up to a litany of motive-devoid killers throughout history. On top of it, their work (despite being work from the FBI that is actually important) is perennially underfunded and the BSU team is constantly forced to prove themselves. “What difference does any of this make if we can’t communicate it to the people who matter?” Holden asks midway through season one and it becomes a heartbeat question for the entire show. If no one’s going to listen, what’s the point? It’s just a race against being reassigned.
After all, the results the BSU team uncovers are swayed. As Kemper points out, everything they’ve learned about behavioral science and the minds of serial killers comes from those who have been caught. Just how big is the puzzle and how many pieces are missing from the killers with a sound enough psychology to avoid being caught? In a sense, how are you supposed to catch a fantasy when Wayne Williams is an anomaly for the entire FBI? These are questions we may never know the answers to, but the genius of Mindhunter is that we’re endlessly contemplating them.
At the end of the first “Episode 6,” The Boomtown Rats’ “I Don’t Like Mondays” plays out the story which is foreboding for the conflicts to come.
Mother feels so shocked
Father’s world is rocked
And their thoughts turn to their own little girl
Sweet sixteen ain’t that peachy keen
…
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
The song is not actually from the perspective of a Garfield cartoon or a 9–5 employee. In the context of Mindhunter, it’s a reminder of how quickly the world can change and that there is value in a routine and its security. There’s plenty to hate about Mondays, but at least the vast majority of us don’t return to work to learn about the latest development in gruesome murders. That’s better left to Holden. Or, more accurately, it’s better left to Bill and Wendy. Just to be safe.
