‘Yiya Murano: Death at Tea Time’ Review: Argentina’s Most Notorious Poisoner and the Making of a Media Celebrity (Netflix)

There are at least two ways to approach the case—and the figure—of Yiya Murano. One is tied to the crimes she committed in the late 1970s, when she murdered—at least according to the courts, though she always denied it—three friends and relatives to whom she owed money, poisoning them with cyanide. The other has to do with the unexpected notoriety she gained years later, after serving a long prison sentence, when she reinvented herself as a media personality. Alejandro Hartmann’s documentary attempts to cover both sides of this complex life, as well as the cultural environment that not only absorbed her story but, in some ways, celebrated it.

The film relies heavily—perhaps excessively—on reenactments to depict the earlier period, combining staged scenes with interviews featuring survivors of the investigation and descendants of both Murano and her victims. The most prominent of these is Martín Murano, her only son, who became publicly known for testifying against her and refusing to support her claims of innocence. Alongside them, several well-known Argentine journalists recount the case in a style that will feel familiar to viewers of contemporary true crime series, especially those popularized by platforms like Netflix. As the story unfolds, actors recreate key moments with reasonable fidelity to the tone and period, even if the device itself feels overused within a documentary framework.

The case of “the Montserrat poisoner” is widely known in Argentina. In 1979, three women died within weeks of each other; all were found to have cyanide in their systems. All were also part of a social circle connected to Murano—born María Bernardina de las Mercedes Bolla Aponte de Murano—who managed their savings through what today would clearly resemble a Ponzi scheme. Suspicion initially arose from the daughter of the last victim, Mema del Giorgio Venturini, leading police to uncover not only the previous deaths but also a likely motive: Murano’s mounting debts, incurred by mismanaging her friends’ money and failing to return it.

The case quickly became a media sensation, dominating newspaper headlines, television coverage, and radio broadcasts across the country. After a series of judicial twists, Murano was ultimately convicted. Hartmann—previously known for projects like AU3, The Menendez Brothers and documentaries on high-profile Argentine cases such as the murder of José Luis Cabezas and María Marta García Belsunce—combines the criminal investigation with glimpses into Murano’s unusual private life: married with a son, involved with multiple lovers, and exhibiting what many interviewees describe as a deeply narcissistic and emotionally detached personality. The film avoids speculative psychological backstory about her childhood, instead relying on her son’s testimony, which paints a stark picture of her indifference toward her family.

Death at Tea Time becomes more compelling in its second half, when it shifts focus to Murano’s post-prison life and reflects on the strange celebrity status she achieved. She appeared frequently in the media, gave paid interviews, and was invited multiple times to the long-running talk show hosted by Mirtha Legrand—a major platform in Argentine popular culture. There, and elsewhere, she cultivated an oddly charming public persona, turning her crimes into a kind of macabre curiosity that often provoked amusement rather than outrage. While this phenomenon is not uncommon among serial offenders—though Murano fits uneasily into that category—it exposes a media ecosystem willing to commodify such figures for attention and profit.

Hartmann touches on a difficult issue that neither the film nor this review can fully resolve: the marginal space given to the victims. The three women—Nilda Gamba and Chicha Formisano were the other two—are acknowledged and remembered, but receive far less narrative development than Murano herself. The same dynamic that fueled Murano’s media fame from the 1990s onward is, to some extent, replicated here: the documentary critiques the myth of the “tea-and-scones poisoner” while simultaneously reinforcing it, mentioning her victims only briefly. For their families—particularly Mema’s granddaughter—this imbalance remains deeply unsettling.

Behind the spectacle lies a more intimate and troubling story: a fractured relationship between mother and son, a society that often seems to reward financial success by any means necessary, a painful political backdrop in late-1970s Argentina, and a media culture driven by sensationalism and the pursuit of notoriety. Murano’s story has already been adapted multiple times—for the stage, television, and most recently in a fiction series released just months ago—and it continues to fascinate new generations. Ultimately, that may be the point: beyond analysis or moral reckoning, this is a story that persists because it is consumed.