yan Murphy was meant to be Netflix’s big get, the hit-making super-producer who was able to transform every new show into an international event. It’s fair to say that hasn’t completely panned out – none of his Netflix shows have landed with quite the impact of his series elsewhere – and now we seem to have reached a new nadir.
Long, long stretches of the series pass without any insight or analysis, instead just letting things play out beat by grisly beat as if Wikipedia had decided to fund dramatisations of all its worst entries. The show seems to be aware of this too, chopping itself into a fractured chronology as a way to distract you from its bluntly grisly procession of murders.
Worst of all, by some degree, is the show’s choice of focus. What Ryan Murphy’s murder shows – especially The Assassination of Gianni Versace – do so well is reclaim the lives of the victims. By being murdered, these people are robbed of a legacy. It doesn’t matter who they are, or what they did. They will always simply be a photo and a name in a lineup of victims, an entire existence defined solely by how it ended.
In fairness, the series does improve towards the end. In the latter half, the monofocus shifts and Jeffrey Dahmer retreats into the background. One episode is devoted to the life of Anthony Hughes, a deaf man who wound up dead by Dahmer’s hands. We also see the effect that the murders had on Dahmer’s parents, which allows Richard Jenkins to give a barnstormer of a performance. Jesse Jackson appears, putting the story into a more political perspective .
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