“If the devil’s alive, he lived here.” — Quote in the Chicago Tribune, attributed to a worker who was involved in the demolition of John Wayne Gacy’s house.

While working as a news columnist in the 1990s, I had one of the most macabre experiences of my life when I was granted access to the Cook County records facility that housed the evidence against John Wayne Gacy.

A square-shaped piece of lumber that was the hatchway to the crawlspace in Gacy’s house. Gacy’s hand-drawn diagram of the crawlspace, indicating where some of the bodies were buried. A piece of rope Gacy used to strangle one of his victims. Handcuffs and keys. Gacy’s appointment book for 1978-79. The jacket worn by Gacy’s final victim, Rob Piest, and a receipt from the pharmacy where the 15-year-old Piest worked—the receipt that became a crucial piece of evidence in the case against Gacy.

I was just 20 years old when Gacy was arrested in December of 1979. Still, down the road, I wrote a number of columns connected to the case, including an interview with the mother of one of his victims. Over the years, I’ve met a number of real-life investigators and attorneys portrayed in the Peacock series “Devil in Disguise: John Wayne Gacy.” It’s not that I claim some special connection to the case, but it’s very real to me.

To its credit, “Devil in Disguise” is a somber procedural that focuses at least as much on the victims and their families, and the cops and lawyers, as it does on Gacy. Every episode, except the first, ends with archival news photos and film, pictures of real-life figures depicted in the series, courtroom sketches, or snapshots of evidence. (A photo of Gacy’s crudely drawn map—the map I saw in that evidence room some 30 years ago—is shown at the end of Episode 2.) This particular series resonated with me because there was no hint of exploitation, and Gacy was not depicted as some mysterious or powerful entity. Of course, he was a monster—but a monster in the form of a wannabe cop, a low-level political operative, a grotesque clown, a crude and grunting predator. He was the rancid embodiment of what the political theorist Hannah Arendt famously called “the banality of evil.”

Still, while there are standout supporting performances in “Devil in Disguise,” the awards buzz is centered on Michael Chernus and his chillingly effective portrayal of Gacy. When we consider the ever-expanding library of fictional films and streaming series about serial killers, it’s the star turns we remember. Darren Criss won an Emmy for his portrayal of Andrew Cunanan in “The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story.” Jeremy Renner was the title character in the 2002 film “Dahmer,” and Evan Peters was nominated for an Emmy and won a Golden Globe for Best Actor for “Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story.” Charlize Theron won an Oscar for playing Aileen Wuornos in the feature film “Monster.” John Cusack was menacing and unnerving as Robert Hansen, aka “The Butcher Baker,” in the theatrical release “Frozen Ground.”  Just this month, in addition to the Gacy series, the great Jason Clarke underwent a major physical transformation to play Alex Murdaugh in the solid albeit sordid “Murdaugh: Death in the Family,” and the talented Charlie Hunnam was the title character in the execrable “Monster: The Ed Gein Story.” Our appetite for all things true crime is voracious.

At least 10 actors, including Mark Harmon, Chad Michael Murray, and Zac Efron, have portrayed Ted Bundy. TEN. The most notorious serial killers of the 20th century have been analyzed, fictionalized, and scrutinized in so many true-crime podcasts, so many documentaries, so many dramatic interpretations, that they have essentially been transformed into modern-day boogeymen that fascinate, terrify and repel us on a visceral level that carries far greater impact than the old urban legends about the “Hook Handed Killer” or the intruder who scribbles “Aren’t You Glad You Didn’t Turn on the Light?” in blood on the bathroom mirror.

Even fictional cinematic constructs are overshadowed by the mythology of the real-life monsters. Sure, Ethan Hawke’s “The Grabber” from “The Black Phone” and Amy Madigan’s Aunt Gladys in “Weapons” are memorable modern monsters—but it’s the long-dead Gacys and Dahmers who carry generational impact in our nightmares, who continue to intrigue us decades after their heinous crime sprees. Michael Myers and Jason and Ghostface have become borderline cartoonish caricatures over the decades, but when we see graphic and blood-soaked depictions of the crimes committed by the likes of Ed Gein and Ted Bundy, it affects us—and yes, fascinates us—on a deeper level. The shocking nature of these crimes is almost too horrible to behold; almost. 

