The name Lizzie Borden has endured for more than a century, largely because of the chilling 1892 axe murders of her father Andrew and stepmother Abby in Fall River, Massachusetts. Though she was tried and acquitted in 1893, the case never reached a definitive verdict, allowing folklore, nursery-rhyme verses and countless theories to flourish. In September 2026, Netflix released Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story the first female-led instalment of its true-crime anthology, reviving public fascination while also rewriting large portions of the historical record.
Historical archives show that Lizzie, born in 1860, lived with her father, stepmother, and sister Emma in a respectable Victorian home. She was thirty-two at the time of the murders, unmarried, and intimately involved in church and charitable work. The official trial transcript records that the prosecution relied on circumstantial evidence—contradictory statements, a suspicious purchase of prussic acid, and the burning of a dress—yet no eyewitness testimony placed her at the scene, no weapon was conclusively linked to her, and the jury ultimately returned a not-guilty verdict after less than an hour of deliberation.
Creative liberties: romance, murder and a surprise dance floor
Netflix’s adaptation departs sharply from documented facts. The series introduces a passionate affair between Lizzie and the household maid, Bridget “Maggie” Sullivan, a relationship for which no contemporary records exist. This plotline draws on a speculative 1984 novel that imagined a secret romance, but the trial documents and Sullivan’s own testimony contain no hints of intimacy. By turning the maid into a lover, the show seeks to explore themes of female repression and queer desire in a period that criminalised such identities.
Perhaps the most polarising invention appears in episode six, where a surreal dance sequence pairs the 1890s couple (Lizzie and Bridget) with a 1990s duo (Aileen Wuornos and her partner Shelby) to the 1984 synth-pop anthem “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat. The anachronistic soundtrack and intercut editing create a visual metaphor linking two centuries of women driven to violence by societal constraints. Showrunners Ian Brennan and Ella Beatty explained that the scene intends to illustrate a continuum of “female rage” rather than glorify the killers.
Audience backlash and the debate over artistic responsibility
Within days of the episode’s release, social-media users launched a wave of criticism, accusing the series of trivialising murderers and normalising violent behaviour. Comments ranged from calls to blacklist the creators to pleas for Netflix to stop “humanising serial killers.” Critics also objected to the use of a real-life hate-song in a period-drama, arguing that it undermines the gravity of the historical events. Supporters, however, praised the bold aesthetic choice, noting that the modern song prevents the segment from feeling “stuffy” and reminds viewers that these were real people, not abstract villains.
The creators defended their approach in an interview with Netflix’s Tudum platform, stating that the anachronistic music was a deliberate tool to bridge past and present, while the mixed-era dance visually reinforces the show’s central thesis: “female anger is not isolated to one era, it reverberates through history.” They also admitted that the romantic subplot was a “small leap” taken to enrich the narrative, acknowledging that it is not grounded in primary sources.
Whether viewers perceive the series as a respectful reinterpretation or a sensationalist spectacle, its impact is undeniable. By blending documented facts with imaginative storytelling, Netflix has reignited discussions about the ethical boundaries of true-crime entertainment, especially when it involves figures whose lives remain shrouded in mystery.
