Predators: David Osit's Brilliant Dissection of Vigilante Entertainment

David Osit's Predators examines the cultural phenomenon of NBC's To Catch a Predator with the precision of a master surgeon and the moral complexity of a philosopher. This isn't simply another true crime documentary—it's a searching interrogation of our collective complicity in turning vigilante justice into entertainment, and why that should make us deeply uncomfortable.

The film follows a three-act structure that traces the show's creation, its modern YouTube imitators, and culminates in a confrontational interview with Chris Hansen that serves as both reckoning and revelation. Osit's approach proves methodical and humane, avoiding the sensationalism that defined his subject matter while forcing viewers to examine their own fascination with predator hunting.

Osit opens with split-screen footage showing multiple camera angles rather than the edited broadcast versions. This immediately establishes the documentary's theme: the constructed nature of the "reality" we consumed as entertainment. The climactic Hansen interview employs the same multi-camera surveillance style that To Catch a Predator used on its targets—a caustically witty formal flourish that turns the show's own methods against its creator.

The film's greatest strength lies in its roster of subjects, particularly Dan Schrack, a former decoy actor whose trauma from the Texas incident provides devastating testimony about the show's human cost. Schrack's vulnerability contrasts sharply with Hansen's defensive posturing, creating a moral clarity that avoids easy judgment while establishing clear ethical boundaries.

Osit's cinematography and editing prove equally sophisticated. Working as director, cinematographer, and editor, he creates a visual language that's both restrained and powerful. The documentary avoids typical manipulation—no manipulative score or narration guides viewer response in key scenes. Instead, the raw footage and testimony speak for themselves.

The exploration of modern YouTube predator hunters like "Skeeter Jean" proves particularly unsettling. These sequences demonstrate how the show's vigilante approach has metastasized into an even more exploitative form, driven by clicks and ad revenue rather than any pretense of justice.

Osit's revelation that he turned to the show while processing his own childhood sexual abuse adds profound emotional weight to the investigation. This isn't academic critique but lived experience examining how trauma survivors seek understanding through potentially harmful media.

Tim Hecker's score provides subtle atmospheric support without overwhelming the testimony, while archival footage obtained through Reddit fan communities and FOIA requests creates a comprehensive portrait of the show's impact.

What elevates Predators beyond typical documentary filmmaking is its refusal to provide easy answers. Osit understands that moral complexity requires viewers to do the work of ethical reasoning rather than passively consuming predetermined conclusions. The film challenges our assumptions about justice, entertainment, and complicity in systems that exploit human suffering for public consumption.

This is documentary filmmaking at its most sophisticated—a work that trusts audiences to engage with difficult questions while providing the evidence necessary for informed moral judgment. Predators confirms Osit as a filmmaker of exceptional insight and courage.