Why are we so obsessed with true-crime entertainment, in all its forms? It’s a kind of psychological combo platter. Many of us are wired to seek out the bleak but undeniable thrill of embracing dread and terror. We love to be frightened, whether it’s riding mega-roller coasters with names such as Hades 360, Full Throttle, and Shivering Timbers, or paying to be scared via one of the more than 4,000 haunted house experiences that pop up every fall, or taking the plunge into a binge-worthy limited series about real-life murderers who have become the stuff of legend. We also like to play amateur sleuth when taking a deep dive into unsolved cases such as Zodiac and the Tylenol Killer. And, with the dramatizations of the likes of Manson, Bundy, Dahmer, and Gacy, there’s the satisfaction of seeing them caught, put behind bars—and in some cases, executed.

As one of the millions and millions of fans of the true-crime genre, I don’t usually feel guilty or uncomfortable consuming this material—but when I watched “Monster: The Ed Gein Story,” I did find myself wondering: What are we even doing here? In the final episode, there’s an insanely tasteless musical fantasy number in which Hunnan’s Ed Gein imagines himself taking a victory lap to the sound of “Owner of a Lonely Heart” by Yes, with gyrating nurses and orderlies dancing, and the likes of Richard Speck, Ed Kemper and Charles Manson celebrating him; it plays like a nauseating take on the “Bye Bye Love” climax in “All That Jazz.” By that point, I felt the need to take a deep scrub to wash off the stink of this cynical, exploitative garbage.

Articles such as “What ‘Monster: The Ed Gein Story’ Gets Right and Wrong” (Rolling Stone) and “10 Details ‘Monster: The Ed Gein Story’ Got Wrong” (Entertainment Weekly) seemed to miss the point. The showrunners were never trying to get it right. The fabricated, implausible elements were deliberate—and often offensive. Maybe they thought they were holding up a funhouse mirror to the genre, but it comes across as an insult to the audience, as if we should feel guilty for even watching. Ed Gein aiding investigators in tracking down Ted Bundy, à la Hannibal Lecter helping Clarice Starling, is art imitating art inspired by real life. It’s dizzying—and troubling.

Most of these series do a far better job of empathizing with the victims than “Monster: The Ed Gein Story.” Still, even the best of them, even the ones (like “Devil in Disguise”) that refrain from sensationalizing the story and devote much of the attention to the victims and the investigators, come with an element of exploitation. You can’t tell the story of a monster without giving the devil his due. And we can’t stop watching.

In its 29th year of programming, Chicago International Film Festival’s Black Perspectives category continues to exhibit and uplift stories across the diaspora, adding evidence to the archives that Black folk are far from monolithic. Now, more than ever, taking the time to experience stories outside of our own will conserve our ability to be compassionate neighbors. With 10 feature films and a shorts program included in CIFF’s 61st lineup, Black Perspectives, like the other categories, can serve as a strong source for curating one’s own festival experience.

An archival snippet of activist and organizer Rosie Douglas telling us to “learn [your] history” sets the tone for the story that “True North” seeks to tell. The black and white documentary from director Michèle Stephenson, weaves together soundbites, interviews, and a plethora of historical documentation to recount key events and people of the Civil Rights Era in Canada, and, more specifically, Montreal. Not only does “True North” bring our attention to the historical and present day Black-Canadian experience, but the film also directly confronts how anti-Blackness is built and perpetuated by institutions. 

