Once again, I am here to remind myself where the real horror lies: in real life. Patricia Gillespie's, devastating 2022 documentary "The Fire That Took Her" tells a horrifying story that would be unbearable if it were not real.
This is the story of Judy Malinowski, an Ohio woman set on fire by her boyfriend, Michael Slager - a man whose cruelty knew no bounds.
Unlike many true-crime documentaries that thrive on sensationalism, "The Fire That Took Her" strips away the gloss and exposes the brutal realities of domestic violence, trauma, addiction, and the systemic failures that often leave victims unheard.
The horror here is not just in the crime itself but in the slow, insidious ways in which abuse tightens its grip long before it turns deadly.
Miraculously, Judy survived for nearly two years after the attack, enduring unimaginable pain: seven months in a coma, over 60 surgeries, and burns covering 80% of her body. From her hospital bed, she connected with other survivors, advocated for change, and ultimately did something unprecedented - she testified in her own murder trial.
What makes this documentary particularly disturbing is not just the physical brutality of what happened to Judy but the way abuse operates as a methodical erosion of autonomy.
Toxic relationships rarely begin with overt violence. They start with control - manipulating vulnerabilities, isolating victims, and, in Judy's case, weaponizing her past struggles with addiction.
Michael Slager did not just harm her physically; he engineered a dynamic of control that began long before the attack. Judy had first been prescribed opioids following ovarian cancer surgery, and Slager used her dependency as leverage - fueling her addiction while driving a wedge between her and her family.
This is one of the film's most unsettling revelations: before Slager poured gasoline on Judy's body, he had already lit a different kind of fire - one that burned through her support system, her independence, and her sense of self.
The documentary does not shy away from these uncomfortable realities. It presents raw, unfiltered images of Judy's suffering but never reduces her to just a victim. Even in her most fragile state, she was a fighter, a woman determined to have her story heard.
The legal battle surrounding her testimony is one of the film's most compelling aspects. Initially, prosecutors resisted allowing her to testify, arguing that her medication could affect her credibility. This moment encapsulates the system's deep flaws, even in the face of undeniable suffering, procedural scepticism can overshadow human truth.
Judy's story is heartbreaking, and while the documentary captures her resilience and tragic fate, it does leave certain aspects of her life underexplored. We see glimpses of her past, her struggles, and the woman she was before the abuse, but the focus remains tightly on her post-attack journey.
While this keeps the narrative urgent, a deeper dive into her earlier life and personal history could have provided an even fuller picture of who she was beyond her trauma.
Beyond Judy's case "The Fire That Took Her," speaks to larger systemic issues: the failures of the justice system, the cyclical nature of domestic violence, and the devastating reach of America's opioid crisis.
Having spent time in the U. S., I have never seen so many public service ads about opioid addiction, and this documentary makes it painfully clear why. These drugs are handed out easily, yet the consequences are often irreversible.
Ultimately, The Fire That Took Her is a film about justice - both the kind that is served and the kind that remains disturbingly absent. It is about a woman who, despite being physically silenced, forced the world to listen. And it is about a legal system that, while ultimately convicting her killer, repeatedly hesitated to protect her when it mattered most.
This is a documentary that lingers, that unsettles, and that forces us to confront the true horror of domestic violence - not just in its most extreme moments but in the slow, methodical ways it takes hold long before the first act of physical violence.
