A documentary brought Brandon Teena’s murder to a national audience. Its makers are working on a sequel.

News of the killings traveled across the country, far from the small southeast Nebraska city where the gruesome crimes unfolded. 

Two men stalked Brandon Teena, a 21-year-old transgender man, before raping and killing him. They then killed two witnesses in an attempt to conceal the slaying. The events in 1993 inspired the film “Boys Don’t Cry,” but it was a documentary released one year earlier that helped spark a national debate over hate and violence directed at the LGBTQ community.

Now, the New York-based filmmakers behind the doc, “The Brandon Teena Story,” are in the early editing stages for a follow-up, “Aftermath,” likely slated for release in late 2027. It explores the tragedy’s repercussions, revisits figures in the life of Teena — assigned female at birth and later identifying as a man — and examines where trans attitudes and laws have landed in this polarizing era.

“Through these lives, we’re looking at what has changed, what has not changed, are LGBTQ+ transgendered lives better now or worse, is Nebraska better now or worse, and … where are we going,” said Greta Olafsdottir, one of the filmmakers. 

Olafsdottir and her partner, creatively and in life, Susan Muska, have plenty of ground to cover. 

In 2023, Nebraska lawmakers outlawed gender transition surgeries for anyone younger than 19. They also tasked the state with regulating other gender-related care, such as the use of puberty blockers, for that same age group. The bill received national attention, in part due to a three-week filibuster led by Sen. Machaela Cavanaugh and protests in response to the legislation. 

Two years later, lawmakers barred student-athletes from playing on sports teams that didn’t align with their sex at birth. A proposal to put that law into the state’s constitution — making it much harder to repeal the 2025 law — could go before Nebraska voters this fall.

Two other transgender bills, including one limiting public bathroom use to a person’s sex at birth, failed to pass earlier this year. Sen. Kathleen Kauth, the lawmaker who introduced all those bills, has described them as common sense. She told the Nebraska Examiner in February that “the tide is turning” on these issues.

Public opinion surveys indicate that nationally, a majority of Americans favor restricting sports participation to sex at birth, with polling by Gallup showing 69% of respondents favored those restrictions in 2025, up from 62% in 2021.

The filmmakers say they’re alarmed by the larger cultural shift and the recent legislation.

“Once you have something as a law,” Olafsdottir said, “that takes time to change, and meanwhile it basically diminishes LGBTQ+ people. This is exactly, of course, what leads to hate crime — when you have law enforcement looking the other way because they can.” 

Despite their personal views, they made sure to talk to both supporters and opponents of the 2023 Nebraska bill when they were shooting for the new film. It’s emblematic of how the two approach the process. 

The original documentary germinated out of Muska’s trip to Nebraska following Teena’s murder. A friend had been assigned to cover the killing for The Village Voice — reporting that would help catapult the initial story into the national spotlight. Muska served as her driver. She also pursued her own lines of inquiry during the trip.

“I did a very short TV piece about it and then I talked to Greta about it and she was really interested,” Muska recalled. “I think the first trip we took (together) to Nebraska, we went for the arraignments. Then we visited a couple people who were very involved.” 

The two came in without much of a plan — they didn’t know where those initial conversations would take them or what they would have access to. They also didn’t know how they, as outsiders poking into a loaded subject, would be received. They took a personable and low-pressure approach. 

“Nobody was ever hostile. In general, everyone was hospitable … We even had a great relationship with the cops,” Olafsdottir said.

Veteran Omaha videographer Mele Mason, who covered the Teena case for major news networks and is helping shoot the new doc, noted things could have gone differently if not for their approach. 

“I do believe that as New Yorkers coming to the Falls City area to cover a transgender-involved murder was pretty brave. But their genuine, friendly and patient demeanors as well as healthy senses of humor really win subjects over.”

Strategically, Muska and Olafsdottir opted to observe before diving head first into interviews. For law enforcement in particular, they waited to conduct interviews until after the trials wrapped in 1995, Muska said. The approach and respect for the court proceedings helped establish credibility. It also required time — a full two years passed before the trials concluded. 

In much the same way, the follow-up has required patience. Olafsdottir and Muska started working on the film a decade ago, but paused the project when the COVID-19 pandemic hit. They recently have been back researching and interviewing, and are now beginning the process of sifting through all their material. Inevitably, they will realize there’s something that they missed, Muska said. The process could delay their hoped-for release date. 

“Documentary films take time, and you have to allow for that. … I think they all need their space, their attention, and these unexpected beautiful things that pop up that you never thought of,” Olafsdottir said.

She recalled several examples from the first film. In an initial cut, both were dissatisfied with the first 20 minutes. They asked power-writing couple John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion for their feedback. Didion suggested they take the end and put it at the beginning.

“It was a bold move, but we trashed the first 20 minutes, redid it, and it worked,” Olafsdottir said.

One key difference this time around is Mason’s involvement. She gives the project the ability to respond immediately if an urgent development occurs. She also is an incredible cameraperson, Olafsdottir said. The three are working as a team, with everyone providing input on the film’s aesthetics, Muska added.

“We just love her,” Olafsdottir said. “And she’s local. That’s very important for us.”

Along with covering recent events, the filmmakers also revisited some sources from the original film, which they worked on for four years. They have maintained many of those relationships over the years, even occasionally returning for weddings and funerals.

Olafsdottir recalled that they had spent so much time in Falls City for the original documentary that on one of their last visits a person remarked, “Oh my God, are you back again? When are you going to be done?” 

“For the new film, we’re getting to that point. Everyone is like, ‘Enough now.’ But it’s not. It’s done when it’s done,” Olafsdottir said. 

Omaha activist Eli Rigatuso is among those who appreciate the long-term commitment and care that Muska and Olafsdottir have dedicated to Teena’s story. Rigatuso was living as a lesbian when first viewing the original documentary. Years later, Rigatuso came out as transgender and transitioned to a man. He eventually connected with the filmmakers and shared how much their film meant to him.

“They have continued to return to Nebraska, not just to document, but to listen,” Rigatuso said. “Their work honors Brandon Teena’s life and legacy in a way that continues to challenge people to confront the realities of transphobia, violence and erasure.” 

They get defensive when some stereotype the state.

Olafsdottir recalled after a screening of the original documentary in New York City, an audience member remarked during a post-screening forum that “it’s so typical” such a hateful crime would take place in Nebraska.

“And we were like,’Uh, uh, stop.’ It’s so easy to say it happens just here because then you don’t have to look at where you live,” Olafsdottir said. “The unfortunate truth is that this could happen anywhere — and it has.”