The Axe-Wielding Feminist Fallacy: A Closer Look at Monster’s Misguided Message

In recent years, true-crime storytelling has gained momentum, often masquerading as feminist commentary. Netflix’s Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story attempts to merge these genres, but a closer examination reveals a more insidious agenda.

The show’s handling of its subject matter is striking for its lack of subtlety. It explicitly states that Lizzie was driven to violence by patriarchal oppressors and societal expectations. This reductionist approach does a disservice to the complexities of Lizzie’s story, perpetuating the very same feminist fallacies it claims to challenge.

The show’s reliance on flashy visuals and lurid performances serves as a distraction from its underlying message, which prioritizes titillation over genuine exploration of the human experience. The characterizations of Abby and Andrew Borden are particularly egregious, with Rebecca Hall and Charlie Hunnam chewing scenery in an attempt to elicit sympathy for Lizzie.

Their cartoonish villainy may be effective in getting viewers to sympathize with Lizzie, but it’s also a lazy cop-out that undermines any attempt at nuance. Furthermore, the show’s attempts to tie Lizzie’s story to those of other female killers – Elizabetta Báthory and Aileen Wuornos – are nothing short of lazy.

By glossing over their individual circumstances and motivations in favor of a broad concept of “What It Means to Be a Woman in Society,” Monster reduces these women’s lives to mere caricatures. This approach trivializes their experiences, reinforcing the very stereotypes it claims to challenge.

The show’s creators seem more interested in padding out their runtime with stalling tactics and emotional manipulation than in genuinely exploring the complexities of Lizzie’s story. The repetition of exposition, awkward dream sequences, and forced tangents all serve as a desperate attempt to keep viewers engaged – but ultimately come across as shallow and unconvincing.

In its haste to be provocative and timely, Monster sacrifices any semblance of nuance or depth, leaving viewers with a shallow, superficial experience. As we continue to grapple with issues of feminism, true crime, and the portrayal of women on screen, it’s crucial that we hold ourselves accountable for perpetuating problematic narratives.

A Legacy of Misogyny

The historical context in which true-crime stories have been told is worth considering. From 19th-century penny dreadfuls to modern-day fascination with serial killers, our collective fascination with violence and death often masquerades as a form of schadenfreude – a morbid curiosity that gets a thrill from watching others suffer.

This dynamic is at play in Monster’s handling of its female characters, reducing their lives to simplistic, binary oppositions between good and evil. In doing so, it perpetuates a legacy of misogyny that has been baked into our cultural consciousness for centuries – one that sees women as mere objects of fascination or repulsion rather than complex human beings worthy of empathy.

The Problem with Braid Theory

The show’s attempt to braid Lizzie’s story with those of other female killers raises questions about the value of a “braid theory” approach in storytelling. By glossing over individual differences and reducing complex experiences to a common thread, Monster sacrifices any semblance of nuance or depth.

This approach is particularly problematic when it comes to women who have been murdered by their partners or family members – as is the case with Aileen Wuornos. By reducing her story to a simplistic narrative of “female empowerment,” Monster ignores the very real context of abuse and trauma that drove her actions.

The Future of True Crime

As we move forward in our collective fascination with true crime, it’s essential that we hold ourselves accountable for perpetuating problematic narratives. Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story may be a symptom of this larger issue – but it also serves as a warning sign, highlighting the dangers of lazy storytelling and emotional manipulation.

In its place, we need to prioritize nuance, depth, and complexity in our true-crime storytelling. We need to explore the human experiences that underlie these crimes, rather than reducing them to simplistic narratives or binary oppositions. By doing so, we can create a more honest, more empathetic conversation about violence, trauma, and the complexities of human experience.

As we close out this review, it’s worth considering the lasting impact of Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story on our cultural consciousness. Will its message of simplistic feminism and shallow sensationalism continue to resonate with audiences – or will it be remembered as a cautionary tale about the dangers of lazy storytelling?