Just over a year ago, a woman told a crowded room that her ex-husband had kicked and slapped her. She described him throwing a phone at her face. She described him penetrating her with a wine bottle. “I remember not wanting to move because I didn’t know if it was broken,” she said. “I didn’t know if the bottle that he had inside me was broken.” While she said all these things, people laughed. People called her a whore and a liar. People cheered for her ex-husband, and made posters and T-shirts emblazoned with his face.

Only about 14 months have passed since Amber Heard was mocked and shamed on a global stage. But, apparently, that means it’s now high time to relive it. This week, a new three-part series from director Emma Cooper drops on Netflix (UK viewers can also watch via Channel 4 on demand). That’s right folks, we’re back in the hellscape that is Depp v Heard.

There are certain legal cases that transcend courtroom drama to become full-blown ‘where were you when’ cultural moments. Usually, these ‘trials of the century’ are criminal trials. Charles Manson in 1970; OJ Simpson in 1995. But, occasionally, a different calibre of case will grip the public consciousness – one that spins around sex and humiliation; one that strikes to the heart of how contemporary culture understands gender and power. In 1991, attorney Anita Hill testified that Supreme Court nominee Clarence Thomas had sexually harassed her while she worked as an adviser to him. The Senate ultimately confirmed Thomas’ nomination, while Hill received death threats. Just a few years later, as the new millennium swam into view, another sex scandal rocked American society. This time, the main characters were President Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. Despite Clinton eventually admitting to having had an affair with Lewinsky, for many years the court of public opinion was clear in its verdict: Monica Lewinsky was either a whore, or a liar, or both.

In a sense, the Johnny Depp and Amber Heard defamation trial, which took place from April 11 to June 1 2022, in Fairfax County, Virginia, combined elements of all of these previous ‘trials of the century’. As with Clinton and Lewinsky, a relationship between a younger woman and an older, more famous and more powerful man was under the microscope. In an echo of Hill v Thomas, during which lawmakers accused Anita Hill of suffering from a ‘delusional disorder’, a psychologist hired by Depp’s legal team ‘diagnosed’ Heard with borderline personality disorder and histrionic personality disorder. Like Charles Manson, the man at the centre of proceedings was also the figurehead of an obsessive fan club. And if that fan club grew to resemble a cult, in its slavish devotion to Depp against all reason, it’s largely because, like Simpson’s trial, the whole thing was televised.

However, one key difference between Depp v Heard and these other previous high-profile trials, is the influence of social media on public opinion. The trial was not only ‘televised’ but also TikToked, live-streamed and memed. The tagline for Cooper’s three-parter Depp v Heard even bills the trial as ‘the first trial by TikTok’.

The show opens with the Hollywood sign flickering into Amber Heard’s face on a red carpet. There’s old footage of Depp and Heard on the Hollywood walk of fame, at a dinner, and stepping off a boat in Venice glitch and distort into shots of Los Angeles freeways. News anchors read headlines about the couple, and about the trial. The screen glitches again, into a tree lined highway in Virginia. More clipped footage, more contextualising news clips. Then one anchor raises an important issue – a crucial factor in the trial proceedings that, a year on, often gets lost in the heady internet fog of misinformation, conspiracy, clout-chasing and PR campaigns. Why was the whole sorry spectacle staged in Virginia, when neither Heard nor Depp live or work there?

Well, the ‘official’ reason Depp was allowed to sue in the state is because the news outlet that ran Heard’s article, The Washington Post, “houses its printing press and online server in Fairfax County.” Yet, it’s also because, under Virginia law, the trial judge can decide whether to allow cameras in the courtroom.

Heard’s team tried to exclude the cameras from the trial. At a pre-trial hearing in February, attorney Elaine Bredehoft noted there was already a huge amount of media attention on the trial, as well as scrutiny from what she described as “fearful anti-Amber networks”. “What they’ll do is take anything that’s unfavourable,” Bredehoft said, “they’ll take out of context a statement, and play it over and over and over and over again.” Depp’s team, on the other hand, wanted the trial televised. “Mr. Depp believes in transparency,” his lawyer, Ben Chew declared. It should have been a sign of what was to come that the judge sided with Depp. “I don’t see any good cause not to do it,” Penney Azcarate, the chief judge of Fairfax County, announced. Others saw it differently. “Allowing this trial to be televised is the single worst decision I can think of in the context of intimate partner violence and sexual violence in recent history,” Michele Dauber, a professor at Stanford Law School said in May 2022. “It has ramifications way beyond this case.”

One of the ramifications of Judge Azcarate’s decision is that Depp v Heard is now on our screens. But, none of those quotes from various legal professionals are taken from the series. Indeed, there are no expert voices at all. There is no narration. No one who was involved in the trial is involved in this directly. There is no ‘broad view’, or ‘behind the scenes’, or ‘recontextualising with the benefit of hindsight’. This is a documentary in the loosest of senses. Early takes from the other side of the pond have been split – some critics have suggested it “casts the trial of the decade in a new light”, while others have deemed it “nothing more than a tactless win for pro-Johnny fans”. Perhaps this shouldn’t come as a surprise, given that the trial itself was so notoriously divisive. Personally, I’m inclined to agree with Audra Heinrichs of Jezebel, who described the docuseries as playing “like a highlight reel from hell”. 

If Depp v Heard suggests anything, it’s that people consuming the trial were biased. Well, that’s hardly a scoop, and to my mind, it’s certainly not worth the full, three-hour docuseries treatment. The series doesn’t dig into the motivations of the anti-Amber content creators or their backgrounds. For example, one prolific poster and top Depp stan who is featured extensively but anonymously in Cooper’s three-parter is Andy Signore. Not long before the Depp v Heard trial began, Signore had been fired from Screen Junkies, the YouTube-focused company he founded, for a variety of sexual misconduct allegations. Having set up his channel Popcorned Planet after being dismissed, Signore now posts livestreams about ‘daily news’ and ‘pop culture justice.’ Mainly, he covers what he characterises as the injustice of the #MeToo movement. Signore more than doubled the following of his YouTube channel during Depp v Heard. He made more than 300 videos about the trial, ratcheting up millions of views as he built a new reputation as a crusader for ‘justice’ and, crucially, making money in the process.

All the content creators immortalised in this series, and many more besides, were making money – but this also isn’t discussed or made explicit in Depp v Heard. Cooper presumably believes this allows the content to speak for itself, and lets the viewer weigh up their own thoughts, becoming another member of the public jury. But the true effect is just blur – an endless stream of stuff. Just how much money were all these #JusticeForJohnny content creators making? Was there a coordinated and well funded online PR campaign for Depp throughout the trial, fuelled by bots, as many alleged post-trial? Depp v Heard has no answers, just more clips. He said, she said. No thoughts, just vibes.

I wrote about Depp v Heard last year as the trial was ongoing. Then, I felt like I had to maintain some semblance of neutrality in my discussion of the ‘facts’ of the case itself. The piece wasn’t about who was ‘right’, or who was telling ‘the truth’ – it was about how strange the spectacle of the case had become, and how dangerous a precedent it seemed to set, if trials about intimate partner violence could be spun into comic TikTok clips. I didn’t want to come down on one ‘side’. I wrote that “treating an ongoing defamation trial, featuring graphic and distressing testimony about physical violence, coercive control, and sexual assault, like […] Netflix’s latest true crime documentary series is, at best, distasteful and, at worst, actively dangerous.” Now, as Netflix’s latest documentary series opens up the can of worms again, the only true takeaway is how little we’ve learnt since then.

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