The Enduring Fascination With Lizzie Borden—And Why We Can’t Look Away
There’s something about Lizzie Borden that refuses to die. More than a century after she stood trial for the brutal murders of her father and stepmother, her name still triggers a shiver. Was she a cold-blooded killer? A victim of patriarchal oppression? Or something far more complicated? The upcoming Netflix series Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story promises to rehash this gory chapter of history, but what fascinates me isn’t the crime itself—it’s why we keep returning to these stories, and what they reveal about our collective psyche.
Why Lizzie Borden Still Haunts Us
Let’s get one thing straight: Lizzie Borden probably didn’t do it. The evidence was circumstantial, the trial a circus, and her acquittal a reflection of both legal loopholes and societal blind spots. Yet the nursery rhyme—“Lizzie Borden took an ax…”—endures as cultural shorthand for female violence. Why? Because we’re obsessed with the idea of the “unruly woman,” the female who defies her prescribed role and becomes monstrous. Borden’s alleged crime wasn’t just violent; it was unseemly. A 32-year-old unmarried woman, trapped in a stifling household, snapping under the weight of repression? That narrative sells tickets. It also makes us uncomfortable in ways we rarely admit.
Female Rage Isn’t New—But We’re Finally Listening
The show’s marketing leans heavily into the theme of “female rage and repression,” a choice that feels both timely and calculated. In my opinion, this isn’t just a creative direction; it’s a mirror held up to modern audiences. We live in an era where women’s anger is increasingly vocalized—#MeToo, reproductive rights protests, the backlash against systemic sexism. Borden’s story, reframed through this lens, becomes a metaphor. What happens when a woman’s frustration festers for decades, with no outlet, no agency, and no escape? The answer might not be murder, but it could be something quieter, subtler, and just as destructive. The show’s exploration of her rumored relationship with the maid, Bridgette Sullivan, adds another layer. Love, desire, and queerness in the 19th century weren’t just taboo—they were erased. If the series dares to connect those dots, it could reframe Borden not as a villain, but as a woman suffocating under impossible constraints.
Ryan Murphy’s Obsession With True Crime: A Double-Edged Sword
Ryan Murphy’s anthology series has made a habit of mining real-life horror for entertainment value. But here’s what many overlook: his previous seasons focused on male killers. Dahmer. The Menendez brothers. Ed Gein. These were men whose crimes were grotesque, yes, but also predictable in their alignment with toxic masculinity tropes. Borden disrupts that pattern. Her inclusion forces viewers to confront gendered assumptions about violence. Is her story more palatable because she was acquitted? Or does her ambiguity make her more dangerous in the public imagination? From my perspective, Murphy’s formula—stylized drama, campy excess, and a dash of moral ambiguity—could either elevate Borden’s tale or reduce it to another exploitative spectacle. The teaser’s focus on blood-soaked imagery and ominous nursery rhymes suggests he’s hedging his bets.
The Mythmaking of True Crime
One thing that immediately stands out about the Borden case is how it straddles the line between fact and folklore. The ax? The pigeons? The locked room? These details feel less like evidence and more like symbols. Andrew Borden wasn’t just a father; he was a wealthy patriarch. Abby wasn’t just a stepmother; she was a figure of resentment. And Lizzie? She became a cautionary tale about what happens when women step out of line. What this really suggests is that we don’t just report on true crime—we mythologize it. The show’s claim to “examine an American crime that feels almost mythic” isn’t just marketing fluff. It’s a confession: We’re not interested in the truth. We’re interested in the story that sells.
A Deeper Question: Who Gets To Be Remembered?
Let’s zoom out. Why do certain crimes become cultural touchstones while others fade? The answer, I think, lies in power. Borden survived her trial but lost her reputation. She lived out her days ostracized, her name weaponized against her. Meanwhile, men like Dahmer are dissected in podcasts and documentaries, their humanity debated even as their victims are reduced to footnotes. This raises a deeper question: Who gets to be complex in death—and who’s forever branded a monster? By focusing on Borden, the series might inadvertently perpetuate her vilification. Or it could challenge viewers to see her as a product of her time, a woman crushed by the weight of expectations that still linger today.
Final Thoughts: The Problem With True Crime’s New Coat of Paint
I’ll admit it: I’m torn. On one hand, any project that centers female anger deserves credit in an industry still dominated by male antiheroes. On the other, I can’t shake the feeling that Monster is less interested in nuance than in spectacle. The teaser’s blood-soaked visuals and ominous rhymes lean into the very tropes that have turned true crime into a bloodsport. If the series doesn’t grapple with the uncomfortable realities of class, gender, and media sensationalism, it’ll be just another entry in the ever-growing canon of exploitation. But if it succeeds? It might just force us to confront the darkest corner of our curiosity: Why do we need monsters like Lizzie Borden to begin with?
