Monster’s First Female ‘Monster’ Rewrites the Rules
Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story is the fourth season of Netflix’s true crime dark comedy anthology series, reframing the infamous 1892 axe murders as a feminist, Victorian-era character study led by Ella Beatty as Lizzie Borden and centered on themes of female rage, repression, and social prejudice. This is not a neutral retelling of a cold case; it is the franchise’s first attempt to put a woman at the center of its horror machine and ask why she became a cultural myth in the first place. After seasons about Jeffrey Dahmer, the Menendez brothers, and Ed Gein, shifting to a female alleged killer who was acquitted forces the show to interrogate the justice system as much as the crime itself. Netflix is betting that audiences are ready for a Monster that is less about gore and more about how patriarchy shapes every bloody headline.
Ella Beatty and Vicky Krieps Turn Lizzie Into Punk Cinderella
The creative pivot of Monster Lizzie Borden Netflix lies in how the Ella Beatty cast approaches the material: this is “Ryan Murphy does Cinderella,” with Lizzie as a trapped heroine and Vicky Krieps’s Bridget Sullivan as her punk Fairy Godmother and accomplice. Beatty describes playing Lizzie as a chance to investigate a complicated psychology and explore female rage and repression that “feels almost mythic in proportion,” a pointed contrast to the franchise’s earlier male-focused monsters. Krieps, meanwhile, refused to let Bridget become a decorative sidekick. She challenged male-written scenes, from the book on Bridget’s nightstand to the way desire is staged, pausing production when necessary to insist on a female perspective. That friction is the point: the season’s feminist edge is not cosmetic, it was fought for on set, and it should be felt in every darkly comic beat between Lizzie and Bridget.
Rebecca Hall, Sarah Paulson, and the Joy of Playing Wicked Women
The supporting cast turns Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story into a playground for actresses who excel at wickedness. Rebecca Hall calls her Abby Borden a mix of Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest and Vivian Pickles in Harold and Maude, signaling a performance that leans into grotesque stepmother theatrics rather than dull villainy. That choice fits the season’s tone: the murders may be brutal, but the show treats Victorian respectability as a joke begging to be ripped apart. On top of that, Sarah Paulson appears as serial killer Aileen Wuornos, connecting Lizzie to a lineage of female violence and media obsession. Paulson’s presence underlines one of the season’s most provocative ideas: female killers are rarely allowed to be understood, only sensationalized. By weaving Wuornos into a Victorian tale, the anthology suggests American true crime repeats the same patterns, era after era, and audiences are complicit in that cycle.
A True Crime Dark Comedy in Corsets and Blood
What makes this Netflix anthology series feel newly dangerous is its decision to treat Lizzie’s world as both deadly and absurd. The show uses modern needle drops from artists like Kate Bush and Wet Leg, murders staged like gothic set pieces, and dialogue that tilts toward dark humor to turn a Victorian-era historical case into a stylized true crime dark comedy. Co-creator Ian Brennan stresses that the story must grapple with a society that thought women were too weak to even pick up an axe, a prejudice that helped Lizzie’s acquittal and still echoes in how we talk about female violence today. Krieps was so aware of male blind spots that she called men “idiots” when it came to understanding women’s bodies, then used that blunt honesty to keep scenes from sliding into cliché. The result should feel like a fairy tale that knows exactly how rigged the kingdom is.
Why September 17 Matters for Monster’s Future
All eight episodes of Monster Season 4 will drop globally on Netflix on Tuesday, September 17, 2026, a date that marks more than another binge release; it signals what direction this franchise wants to take as it grows. By secretly renewing the show to cover Lizzie Borden and committing to a female-led, darkly comic reinterpretation of a Victorian murder mystery, Netflix is testing whether audiences will follow Monster away from the familiar outline of male serial killers toward messier questions about gender, money, and myth-making. For viewers, the practical impact is simple: one night, eight episodes, and a new template for how streaming can tackle historical crime without embalming it in dusty prestige. If this season lands, expect future installments to chase more "monsters" who are symptoms of their societies, not isolated freaks. If it fails, Monster may retreat to safer, more predictable villains.
