True crime documentaries in the streaming era are a dime a dozen, catnip for those who consume their content passively. They can be reasonably diverting if you want to throw something on while you’re folding laundry. At best, they might elicit a fleeting “huh, interesting,” but rarely leave any lasting impression. In other words, from a critical perspective, this assembly-line cottage industry rarely leaves anything of note to wrestle with. However, seeing Unknown Number: The High School Catfish become a viral meme in the week since its release prompted me to pen an unanticipated review, as I can’t recall the last time a film felt so repulsive and spiritually evil.
The documentary follows high school sweethearts Lauryn and Owen, who are targeted by an unknown stalker who is seemingly obsessed with them. Posing as a jealous classmate, the anonymous caller bombards them with increasingly aggressive and sexual text messages, claiming Owen loves them and demanding Lauryn leave him. The stalker describes explicit sexual acts they want to perform with Owen, falsely claiming past hookups at parties, creating tension in the couple’s seemingly perfect relationship. This escalates into a full-blown scandal at their high school, with outraged parents desperate to identify the culprit. Lauryn and Owen eventually break up, but as the messages grow darker, encouraging Lauryn to kill herself while also targeting Owen’s new girlfriend and her parents, local authorities involve the FBI. Frustrated parents accuse various girls, but the truth is far darker and more twisted than anyone could have imagined.
[Spoilers follow] The stalker turns out to be Lauryn’s mother, Kendra. She claims someone else initiated the harassment, and she merely continued it, but the third-act reveal feels cheap and manipulative, exposing the film’s exploitative nature. By presenting Kendra as a concerned mother for most of the documentary, Unknown Number allows her to garner sympathy and spin the narrative in her favor. While the final twist shifts this perception, director Skye Borgman never truly challenges her, resulting in a series of evasive excuses and justifications that fail to explain her actions. This leads Lauryn to defend her mother, against all odds. While it’s understandable that a child would want to believe the best of their parent, it feels ghoulish to parade Lauryn on such a public stage in service of rehabilitating the image of such a monstrous figure.
The film also glosses over the sexual nature of the texts, portraying Kendra as a confused and dishonest woman rather than confronting the disturbing reality that she sent graphic sexual messages to 13-year-olds. The focus instead remains primarily on the messages’ violent tone, leaving the question of how a mother could do this to her own child frustratingly unanswered because Kendra remains doggedly evasive. That Unknown Number remains similarly nebulous feels egregious given the severity of the crimes, particularly as it sidesteps Kendra’s continued pursuit of her daughter’s boyfriend after their breakup, destroying subsequent relationships — an issue she never addresses, and one the documentary bafflingly avoids engaging with. While there’s certainly a place for nuance and unanswered questions, Kendra’s conviction and prison time feel insufficient to the circumstance, as the filmmakers seem content to let any further accountability remain unresolved.
The Internet’s widespread reaction suggests Kendra is being rightfully judged for her crimes. The film itself, however, feels less introspective, failing to grapple with the slippery evil at its core. Was this a case of virtual Munchausen syndrome by proxy? A mother’s misguided attempt to protect her daughter from a fabricated threat to stay relevant? Or a woman’s shockingly inappropriate obsession with her daughter’s teenage boyfriend? Is this even our business? It’s a messy, lurid story perfect for sensational TV, sure, but one which raises unsettling ethical questions about its depiction. Why were these children dragged in front of cameras to relive their trauma? Why was this deeply disturbed woman given a platform to justify her heinous crimes without meaningful pushback or a demand for genuine self-reflection? Kendra’s lack of remorse is galling, but the film’s focus on Lauryn’s attempts to rationalize her mother’s actions is so gross and profoundly uncomfortable that it leaves one feeling in desperate need of a shower. Is this really what we’ve come to? Without being privy to any lingering psychological aftereffects, it feels safe to assume Lauryn would be more in need of therapy than of being platformed on television. Where is the line between examining human evil and exploiting child victims in order to satiate our culture’s voyeuristic thirst for true crime entertainment? In Unknown Number, that line not only feels crossed, but it seems like we have plunged headlong down a dark abyss we never should have entered.
DIRECTOR: Skye Borgman; DISTRIBUTOR: Netflix; STREAMING: August 29; RUNTIME: 1 hr. 34 min.
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