Unknown Number: The High School Catfish 2025 Movie Review
Netflix’s true‑crime documentary Unknown Number: The High School Catfish, directed by Skye Borgman, is a chilling chronicle of cyberbullying that unfolds with eerie precision and culminates in a jaw‑dropping revelation. Set in tiny Beal City, Michigan, this film examines how a relentless barrage of anonymous text messages shattered the lives of two unsuspecting teenage sweethearts and revealed dark truths about hidden betrayal. The movie premiered on August 29, 2025, and quickly became a subject of conversation among viewers and critics alike
From the start, the documentary draws the audience in with a deceptively innocent premise: a teenage couple—Lauryn Licari and Owen McKenny—receive unsettling iMessages from an unknown number. Initially, the tone feels like a typical high‑school drama, until the texts escalate into vitriolic, vulgar, and emotionally devastating attacks. The anonymity and psychological cruelty of these messages—ranging from insinuations of dissatisfaction to brutal commands urging self-harm—instill escalating dread and confusion
What follows is the dismantling of safety and privacy, as Lauryn, Owen, their families, and school officials grapple with a harassment campaign that seems to strike at every angle of their lives. The community’s judgment intensifies with rumors and fear spreading like wildfire. The FBI is eventually called in, signaling that something profoundly disturbing lies at the heart of the case The snowballing tension is palpable: viewers watch suspicion turn inward, as even the school environments and parental trust become arenas of distrust and paranoia.
The pacing of the documentary mirrors the emotional spiral of the case. Skye Borgman, known for navigating deeply traumatic narratives in Girl in the Picture and Abducted in Plain Sight, deftly intercuts first-person interviews, recreated scenes, and procedural investigations. The rhythm is deliberate yet urgent—of a story that cannot be ignored, even as it becomes increasingly uncomfortable to watch. A featured user review on IMDb captures this sensation succinctly: “it’s a wild ride from start to finish … tight, pacey, and completely bingeable” Others write with strong emotion: “WHAT A ROLLER‑COASTER OF EMOTIONS!!! […] Shocked. Amazed. Horrified” and “Unreal … delivers an emotional punch from start to finish”
Borgman’s documentary doesn’t shy away from the horrific details. The volume of messages—sometimes dozens per day—and their intensely personal nature, reveal not just stalking, but a deep, intimate knowledge of Lauryn’s life. These messages included references to recent events in school, even personal performances in sports, triggering fear and self-doubt in Lauryn. School authorities, bound by concerns of student privacy, are hamstrung in their ability to confront the reality of the
As the FBI leverages digital forensics—through Pinger app data and Verizon IP matching—the twist that shakes the foundation of the narrative arrives: the tormentor is not a stranger, not a jealous classmate, but Lauryn’s own mother, Kendra Licari The revelation is as devastating as it is shocking. The film doesn’t sensationalize the moment; rather, the humanity and devastation are given space to land. Expert commentary and emotional testimonies play against the starkness of that truth, exposing layers of denial, manipulation, and mental illness—including possible Munchausen syndrome by proxy—or deeper, even more disturbing motives around romantic jealousy and emotional projection
The psychological complexity of Kendra’s motivations is explored with sensitivity. According to experts in the documentary, her initial reason—to unmask the bully—disintegrated into a pathological compulsion. As one article notes, Kendra initially joined the harassment under the pretext of helping, but became consumed by trauma and lost her moral compass; she was later sentenced to 19 months in prison, released in August 2024 The documentary avoids casting her as purely monstrous, instead inviting viewers to sit with the tragedy—and the breakdown of protective instincts gone horrific.
Lauryn’s response—desire for reconciliation, emotional strength, and empathy toward her mother—is equally unsettling and moving. Having endured repeated emotional attacks from the most trusted figure in her life, Lauryn nonetheless expresses understanding and willingness to reconnect. Meanwhile, the families are fractured: Lauryn lives with her father, Kendra is forbidden to see her. Owen, also hurt, has severed ties with Lauryn; Khloe Wilson, once wrongly suspected, remains scarred. Their stories are threads of intergenerational trauma, trust broken, and tentative paths to healing
Yet not all critical feedback is glowing. One review, while giving the documentary three stars, points out its limitations: the teens’ behaviors feel caricatured—calling out their repetitive use of the word “like”—and the school setting is rendered with clichés: overuse of phones, teenage drama, a hint of superficiality that undermines the gravity of the crime. Still, that criticism seems outweighed by the core strength of the film’s narrative and emotional resonance
Ultimately, Unknown Number is more than a crime story—it is a study in the fragility of trust and the dark capacity for cruelty that can emerge within the most intimate relationships. It probes the disintegration of boundaries: digital harassment that preys on teenage vulnerabilities; cyber tools used as weapons; maternal betrayal that defies comprehension; a small town’s dissolution into suspicion. Borgman doesn’t settle for easy answers, allowing the emotional weight to recharge throughout: shock, disgust, sadness, relief, then heartbreak anew when Lauryn yearns for compassion from the person who violated her.
In terms of filmmaking, Unknown Number distinguishes itself through deeply humane storytelling. It doesn’t merely dramatize for effect—each interview is raw, every moment of silence or hesitation speaks volumes. The structure—beginning as high-school drama, escalating into crime procedural, and culminating in personal tragedy—mirrors the horrifying progression of real-life illusions being shattered. Borgman and producers Ross M. Dinerstein and Rebecca Evans build a documentary that grips the viewer with revelation, and then refuses to let go, staying with you long after the credits.
True crime is often critiqued for exploiting trauma. This film navigates that territory with care. It frames the internet not as sensational gimmick, but as a place where everyday cruelty can metastasize into something monstrous. Younger audiences, particularly, will recognize the hyper‑connected teenage world—but the film forces them to look beyond its superficial rhythms into the real, psychological cost of digital anonymity. The FBI’s presence underscores how online cruelty is not a trivial issue—it is prosecutable, deadly serious. And the ultimate betrayal—by one of the victim’s closest relationships—makes the story unforgettable.
By the end, the film compels viewers to reconsider assumptions about safety, identity, and belonging. If the person who knows you best could be your gravest danger, what does that mean for trust? If digital life can conceal malicious intent so thoroughly, how do we protect ourselves—and each other? The answers don’t come easy, but this documentary doesn’t offer false solace. Instead, it leaves you wiser and more wary, and above all, deeply moved.
In conclusion, Unknown Number: The High School Catfish is a harrowing, morally complex, and emotionally loaded documentary. With sharp direction and investigative resolve, it transforms a poignant true story into a distressing cautionary tale: about motherhood gone awry, cyberbullying’s insidious reach, and how betrayal can emerge from the most familiar quarter. It’s a necessary, unforgettable watch—one that lingers, prompting reflection on trust, digital life, and the resilience of those who endure unimaginable harm.
