Lizzie Borden’s name has been etched into pop culture for over a century, but what if the real story isn’t the one we’ve been told? The new season of Monster, Ryan Murphy’s anthology series, is finally peeling back the layers of this infamous case. And honestly, I’m thrilled to see how this might challenge the myths that have clung to Lizzie like a bloodstain. After all, true crime has always had a sordid fascination with women—especially those who defy the roles society assigns them. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the show might finally ask: Was Lizzie a murderer, or was she the victim of a system that never trusted her to begin with?
Let’s cut through the noise. The nursery rhyme about Lizzie Borden is a grotesque parody of a real tragedy. It reduces a complex woman to a punchline, which is exactly what the media has done for decades. The reality is far more nuanced: Andrew Borden was hit 11 times, Abby 18 or 19. But the public’s imagination has always preferred the macabre simplicity of 40 whacks. In my opinion, this obsession with numbers and violence reflects a deeper cultural need to categorize women’s actions as either monstrous or saintly—never anything in between. What many people don’t realize is that Lizzie’s trial was a spectacle, not a justice system. The newspapers of the time treated her like a sideshow, and the jury’s acquittal was as much about gender bias as it was about evidence.
The show’s decision to focus on Lizzie, the only non-convicted figure in the series, feels like a radical shift. Murphy’s anthology has mostly trafficked in male monsters—Dahmer, Gein, the Menendez brothers—so this season’s emphasis on a woman is both refreshing and jarring. A detail that I find especially interesting is the rumored relationship between Lizzie and her maid, Bridgette Sullivan. The 2018 film Lizzie leaned into this as a motive, but the show’s approach might be more subtle. Why does the idea of a woman being complicit in another woman’s crime feel so taboo? It’s a question that goes beyond the Borden case. What this really suggests is that our collective psyche still struggles to reconcile female agency with the idea of female violence. We’re more comfortable with men as predators, but women as monsters? That’s a narrative we’ve been conditioned to resist.
The casting choices alone are worth unpacking. Charlie Hunnam as Andrew Borden? That feels like a deliberate choice to humanize a man who was, by all accounts, a tyrant. Rebecca Hall as Abby? She’ll likely bring a vulnerability that the historical record doesn’t always grant to stepmothers. And Billie Lourd as Emma, Lizzie’s sister? It’s a reminder that the Borden family wasn’t just a pair of victims; they were a fractured unit where secrets festered. From my perspective, the show’s exploration of family dynamics might be its most compelling angle. After all, the murders weren’t just about inheritance—they were about power, control, and the suffocating weight of expectation. If you take a step back and think about it, the Borden case is a microcosm of how women in the 19th century were trapped in roles that left no room for autonomy. Lizzie’s trial wasn’t just about her guilt; it was about whether a woman could ever be trusted to act without male oversight.
What I find most intriguing is how this season might position Lizzie as a symbol of repressed rage. The actress, Ella Beatty, spoke about the relevance of female rage today, and I can’t help but think about how that connects to modern movements like #MeToo. The idea that a woman’s anger is seen as dangerous or unfeminine is nothing new, but it’s still deeply ingrained in our culture. This show could be a mirror held up to that hypocrisy. It raises a deeper question: Are we finally ready to see women as complex, flawed, and capable of violence without reducing them to villains? Or are we still waiting for the next catchy nursery rhyme to simplify their stories?
As for the future of true crime storytelling, Monster’s approach to Lizzie Borden feels like a turning point. It’s not just about the crimes themselves, but the systems that allowed them to happen—and the narratives we’ve built around them. Personally, I think this season could be a catalyst for more nuanced discussions about gender, justice, and the myths we tell about women. The real monster, I argue, isn’t Lizzie Borden. It’s the world that made her story a spectacle instead of a reckoning.
