The modern true crime genre has evolved into a cultural juggernaut, captivating audiences through podcasts, documentaries, television series, and social media platforms. While ostensibly aimed at unraveling the complexities of criminal behavior, this genre often veers into dangerous territory: the romanticization of maniacs and criminal elements. Far from merely documenting facts, true crime frequently transforms perpetrators into enigmatic antiheroes, their crimes into spectacles of rebellion, and their victims into footnotes. This phenomenon is vividly exemplified in the case of Luigi Mangione, the 26-year-old Ivy League graduate charged with the 2024 murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson. Mangione’s story reveals how modern true crime, fueled by media sensationalism, public frustration, and psychological fascination, elevates criminals into symbols of resistance, obscuring the brutality of their actions and perpetuating a troubling cultural narrative. Historically, the romanticization of criminals is not a new phenomenon. Figures like Bonnie and Clyde, who terrorized the American Midwest in the 1930s, were cast as folk heroes defying economic oppression, despite their violent spree that left 13 dead. Similarly, the 19th-century outlaw Jesse James was mythologized as a Robin Hood figure, his bank robberies framed as acts of defiance against a corrupt system. These early examples demonstrate a societal tendency to lionize criminals whose actions resonate with collective grievances. However, modern true crime amplifies this tendency through its unprecedented reach and immediacy, leveraging digital platforms to create instant celebrity out of figures like Mangione. Unlike their historical counterparts, today’s criminals are not just subjects of newspaper headlines but viral sensations, their images and narratives dissected by millions in real time. The mechanisms of romanticization in modern true crime are multifaceted. First, the genre often prioritizes the criminal’s perspective over the victim’s, crafting a narrative that invites empathy or admiration. In Mangione’s case, his alleged manifesto— railing against the “corruption” of the healthcare industry— struck a chord with a public weary of exorbitant medical costs and denied claims. The bullet casings inscribed with “deny,” “defend,” and “depose” found at the crime scene were interpreted not as evidence of premeditated murder but as a symbolic middle finger to corporate greed. Media outlets and social media users quickly latched onto this framing, with TikTok videos and X posts dubbing Mangione a “modern-day Robin Hood.” This narrative shift exemplifies how true crime often recasts criminal intent as noble purpose, sidelining the reality of Brian Thompson’s death—a father of two gunned down in a Manhattan street. Second, the aestheticization of criminals plays a pivotal role in their romanticization. Mangione, a handsome, athletic Ivy League graduate, fits the archetype of the “charismatic killer” that true crime audiences adore. His shirtless hiking photos and chiseled mugshot flooded the internet, prompting comments like “too hot to convict” and spawning merchandise like T-shirts and tattoos of his face. This echoes the treatment of Ted Bundy, whose good looks and charm in the 1970s earned him a legion of female admirers despite his gruesome murders of over 30 women. The “halo effect”—a psychological bias where attractiveness is equated with virtue—further fuels this phenomenon, as seen in Mangione’s case where his privileged background and physical appeal overshadow the violence he allegedly committed. Modern true crime exploits this bias, packaging criminals as alluring enigmas rather than threats, a trend amplified by platforms like Netflix, which cast heartthrobs like Zac Efron as Bundy in Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile (2019). Third, the participatory nature of modern true crime—exemplified by “armchair detectives” and social media sleuths— transforms criminal cases into interactive entertainment. Mangione’s arrest sparked a frenzy of online speculation, from conspiracy theories about his motives to photoshopped alibis placing him far from the crime scene. This gamification blurs the line between fact and fiction, reducing a murder investigation to a communal puzzle. The 2022 Netflix series Dahmer—Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story, which garnered 196.2 million viewing hours in its first week, similarly inspired TikTok trends romanticizing Jeffrey Dahmer, despite its attempt to focus on his victims. Such engagement trivializes the suffering of victims’ families, who, in Mangione’s case, were forced to watch Thompson’s death become a viral spectacle rather than a private tragedy. Mangione’s story highlights how true crime taps into societal discontent to elevate criminals. His alleged targeting of a healthcare CEO resonated with Americans frustrated by a system that prioritizes profit over patients—a frustration borne out by a 2024 Economist/YouGov poll showing 39% of 18- to 29-year-olds viewed Mangione favorably. This sympathy parallels the public’s response to the Menendez brothers, whose 1989 murder of their parents was reframed in 2024 as a justified response to abuse, prompting calls for their resentencing. In both cases, true crime narratives exploit systemic failures—healthcare greed, familial dysfunction—to cast criminals as vigilantes, ignoring the ethical rot of endorsing murder as justice. Yet, this romanticization is not without critique. Scholars like Heather Mooney argue that true crime’s female-dominated audience often consumes it for “preventive education,” learning to spot danger rather than glorify it. However, when this education morphs into obsession— as with Mangione’s “Free Luigi” rallies or Bundy’s love letters—it reveals a darker impulse: hybristophilia, the sexual attraction to violent criminals. Dr. Drew Pinsky has noted this in Mangione’s fandom, where ideological support blends with erotic fixation. This psychological undercurrent, combined with media sensationalism, risks normalizing violence, as seen in the “deny, defend, depose” tattoos mimicking Mangione’s bullet casings—a chilling tribute to a yet-unconvicted suspect. The cultural impact of romanticizing maniacs like Mangione is profound. It distorts justice by prioritizing the criminal’s charisma over the victim’s humanity, as evidenced by Thompson’s overshadowed legacy compared to Mangione’s burgeoning cult status. It also coarsens societal norms, suggesting that violence against perceived oppressors is laudable—a slippery slope toward political extremism, as warned by critics of Mangione’s “burn-it-all-down” populism. Historical parallels abound: Bonnie and Clyde’s admirers excused their murders as blows against banks, just as Mangione’s fans justify his alleged act against UnitedHealthcare. Yet, as sociologist Heather Schoenfeld notes, this obsession with “control” through true crime may paradoxically fuel support for punitive policies, contradicting the genre’s anti-establishment veneer. Mangione’s case, still unfolding as of March 17, 2025, epitomizes the true crime paradox: a medium that promises insight but delivers spectacle. Upcoming documentaries, like ABC’s Manhunt: Luigi Mangione and the CEO Murder and Investigation Discovery’s Who Is Luigi Mangione? , signal the genre’s rush to capitalize on his notoriety, likely amplifying his mythos further. Unlike Bundy or Dahmer, whose crimes were unequivocally monstrous, Mangione’s single, targeted act blurs the line between villain and crusader, making him a perfect canvas for romantic projection. Yet, this projection erases the blood on his hands—Thompson’s blood—and the families left grieving. In conclusion, modern true crime’s romanticization of maniacs and criminals, as seen in Luigi Mangione’s ascent, reflects a toxic confluence of media exploitation, public disillusionment, and psychological allure. By elevating figures like Mangione, Bundy, and Bonnie and Clyde into antiheroes, the genre undermines the gravity of their crimes, turning tragedy into entertainment. This trend demands critical resistance: a refusal to let aesthetics or ideology absolve violence, and a call to recenter victims in a narrative too often hijacked by the perpetrators’ charisma. Mangione may be the latest “hot assassin,” but his story should serve as a warning—not a love letter—to a culture teetering on the edge of glorifying its own destruction.