At first glance, the thought of adapting Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of Heaven seems like a Sisyphean undertaking. A sprawling 431 page journalistic endeavor, the book follows multiple plotlines, drawing metaphorical and literal parallels between the investigation into the brutal 1984 murders of devout Mormon wife Brenda Lafferty and her infant child, and the oppressively shrouded origins of the modern Church of Latter-Day Saints. It’s a gripping anti-theocratic bullet pointed squarely at the Mormon Church, but by extension, all religious fundamentalism, and no one understands the complexities and hardships of bringing it to the screen better than Dustin Lance Black, the writer of the book’s 2022 miniseries adaptation.
Black, the screenwriter and creator of the FX series Under the Banner of Heaven, spent 10 years wrestling with how to adapt Krakauer’s novel, originally intending for the project to be a film before settling on writing it as a miniseries. And in the midst of pop culture’s current obsession with true crime and the ethical questions raised by our sensationalist fascination with real-world violence, such an adaptation faces two central responsibilities: one to its audience, to deliver compelling narrative drama, and the second to the tragedy itself, to treat it with an honest lens and a humanist touch.
Fortunately, it’s the latter half of that challenge that the show succeeds at the most. For a long time, Brenda Lafferty was exclusively painted in the cultural stratosphere by the details surrounding her death — even posthumously, she was re-victimized by constant appeal trials from her murderer, dragging out details of her final moments to be spun and replayed by news media across the country. But here, Daisy Edgar-Jones and Dustin Lance Black (who told Newsweek that he was given access to Brenda’s diary and letters by her family) help to bring her out of the shadow of her fate with grace and overwhelming empathy.
Through flashbacks that run concurrent to the show’s central investigation, we follow her from her arrival at BYU, to her ill-fated marriage of Allen Lafferty (Billy Howle), to her desperate attempts at fighting the fundamentalist radicalism festering within the family. The show is tactful in its refusal to sensationalize her murder, and even as the show’s shifting timeline creeps closer to her untimely end, she maintains her defiance and self-assured faith. Edgar-Jones’ performance is one of complexity and resilience, and the show’s direction frames her with heartbreaking similarities to Sheryl Lee’s tragic and humanistic portrayal of Twin Peaks’ Laura Palmer.
Although the Lafferty clan’s descent into oppressive Mormon originalism is what sets into motion the show’s dire circumstances, each of the major players within the family are interrogated with similar complexity. Christopher Heyerdahl towers over the family with a soft-spoken intensity as the family patriarch, Ammon, while Megan Leitch brings his wife Doreen to life as a submissive yet cunning Lady Macbeth archetype. Their passionate, and oftentimes feverish, adherence to their faith opens the door for their six children to fall down a rabbit hole of religious mania, and it’s the two oldest boys, Dan and Ron Lafferty (Wyatt Russell and Sam Worthington respectively) who truly lose themselves to the abyss of Mormon fundamentalism. Wyatt Russell is electrifying and charismatic as Dan despite the sinister and violently misogynistic undertones of his perspective on faith, and Ron’s slow transition from loving husband and respected community leader to a malicious and desperate apostle makes Sam Worthington equally deserving of praise. Both Dan’s wife Matilda (Chloe Pirrie) as well as Ron’s wife Dianna (Denise Gough) are forced to reckon with the men their husbands are becoming, and although they take different paths, each of them feels human in their response to their encroaching circumstances.
While the other Lafferty boys (Seth Numrich, Rory Culkin, and Taylor St. Pierre) all follow their older brothers down the rabbit hole, it’s the Allen Lafferty that bridges the gap between the show’s treatment of fundamentalism, and also provides our bridge between the true crime story and the fictionalized elements of the central investigation. The police response to Brenda’s murder is led by the fictional duo of Jeb Pyre (Andrew Garfield), a moralistic contemporary Mormon, and his atheist Paiute partner Bill Taba. The conversations between Allen, who is initially arrested for Brenda’s murder, and Garfield’s Pyre provide a convenient window for the show to integrate flashbacks to the early days of the Church of Latter-Day Saints, showcasing key moments in the lives of Joseph Smith (Andrew Burnap), Emma Smith (Tyner Rushing), and Brigham Young (Scott Michael Campbell). While those flashbacks can at times feel overwrought or less engaging than the breakneck pace of the central murder investigation, they help set the stage for the other major conflict at the heart of the series.
Brenda Lafferty’s murder takes a toll on our main character, and Garfield arguably gives the best performance of his career wrestling with the uncertainty of his faith while trying to get inside the head of the Mormon fundamentalists who keep popping up in his beloved Utah. Pyre is soft-spoken and frequently out of his depth, and when the Mormon church itself steps in to try and discredit their connection to the case, the investigation becomes much more personal for Jeb. Allen and Jeb slowly bond over the institutional faith that has been instilled in them their entire life, and while their dialogue can hew close to indulgent monologues, there’s a real thematic intention at the heart of them that keeps the dynamic from feeling like an unnecessary addition to an already compelling real-life event.
Despite the fact that the show’s real-life elements are handled with a respectful degree of sensitivity and its fictionalized elements are well-integrated into the narrative, the show’s length unfortunately curtails itself towards the end, with the final stretch of Pyre and Taba’s investigation barreling towards a conclusion that ultimately feels a little unsatisfying due to where the show decides to come to a close. On some level it’s a commendable decision to ignore the trial that followed, rejecting an emphasis on the people responsible for ending Brenda’s life, but at the same time the show has already spent a lot of time pathologizing the ideologies that lead to her murder, so ignoring the immediate aftermath of the investigation can’t help but feel like a narrative stop sign.
Nevertheless, Under the Banner of Heaven is a gripping true crime drama that exposes the heights the genre can reach when empathy and understanding are applied to real-life figures instead of sensationalist entertainment. There’s a sinister undercurrent of truth to Black’s writing, and despite the show’s focus being set in 1984, the warnings therein about the dangers of religious theocratic oppression and the allure of radicalization and fundamentalism feel more pressing than ever nearly 40 years after the senseless murder that claimed the lives of a devout young woman and her innocent child.