Stephenson strings together a narrative that was once stuck out of sight, a persistent yet unsurprising struggle of the Black experience and Black history. Similar to the foundation of the United States, a majority of the Black population in Canada is due to the transatlantic slave trade and immigration. Anchored in one of the more angsty (and, therefore, inactive) age groups, Stephenson narrows in on college students at Sir George University who are standing up for equal classroom treatment and academic opportunity. As hundreds of students of all races and creed take over the precious college computer lab, the monochromatic scanned photos, peppered with interviews and archival audio illustrate the unnecessary, one-sided violence that quickly gets out of hand and is later taken advantage of within legal context.

All these years later, Brenda Dash, one of the women who was a prevalent player in such protests, states that in some ways her “soul is still colonized.” To no fault of her own, there is so much power in hearing an elder speak truth to the imperfections of combatting and overcoming generational, systemic suffering. In its final moments, “Reach the Sunshine,” a futuristic, psychedelic punk song by rapper Lil Yachty awakens our souls with sounds that fuel us with optimism for our ability to continue correcting such cruel, longstanding corruptions through collective action.

“Pasa Faho,” slang for, or play on, the phrase “parts of a whole,” takes the pieces of our broken hearts and puts them together again. In director and writer Kalu Oji’s feature debut, there is undeniable warmth and understanding of whose story he is trying to tell. Oji, who is Igbo Australian, tells the story of Nigerian shoe-store owner, Azubuike (Okey Bakassi), who slowly endures unexpected hardships right as his tween son Obinna (Tyson Palmer) starts to live with him. The family-drama is also a story of immigrant communities finding their footing in new places, how spirituality can be reshaped amidst such shifts, and how one’s sense of purpose can come into question but persevering through parenthood.

Despite the limited large-scale and landscape shots, each character has a grand presence, framed intimately in close ups that influence the overall perception of what audiences are able to connect to in this story. With exceptional chemistry between the father-son duo, Bakassi and Palmer bring contemplative, complexity to their characters. Even in moments of few words, much is said with their eyes and their physicality.

Over and over the film conveys some iteration of “true love must move along and evolve;” a lesson Azubuike not only reiterates to his son, but one that he, too, is learning and accepting. As the score oscillates between high-vibration afrobeats to more melancholic, classically orchestrated music, each scene is both visually and sonically saturated with emotional queues. “Pasa Faho” is layered and lovely on every level.

At last, the art of Sun Ra, the enigma, the intergalactic sonic savant, is brought to the silver screen. In Christine Turner’s newest documentary, “Sun Ra: Do the Impossible,” we’re flung into his orbit, entranced by his audacious mindset and outlook on life.

The film skims through Sun Ra’s early years and establishes him as a self-proclaimed divine figure from a young age. His beliefs were bigger than the human body can hold; a confidence so courageous and mighty, it was best channeled through making music. Turner transports us to Birmingham, AL in the 1940s, then we’re along for a journey to Chicago, New York, Europe, Africa, and beyond.

Despite the film’s diverse and well stacked line up of sources and interviewees, there is not an explicit, detailed display of Sun Ra’s lasting impact and legacy. Journalists and scholars unanimously agree that Sun Ra and his nature of making was otherworldly. Notably, he’s named “the godfather of Afrofuturism” as the film flashes several artists who embody an offshoot of the aesthetic Sun Ra and his Arkestra brought to the stage. Yet the only musicians included in the documentary are his former bandmates and fellow followers of afro-mythology. Some even admit the almost cult-like mentality the musical troupe underwent to remain in line with Sun Ra’s vision and aspirations.

Although this is a seemingly weak point of the overall film, “Sun Ra: Do the Impossible” has a central thesis of placing its subject within the archive as someone who is larger than life. With deep care and patience, Turner sifts through mountains of archival anecdotes (from letters to albums to found footage) to present just one iota of all Sun Ra was. As the film dances through time, the entirety of the score is composed of sounds created by Sun Ra; before the synthy ’70s, we boogie to the big band of the ’40s. The evidence is in the air while the psychedelic editing enhances our ability to have faith and make believe.