Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story arrives with a glossy sheen and a taste for provocation, yet it rarely rises above lurid spectacle. The new installment in Ryan Murphy’s Monster anthology leans into blood-soaked excess and adolescent shock tactics more than historical inquiry or character study.
Developed by Murphy with writer Ian Brennan and primarily directed by Max Winkler, with Sarah Adina Smith helming two episodes, the series casts Rebecca Hall, Charlie Hunnam and Ella Beatty in a feverish retelling of the Fall River murders. The tone, energetic and painstakingly stylized, often feels fascinated by transgression for its own sake rather than what it might reveal.
Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story reimagines a notorious case
The drama opens in late 19th-century Massachusetts as the infamous axe killings unfold inside the Borden home. Lizzie, played in youth by Ella Beatty, attacks her stepmother Abby, portrayed by Rebecca Hall, and later her father Andrew, played by Charlie Hunnam. The narrative then rewinds four months to trace the escalating tensions that purportedly led to the crime.
In reality, the question of motive remains unresolved, with theories ranging from inheritance disputes to family resentments, rumored abuse or disapproved romances. Here, the series streamlines the ambiguity into heightened melodrama, often returning to a single sensational theme that reduces complexity rather than exploring it.
A fixation on bodily shock eclipses nuance
Much of the opening chapter dwells on Lizzie’s menstrual pain, treating it as an engine for humiliation, conflict and prurient detail. Scenes linger on medical contraptions, whispered remedies and graphic anecdotes, pushing the show toward a fetishistic curiosity that overwhelms character and context.
The series introduces Bridget, played by Vicky Krieps, as a new maid whose duties sprawl from household care to intimate counsel. Narrative threads veer into sex, money and manipulation, while Andrew’s work as a coffin-maker adds macabre imagery to the home’s arsenal of axes. The season indulges in recurring motifs of birds, cherry trees and a dovecote, using them for symbol-laden tableaux that culminate in repeated acts of on-screen violence.
Style, star power and a missing center
The production design is meticulous, at times evoking a storybook symmetry reminiscent of Wes Anderson, and the performances are formidable. Hall, in particular, shoulders an ungainly role with conviction. Cameos and sidebars, including a striking turn by Sarah Paulson, add further pop.
Yet for all the craft, the show offers little insight into Lizzie Borden herself, the era’s social constraints or the prejudices that shaped public opinion and her ultimate acquittal. What remains is a series with verve and velocity but few ideas. The notorious case presents a chance to interrogate gender, power and mythmaking.
Instead, the season mostly courts outrage and sensation, leaving its most compelling questions unanswered. Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story is now streaming on Netflix.