Serial Mom opens with a tongue-in-cheek disclaimer mimicking true crime narratives, claiming the film is based on “interviews and witness testimony” to reveal “larger truths” about American values. This sets the stage for Waters’ critique of murderabilia—the commodification of crime artifacts and the cultural obsession with killers. Beverly Sutphin, a seemingly perfect suburban mother, keeps a shrine of serial killer memorabilia under her bed, including cassette tapes from Ted Bundy (voiced by Waters himself). Her son Chip (Matthew Lillard) works at a video store renting out gory horror films, and the family casually references notorious killers like Charles Manson and Henry Lee Lucas. Waters presents this fascination as a normalized facet of suburban life, exposing the hypocrisy of a society that condemns violence while secretly reveling in it.The film’s courtroom scenes amplify this critique. As Beverly’s trial unfolds, she becomes a celebrity, with fans chanting “Serial Mom” and her daughter Misty (Ricki Lake) selling T-shirts outside the courthouse. A cameo by Suzanne Somers, playing herself as eager to portray Beverly in a TV movie, underscores the media’s rush to profit from sensational crime. Waters, a lifelong true crime enthusiast who attended trials like that of John Hinckley Jr., draws from his own experiences to satirize how killers are transformed into collectible icons. This mirrors the modern murderabilia market, where items linked to criminals fetch high prices online, a phenomenon Waters foresaw with eerie prescience.

In the context of Luigi Mangione, accused of murdering UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson, Serial Mom’s critique of murderabilia gains new relevance. Mangione’s case, marked by forensic evidence like fingerprints on a water bottle and a “ghost gun, ” sparked a media frenzy, with over 400 tips flooding NYPD’s Crime Stoppers hotline. Public discourse on platforms like X reveals a split: some view Mangione as a vigilante against corporate greed, others as a cold-blooded killer. This echoes Beverly’s appeal in Serial Mom, where her murders—targeting those who violate her rigid moral code, like a neighbor who doesn’t recycle or a teacher who criticizes her son—are cheered by misfits who see her as a rebel against societal norms. Both cases highlight how society fetishizes killers who align with certain grievances, turning crime into a marketable spectacle.

The Appeal of Serial Killers and Suburban Rebellion

Waters’ fascination with the appeal of serial killers is central to Serial Mom. Beverly Sutphin is a paradox: a perky, station-wagon-driving housewife who embodies 1950s domestic ideals, yet harbors a “heady lust for violence” that Kathleen Turner portrays with infectious relish. Her kills, often triggered by trivial slights—wearing white after Labor Day, failing to rewind a video tape—are both absurd and cathartic, reflecting Waters’ view that killers can be “politically correct” when their motives resonate with the disenfranchised. Beverly’s violence is a pressure valve, freeing her from the repressive constraints of suburban life, a theme Waters explores throughout his filmography.In earlier works like Pink Flamingos (1972) and Female Trouble (1974), Waters celebrated outsiders—drag queens, criminals, and “white trash”—who defied societal norms through outrageous acts. Serial Mom refines this by placing a killer within the heart of middle-class respectability, exposing the rot beneath the suburban façade. Unlike the grotesque excess of Multiple Maniacs (1970) or the campy musicality of Hairspray (1988), Serial Mom uses glossy production values and a mainstream star to smuggle Waters’ anarchic vision into multiplexes. Beverly’s appeal lies in her duality: she’s both a caricature of the “perfect mom” and a subversive hero, much like Divine’s characters but tailored for a broader audience.

The film’s relevance persists in its portrayal of serial killers tap into cultural anxieties. Beverly’s vigilante justice resonates with audiences who, like her, feel stifled by societal expectations. This mirrors Mangione’s case, where some online commentators frame his alleged crime as a response to healthcare injustices. While Serial Mom exaggerates for comedic effect, it captures the allure of killers who “kill for the right reasons, ” a sentiment Waters playfully endorses. Beverly’s ability to charm jurors and evade conviction reflects how society often romanticizes charismatic criminals, a phenomenon seen in the cult followings of figures like Ted Bundy or, more recently, the polarized reactions to Mangione.

