Magnus Fjeldsted Bach
Philip Westh

A Danish town feared a serial criminal for eight years. When caught, Amanda, Nichlas and Kiri discovered the perpetrator was their close friend who'd committed assaults, kidnappings and murder while spending time with them.
I keep thinking about the way Kiri’s hands shake when she describes the last time she saw Philip. It’s not the kind of tremor you get from cold or nerves—it’s the slow, internal collapse of someone who’s just realized the person she trusted was never who she thought he was. That moment, captured in A Friend, a Murderer, is the closest this three-part docuseries comes to something like truth.
Not the truth of what Philip Westh did (though that’s horrifying enough), but the truth of what it means to discover that someone you loved was, in fact, a stranger.
The series opens with a quiet, almost mundane shot: a Danish town at dusk, the kind of place where everyone knows your name and your car. The camera lingers on a playground, empty swings swaying slightly in the wind. It’s the kind of image that, in a horror film, would signal something sinister lurking just out of frame.
Here, it’s worse. The sinister was in frame. It was at the bar, at the birthday party, in the group chat.

True crime documentaries have a habit of turning violence into spectacle, but A Friend, a Murderer resists that impulse—at least at first. There are no lurid reenactments, no dramatic music stings when the killer’s name is mentioned. Instead, the series fixates on the people who knew him best: Amanda, Nichlas, and Kiri, three friends who spent years laughing, drinking, and confiding in a man who was, in his spare time, committing assaults, kidnappings, and murder.
The effect is unsettling in a way that’s harder to shake than any gory detail. It’s not the violence that haunts you; it’s the intimacy.
The series’ greatest strength is its refusal to let Philip become a monster in the abstract. He’s not some faceless predator lurking in the shadows; he’s the guy who remembered your drink order, who showed up to your kid’s christening, who sent you a meme at 2 a.m. The friends’ testimonies are littered with these small, humanizing details, and the contrast is devastating.
"A tense, emotionally heavy true crime docuseries that delivers a distinctive friend-centric angle but skimps on victims’ stories and investigative depth."
Gripping, well put together, and unusually focused on the psychological fallout for the killer’s friends and the wider community—among the stronger, less sensational crime documentaries of its kind for many. Minimal space for victims and almost no detail on how the case was solved frustrate a lot of viewers; the three-episode run is often seen as longer than the material needs.
Netflix’s Danish docuseries A Friend, a Murderer was supposed to be about one killer. Instead, it lit a match under an entire country, enraged a grieving family, and sent true‑crime fans spiraling into conspiracy mode. latestnetflix.com's take is that Forget quiet Scandinavian minimalism—this show’s off‑screen drama is full tabloid maximalism.
No classic Hollywood on‑set feuds, no co‑stars spotted kissing outside a West Hollywood bar—but A Friend, a Murderer doesn’t need celebrity scandal. Its real‑world gossip is darker: a devastated family publicly begging for the show not to exist, creators insisting it must, and fans angrily split over whether to watch at all.
In the end, the juiciest “tea” around this series is a moral one: Where’s the line between telling a powerful true story and profiting from real people’s worst nightmare? Netflix dropped the doc anyway—and the debate, like the view count, just keeps climbing.
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