Lizzie Borden Netflix series flops: Ryan Murphy’s serial-killer saga is faux-feminist nonsense

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• Who’s in the cast and what they deliver
• How the series retells the famous ax murders
• Pacing issues and filler that stretches eight hours
• Linking Lizzie to other notorious women killers
• Visual flourishes and moments that aim for shock
• Attempts at feminist commentary—and where they stumble
• Narrative strengths and recurring weaknesses
• Why viewers might still watch

Netflix’s new take on Lizzie Borden lands with spectacle and swagger, but it rarely convinces. Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story arrives as a glossy, opinionated retelling of the infamous 1892 murders. Ella Beatty leads a cast assembled by co-creator Ryan Murphy and showrunner Ian Brennan. The show wants to be provocative and meaningful. Too often it feels like style trying to force substance.

Who’s in the cast and what they deliver

The series leans on a high-profile ensemble to carry its bold premise. Some performances electrify. Others tilt into caricature.

• Ella Beatty plays Lizzie with a mix of fragile confusion and determined cool. Her arc centers on wanting control over a life shaped by money and reputation.
• Rebecca Hall and Charlie Hunnam portray Lizzie’s parents as grotesque figures who push their daughter toward rebellion. Their scenes are heavy-handed by design.
• Vicky Krieps arrives as Maggie, a charismatic housemaid whose influence flips Lizzie’s world. Krieps brings magnetism, though the role sometimes serves the plot more than it serves her character.
• Sarah Paulson appears as Aileen Wuornos in later chapters, in a performance that reads broad and theatrical compared with the rest of the cast.

The acting choices are deliberate. At times the show asks actors to push for shock value rather than subtlety. That helps to align viewers with Lizzie’s point of view. It also flattens complexity.

How the series retells the famous ax murders

From the first episode, the show stops pretending innocence. It presents Lizzie as the one who pulled the ax. The mystery is not “did she?” but “why?”

Writers and directors build a cause-and-effect chain. Abuse, humiliation and social isolation are offered as catalysts. The series makes clear which characters it blames for Lizzie’s fate and amplifies those pressures visually and thematically.

One recurring device is the juxtaposition of small domestic cruelties and big, symbolic moments. Filmmaking choices—lighting, camera framing and repeated motifs—work to make the family home feel like a gilded trap.

Pacing issues and filler that stretches eight hours

The show establishes key plot points early. That leaves a challenge: how to sustain interest for multiple episodes when the outcome is fixed.

Producers answer in two main ways, both imperfect.

• They slow scenes to emphasize mood. Repeated lines and lingering montages underline themes. This creates atmosphere but also redundancy.
• They expand the story outward. Flashbacks, dream sequences and tangents appear. These detours sometimes illuminate, but often they stall momentum.

Scenes meant to evoke intimacy instead feel like pauses. The show borrows from period romance films, then underplays physical tension. That mismatch undercuts both the romance and the narrative urgency.

Linking Lizzie to other notorious women killers

The series chooses to braid Lizzie’s tale with stories of two other infamous women: Elizabetta Báthory and Aileen Wuornos. The idea is to create a historical throughline.

On screen:

• Vicky Krieps also appears as Elizabetta Báthory in stylized flashbacks. Those sequences are visually arresting but add little to the central mystery.
• Sarah Paulson’s Aileen Wuornos is given a prominent, highly theatrical presence. The show treats Wuornos as a later devotee who finds inspiration in Lizzie’s legend.

The connective tissue feels thin. These women have different lives, motives and cultural contexts. The series leans on thematic shorthand rather than substantive linkage.

Visual flourishes and moments that aim for shock

Director Max Winkler and his cinematographers lean into striking imagery. Costume and hair choices are often deliberately anachronistic. Little stylistic rebellions signal internal change.

Occasionally the series trades nuance for spectacle. A dinner scene becomes grotesque to highlight cruelty. Other moments are staged to provoke a visceral response rather than deepen character.

Attempts at feminist commentary—and where they stumble

The show makes a clear attempt to frame Lizzie as part of a larger narrative about women’s agency. It suggests her act of violence can be read through a lens of rebellion.

Yet the argument is inconsistent.

• At times the series gestures at suffrage-era politics without building meaningful ties.
• It elevates Lizzie as an icon, then offers little empathy to complex figures like Abby, the abused wife and mother.
• The rebellious figure Maggie is presented as both liberator and enigma, but her motivations remain muddled.

The result is rhetorical. Themes are declared more often than they are earned.

Narrative strengths and recurring weaknesses

What the show does well:

• It creates a vivid, claustrophobic sense of place.
• Strong moments of performance pull the viewer into Lizzie’s emotional orbit.
• Production design and costume give the series a memorable look.

What the show struggles with:

• Uneven pacing that dilutes drama.
• Broad villain portrayals that remove moral ambiguity.
• Intersecting subplots that rarely cohere into a larger argument.

Why viewers might still watch

Despite its flaws, the series has hooks that will pull in certain audiences.

• Fans of true-crime and period drama will appreciate the reimagining.
• Viewers who like stylized, opinionated TV will find it satisfying.
• Those curious about alternate interpretations of historical crimes will enjoy the provocation.

For others, the show may feel like a long exercise in provocation. It raises big questions about gender and violence but rarely gives them room to breathe.