Predators asks whether TV turned paedophile-hunting into entertainment - and what that did to us
There's a beat in every old episode of To Catch a Predator when the room goes quiet. A man thinks he's meeting a child. A young-looking actor chatters from the kitchen. Then Chris Hansen (movies and tv series) steps out, cameras rolling, and the person in the chair seems to shrink as their life caves in on itself.
"In that moment, time stops," says Cambridge ethnographer Mark de Rond in Predators, the new documentary from David Osit (movies and tv series). "What you're seeing is, effectively, someone else's life end." It's hard to hear. Harder to forget.
Osit's film isn't a gotcha of a gotcha. It turns the lens back on the phenomenon - and on itself. He talks with the decoys who played "kids," some still wrestling with what they did for TV. One admits, "I had buried all this very deep until you guys brought it up."
For four years, To Catch a Predator ran stings with adults who'd sent sexual messages to decoys posing as minors. The format was simple and ruthless. Every interview ended with Hansen's line: "You're free to leave." Then police waiting outside would pounce. It was the punchline.
The show was a ratings machine. Hansen did the rounds on late-night; Jimmy Kimmel (movies and tv series) called it "Punk'd for paedophiles." Jon Stewart (movies and tv series) joked they should have their own channel. Dissent was rare. One sharp exception: Charlie Brooker (movies and tv series) wrote that if a programme makes you feel sorry for potential child rapists, something's badly off.
Predators pulls you into the parts we never saw: the long, messy in-betweens. Men slumped over, asking for help no one (movies and tv series) on that crew was trained, or inclined, to offer. "To show these men as human beings, the show kind of breaks down," De Rond says. And he's right - the spectacle curdles the second empathy shows up.
The film doesn't flinch from the darkest outcomes. One target, a Texas assistant district attorney, died by suicide during a production in 2008; his death was filmed. Others took their lives in the years after. Osit sits with the weight of that, and then does something braver: he asks if his own film risks the same harm.
That question haunts a scene with an 18-year-old from Michigan, featured by Hansen in a newer, cut-rate version of the franchise on TruBlu. Osit interviews the boy (movies and tv series)'s mother while her son cries quietly off-camera. He later says the discomfort you feel is proof you still have empathy - and that the show's ecosystem often demands you drop it.
The influence didn't end when NBC pulled the plug. In its second act, Predators follows copycat vigilantes doing DIY stings for YouTube fame. One, calling himself Skeet Hansen, racks up millions of views. In a motel confrontation, his team corners a man in clear crisis and waits hours for police who never come. Skeet still delivers the catchphrase - "you've just been Skeeted" - like a brand needs feeding.
Osit admits an awful realisation there: to the man (movies and tv series) in that room, he and Skeet were just two cameras. Two audiences. Whatever their motives, the effect on the subject was the same. That's the film's knife twist.
About an hour in, Osit shares something he hadn't planned to: he was abused as a child. It gives the project a different honesty. He's done making documentaries that pretend to float above the mess. This one sits in it and says: nothing here is neutral, including me.
The film builds to a one-on-one with Hansen. Osit flips the signature line - "You're free to leave" - and lets a CCTV shot follow Hansen to his car. If you catch yourself smiling, the film points a finger back at you. Is that the same schadenfreude that made the show addictive? Are we all just relieved it isn't us in the chair?
Predators opened in the US in September. Days later, Osit even went on Hansen's podcast - a strange, almost funny loop. Hansen now leans on police-run stings and interviews the men afterward. Osit's take: strip out the theatrics and what's left looks even more like entertainment dressed as public service.
The bigger question lingers: what happens when human pain becomes a product? Someone profits. Someone breaks. The film doesn't hand you an answer; it leaves you with a mirror.
Why this matters for commissioners, schedulers and doc teams
- Duty of care isn't optional. If your format is built on people at their worst moment, you need clear guardrails: mental health protocols, legal review, aftercare.
- Copycat risk is real. Vigilante spin-offs thrive on platforms that reward outrage. Platform policies and partnerships matter more than press lines.
- Tone is the story. If audiences laugh in the wrong places, your "public interest" framing may be broken. Test for that early and often.
- Transparency sells better than moral varnish. Viewers can handle subjectivity; they reject hypocrisy.
Release: Predators is in UK cinemas from 14 November and streaming on Paramount+ from 8 December.
If you or someone you know is struggling or thinking about self-harm, you're not alone. In the UK, contact Samaritans at 116 123 or visit samaritans.org. In the US, call or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. For other countries, visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention's directory at iasp.info. If there's immediate danger, call local emergency services.
Further context: background on the original series is available here - To Catch a Predator.