Capitalization of Violence and Media Sensationalism

Serial Mom is a scathing indictment of how violence is capitalized through media sensationalism. Waters, drawing on the 1990s tabloid culture of shows like Hard Copy, portrays Beverly’s trial as a circus where jurors are distracted by trivialities—like a juror wearing white after Labor Day—rather than the murders themselves. The film’s climax, where Beverly kills this juror (played by Patricia Hearst, a nod to Waters’ love of infamous figures), underscores how violence becomes entertainment. Waters also critiques moral panics, referencing the Parents Music Resource Center’s censorship campaigns and fears of Satanic cults, which he saw as overreactions to youth culture. By casting Beverly as a horror fan who watches Blood Feast, Waters defends the genre while mocking those who blame it for real-world violence.This theme aligns with Waters’ broader filmography, where he consistently challenges conservative hypocrisy. In Polyester (1981), he skewers suburban morality; in Cecil B. Demented (2000), he attacks Hollywood’s sanitization of rebellion. Serial Mom bridges these works, using a mainstream format to deliver a critique that feels both personal and universal. Its box-office failure ($7.8 million against a $13 million budget) reflects its uneasy fit within Hollywood, yet its cult status proves Waters’ knack for enduring relevance.Today, the capitalization of violence is more pervasive, with streaming platforms churning out true crime series like Ryan Murphy’s Monster or documentaries on cases like Mangione’s. Serial Mom’s satire of this trend feels prophetic, as media outlets amplify Mangione’s story, debating his motives while profiting from public intrigue. Beverly’s trivial triggers—akin to killing over unsorted trash—parallel Mangione’s alleged targeting of a CEO, both framed as acts of moral retribution by their supporters. Waters’ insight that “everyone loves true crime and probably has a favorite killer” remains true, as society continues to consume and commodify violence.

Kathleen Turner’s Beverly and Waters’ Filmography

Kathleen Turner’s performance as Beverly Sutphin is a masterclass in balancing camp and menace, making her the ideal vessel for Waters’ vision. Unlike the larger-than-life Divine, Turner brings a steely charisma honed in films like Body Heat (1981) and The War of the Roses (1989). Her ability to shift from sunny domesticity to chilling rage—sprinting in heels with a butcher knife or giggling during obscene prank calls—elevates Serial Mom beyond mere parody. Turner’s casting was a coup, as Waters considered stars like Meryl Streep and Glenn Close, but her commitment to the role’s absurdity cements Beverly as one of his most memorable creations.Within Waters’ filmography, Serial Mom marks a transition from his underground roots to a flirtation with mainstream cinema. Unlike the raw transgression of Pink Flamingos or the polished nostalgia of Hairspray, Serial Mom balances Waters’ love of filth with a critique of middle-class mores. Its glossy aesthetic, courtesy of a $13 million budget, contrasts with the low-fi grit of Multiple Maniacs or Desperate Living (1977), yet retains Waters’ anarchic spirit. The film’s nod to horror influences like Herschell Gordon Lewis, seen in Beverly’s gore-soaked kills, ties it to Waters’ lifelong love of the genre, evident in his casting of horror icons like Traci Lords and Patty Hearst.

Contemporary Relevance and Luigi Mangione

Serial Mom’s relevance in 2025 is undeniable, as true crime’s grip on culture tightens. The film’s satire of media sensationalism and public fascination with killers feels tailored to an era of podcasts, Reddit threads, and 24-hour news cycles. Luigi Mangione’s case, with its forensic drama and polarized public response, could be a plot point in a Waters film. Like Beverly, Mangione is seen by some as a folk hero, his alleged crime a strike against a system perceived as unjust. Serial Mom warns of the dangers of this romanticization, showing how Beverly’s charm masks her psychopathy, a cautionary tale for those lionizing Mangione without scrutiny.

The film also critiques the triviality of moral outrage, as Beverly’s kills stem from petty grievances akin to Mangione’s targeting of a corporate figure. Waters suggests that such acts, while rooted in personal codes, spiral into chaos, a lesson applicable to today’s polarized climate where violence is often justified by subjective “righteousness.” Serial Mom’s enduring power lies in its ability to make us laugh at this absurdity while forcing us to confront our complicity in consuming it.