A cacophony of seemingly innocent sounds – birdsong, footsteps, a dial tone – opens the scene, quickly plunging us into a disturbing phone call. A man, speaking to what sounds like a young girl, whispers, “So, you know we gotta be, like, really careful about doing this.” In just over a minute, the chilling implication of a planned sexual encounter becomes unmistakably clear.
This unnerving prelude sets the stage for the new documentary, “Predators,” which revisits “To Catch a Predator,” a highly impactful crime series from the 2000s. We witness a man in a Boston Red Sox cap enter an inviting home, expecting to meet the underage girl he connected with online. Moments of strained small talk pass before the scene abruptly shifts: journalist Chris Hansen emerges, delivering his signature line, “What are you up to tonight?” The man visibly recoils, Hansen’s taunt (“You’re a pretty prolific chatter there… Want to explain yourself?”) sealing his fate.
This is the pivotal moment, the crushing climax that defined every episode. The viewers understand the irreversible damage this man has inflicted upon his own life long before he grasps the gravity of his situation. As realization dawns, the camera captures the agonizing despair spreading across his face. It’s a dramatic power shift, a humiliating reckoning for someone who believed they could commit heinous acts without consequence. Hansen offers him a hollow “freedom to walk out of this house right now,” knowing full well that another surprise awaits: a throng of police officers and cameras ready to document his public downfall.
Airing on NBC’s “Dateline” from 2004 to 2007, “To Catch a Predator” was eventually canceled following controversy, including a sting operation that tragically led to the suicide of a Texas assistant district attorney. David Osit’s documentary, “Predators,” delves into the show’s legal and journalistic critiques, addressing accusations of entrapment and concerns about the admissibility of its evidence. However, Osit’s primary focus appears to be on how “To Catch a Predator” masterfully exploited voyeurism and schadenfreude, captivating millions and cementing its status as a significant cultural phenomenon.
The documentary frequently highlights a crucial point: despite Hansen’s claims of wanting to understand the perpetrators’ motives, the show itself showed minimal interest in their complex psychologies. Ethnographer Mark de Rond suggests this is because if the program humanized these men, “the show kind of breaks down.” During its peak, drawing seven million viewers per episode, audiences weren’t seeking a tragic narrative of human depravity, shame, or remorse. Instead, they craved the raw satisfaction of seeing predators publicly shamed, their darkest fantasies shattered by a television crew and a smirking journalist. Much like a horror film, the show’s dramatic reveals allowed viewers to safely confront a profound, universal fear: the terrifying prospect of sudden exposure, discovery, and utter ruin.
“Our age-old love of participatory punishment — an impulse that’s manifested in everything from stocks and pillories to public executions — remains fully intact.”
In these predators, society discovered a demographic about whom there were few reservations regarding public shaming: individuals who knowingly entered camera-rigged homes with the intent to sexually exploit minors. Justifying their punishment and the public nature of it was straightforward. However, during that era, television offered a spectrum of programming featuring various individuals—not just predators—being filmed and broadcast for public entertainment.
The early 2000s saw a surge in sensationalist content: “Cheaters” featured explosive confrontations with unfaithful spouses, while “Bumfights” allegedly paid homeless individuals to perform brutal stunts, selling hundreds of thousands of DVDs. Other reality shows resorted to elaborate tricks or simply showcased exhibitionists for public ridicule. Even mainstream competitions like “American Idol” gleefully presented humiliating auditions, such as William Hung’s, for global amusement. The long-running “Cops,” documenting real-life arrests since 1989, reached peak popularity in reruns, coinciding with a pervasive tabloid culture that reveled in the public struggles of young celebrities like Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan.
The profound psychological toll on these individuals—whose most vulnerable moments were relentlessly captured by cameras and paparazzi, often spiraling into outright exploitation—was largely disregarded. The focus remained solely on the camera’s unflinching, almost voyeuristic gaze. The casual cruelty prevalent during this period seemed justified by an unspoken belief: these subjects somehow deserved their humiliation. Whether they were criminals, unfaithful partners, or individuals struggling with homelessness and addiction, they were deemed to have dehumanized themselves. Similarly, fame-hungry collaborators or privileged celebrities were seen as deserving their public falls from grace.
Fast forward two decades, and the cultural landscape has undergone a significant transformation. The casual, public humiliation once common in reality television is now largely considered unacceptable on mainstream networks. Yet, our deep-seated fascination with “participatory punishment”—an instinct historically expressed through everything from medieval stocks to public executions—persists undiminished. It has simply migrated to the internet, a more dynamic and uninhibited space where individuals no longer depend on cautious corporations to produce such content, instead fueling their own retributive desires.
However, these instincts are no longer solely aimed at the seemingly flawed or socially inept. They now target a broader spectrum: powerful figures like celebrities and corporate executives exposed for abusing their positions, as well as ordinary individuals caught in unflattering, decontextualized viral videos. This shift serves as a moral justification, allowing our hunger for schadenfreude to masquerade as a righteous pursuit of justice. In a society where genuine shame often seems elusive, every social media “dog pile” offers an opportunity to forcefully impose it upon someone who appears—at least temporarily—to fully deserve it.
The phenomenon of “predator-hunting” has also shifted online. As Osit’s documentary highlights, this practice flourishes on platforms like YouTube, where amateur vigilantes actively seek to entrap and expose adults pursuing illicit contact with minors. The internet, for such content, offers a less regulated environment, largely unburdened by expectations of rigorous journalistic ethics or moral integrity. Chris Hansen himself has revived the format multiple times since his show’s cancellation, often through online ventures. There’s an undeniable, primal urge to see society’s “monsters” brought low. As a co-founder of TruBlu, Hansen’s current streaming platform, aptly states in the documentary: “People like to compare themselves to the depraved, to feel better about who they are.” Yet, the criteria for who is deemed “depraved” or “monstrous” enough for public humiliation become increasingly fluid and arbitrary online, where anyone can suddenly find themselves subjected to a harsh, unforgiving spotlight.
Mike Mariani, a writer residing in the Washington, D.C., area, is the author of “What Doesn’t Kill Us Makes Us: Who We Become After Tragedy and Trauma.” His works have been featured in prestigious publications such as The New Yorker, The Atlantic, and Vanity Fair.