Ian Brennan's latest instalment in the Monster franchise returns to 19th-century Massachusetts to revisit one of America's most enduring murder mysteries, but the result, according to the source review, is less a serious re-examination of the Lizzie Borden case than a "hack job" that collapses into stereotype and spectacle.
The series opens with direct quotes from the district and defense attorneys involved in Borden's trial, both of whom reportedly suggested that such a horrific crime was impossible for a woman to carry out. Rather than using that historical prejudice as a springboard for a nuanced exploration of gender, violence and public hysteria, the review argues that the show becomes trapped in its own indignation. Brennan and executive producer Ryan Murphy, the piece says, seem determined to prove the old assumptions wrong, but in doing so they end up creating a caricature of female criminality instead of a layered portrait of a woman caught in a notorious legal and cultural storm.
The real-life case remains one of the most infamous in American history. In the late 19th century, Andrew Borden and his wife Abby were found brutally hacked to death in their Fall River, Massachusetts home. Andrew's younger daughter, Lizzie, was charged with the murders and later acquitted. The case has long fascinated journalists, historians and true-crime audiences alike, in part because it sits at the intersection of class, gender, family violence and media sensationalism. The review notes that Brennan and Murphy appear drawn to that same sensational pull, but that their interest in the lurid details ultimately prevents the series from becoming something more meaningful.
Once the basic facts of the murders are established, the eight-episode show, as described in the review, shifts into a broader attempt to humanize the Borden household. Yet that effort is said to falter almost immediately. The writing, the review argues, mistakes "human" for "horrid," using the blunt-force horror of the axe murders as a blunt instrument of its own. The series reportedly focuses on the abusive and rocky relationship between Lizzie and her parents, while also introducing Bridget, the newly hired housemaid played by Vicky Krieps, as a source of companionship and emotional escape. But these dynamics are said to be underdeveloped, with the show moving so quickly between shocks and thematic declarations that the actors are left with little room to build credible emotional arcs.
Rebecca Hall's performance as the condescending stepmother Abby is described as one of the few elements that gives shape to a half-hearted script, while Ella Beatty's Lizzie is said to chart a convincing progression from sheltered victim to axe-wielding liberator. Even so, the review contends that the writing's larger ambitions overwhelm the cast. Brennan's attention, it says, is directed far beyond the Borden family, leaving the central characters stranded in a narrative that keeps chopping away before any scene can fully breathe.
That problem is compounded, the review says, by the Monster franchise's established appetite for graphic true-crime imagery. Like earlier instalments focused on Jeffrey Dahmer, the Menendez brothers and Ed Gein, this series is said to linger on blood, gore and violence at the expense of historical and socio-cultural context. When context does arrive, it often comes in the form of expositional monologues rather than organic storytelling, making the series feel less like a drama and more like a lecture interrupted by shock tactics.
The show's most distracting move, according to the review, is its decision to jump across time and geography to introduce other infamous women associated with violent crime. These include Aileen Wuornos, the 1990s serial killer portrayed by Sarah Paulson, and Elizabeth Báthory, the 16th-century Hungarian countess accused of murder. The series reportedly frames Wuornos as a kind of Lizzie Borden superfan and uses Báthory as another point of fascination for Lizzie herself. But instead of enriching the narrative, the review says these detours only deepen the sense that Brennan and Murphy are assembling a collage of "female serial killer" mythology rather than telling a coherent story about one woman, one family and one historical moment.
The larger criticism is not simply that the series is violent, but that it appears to mistake provocation for insight. In trying to push back against the old claim that women are incapable of such brutality, the show is said to have embraced a new and equally reductive idea: that female violence can only be understood through sensationalism, fetishized bloodshed and a parade of notorious names. For a franchise that has built its brand on reimagining true crime for a streaming-era audience, the review suggests this latest chapter may be its most self-defeating yet.