Ryan Murphy is undeniably talented. That’s what makes Love Story, JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette so frustrating. This isn’t a trainwreck. It isn’t even bad television. In fact, there are moments throughout the series that remind you exactly why Murphy became one of the most influential television producers of the last twenty years. The problem is that the qualities that once made his work feel daring and emotionally insightful now increasingly feel secondary to a desire to shape reality into whatever version of the story he finds most entertaining.
Love Story doesn’t suffer from incompetent writing. It suffers from selective writing.
The series is constantly choosing the most dramatically convenient interpretation of events rather than the most believable one. That’s a dangerous game when you’re telling a story about two people who can no longer speak for themselves. Because so much of John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette’s relationship existed behind closed doors, there is already an unavoidable layer of speculation involved in any dramatization. We accept that. That’s part of the deal. But Love Story often takes that uncertainty and uses it as an invitation to push even further into invention.
One example comes during a scene in which JFK Jr. is confronted about being stretched too thin. He’s exhausted, overcommitted, and struggling to balance the demands of his magazine, his public image, and his personal life. The very next scene has him exploring additional political opportunities. The issue isn’t whether those conversations happened. It’s the way they’re arranged. The editing creates a version of reality that serves a dramatic point but undermines basic human logic. It feels less interested in how events unfolded and more interested in creating a tidy narrative rhythm.
That approach extends throughout the series. Whether it’s the depiction of Carolyn’s alleged drug use or the portrayal of Daryl Hannah, there are moments that feel designed to provoke rather than illuminate. Daryl Hannah herself has publicly criticized how she was depicted, while friends of Carolyn Bessette have disputed aspects of the show’s portrayal of her personal life. The result is a lingering question that hangs over nearly every episode: are we learning something about these people, or are we simply watching Ryan Murphy’s version of them?
The performances do little to settle that debate. Sarah Pidgeon gives what will likely be viewed as the standout performance, largely because Carolyn remains the most elusive figure in the story. Yet the writing never quite decides who Carolyn is beyond a collection of contradictions. At times she feels deeply sympathetic. At others, she feels frustratingly unknowable. That may be historically accurate to a degree, but it also creates the impression that the series has more affection for John than it does for Carolyn.
It’s easy to understand why. John F. Kennedy Jr. arrives with decades of cultural mythology already attached to him. He was America’s prince. Carolyn, meanwhile, is tasked with becoming America’s princess within the confines of a script that never seems entirely sure what it thinks of her. The imbalance is subtle, but it’s there.
The same can be said of Naomi Watts as Jackie Kennedy. It’s a perfectly respectable performance. Professional. Controlled. Competent. But we’ve seen so many gifted actresses tackle Jackie Kennedy over the years that simply delivering a solid interpretation isn’t enough to make it memorable. Awards buzz feels particularly premature. Watts is good because Naomi Watts is almost always good. That doesn’t automatically make the performance exceptional.
What ultimately surprised me most about Love Story is how forgiving critics have been toward it. Perhaps it’s the attractive cast. Perhaps it’s the glossy production values. Perhaps it’s simply the enduring fascination surrounding the Kennedy family. Whatever the reason, many reviews seem willing to overlook flaws that would be criticized far more aggressively in lesser projects.For example, Murphy’s exploitation of Ed Gein in the third season of Monster drew criticisms from those familiar with the killer, and sequences featuring Hollywood moments inspired by, and specific directors, also caught quite a bit of flak.
The problem that I see with Love Story is that it never earns the trust of the viewer. The series understands that it is presenting a kind of modern fairy tale. The romance between John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette has long existed in the American imagination as something larger than life, almost mythological. But where the show stumbles is in how heavily it leans into the fantasy while showing little interest in grounding itself in reality. If viewers arrive looking for historical perspective or a more nuanced examination of two people whose lives have been endlessly analyzed, they may find themselves disappointed. Love Story seems far less interested in understanding its subjects than it is in creating an attractive version of them.
And that, ultimately, brings us back to Ryan Murphy.
More and more, Murphy’s recent work feels like it exists primarily in service of Ryan Murphy rather than the stories themselves. There was a time when his best projects felt driven by a desire to understand the people at their center. Whether it was The People v. O.J. Simpson, The Assassination of Gianni Versace, or even Impeachment, there was a sense that the entertainment value emerged naturally from the material. The stories came first. The drama followed. With Love Story, that relationship feels reversed.
The story often feels engineered around the effect Murphy wants rather than the reality that may have existed. The entertainment becomes the objective rather than the byproduct. Part of that may be because Murphy has simply spread himself too thin. As I’m writing this review, he’s simultaneously attached to what feels like half of television. Love Story arrives on the heels of Monster and All’s Fair while Murphy continues overseeing the aging 9-1-1 franchise, launching 9-1-1 Nashville, developing new projects, directing, writing, producing, and seemingly appearing everywhere at once. At a certain point, even the most talented creatives run into a simple mathematical problem: there are only so many hours in a day. Murphy also produced The Beauty, which is either a celebration of a graphic novel, or a twist on The Substance, and just premiered a new show The Shards.
The comparison that kept coming to mind while watching Love Story was Tyler Perry. Not because their styles are remotely similar, but because both have reached a point where volume appears to be winning the battle against quality. When creators become brands, there is always a temptation to keep the machine moving. The checks keep clearing, the projects keep launching, and eventually the work starts feeling more like product than passion.
Ryan Murphy is far too talented to be producing work that feels this watered down. Ironically, that may be why Love Story frustrated me more than some of his recent disasters. It’s certainly better than All’s Fair, a show whose writing often felt so artificial that Naomi Watts was probably relieved to be reading dialogue that resembled actual human conversation here. It’s also more coherent than the latest season of Monster. In fact, if we’re being honest, Love Story may very well be the strongest thing Murphy has released within the last year.
But that’s a reflection of how low the bar has fallen, not how high Love Story rises. This is nowhere near the level of American Crime Story, Pose, American Horror Story, Nip/Tuck, Glee, Scream Queens, or Murphy’s direction of The Normal Heart.
To the show’s credit, there are things that work. Murphy successfully recreates the atmosphere of 1990s New York. The city feels alive. The restaurants, fashion, social circles, and cultural obsession surrounding the Kennedys all feel authentic to the era. New York becomes a character unto itself, much as Martha’s Vineyard does during the Kennedy family retreats. The locations have texture. The production design has confidence. The series understands the look of the world.
And while some critics have singled this out as a remarkable achievement, I have a hard time being overly impressed by a filmmaker successfully recreating a decade in which he actually lived. That’s not to diminish the craftsmanship involved, but it would be considerably more impressive if this were someone attempting to recreate an era they never experienced firsthand. Murphy gets the vibes right. The clothes, the locations, the social atmosphere, the energy of the city all feel authentic. But atmosphere alone isn’t enough.
I appreciated the audio description track more than I expected to. It does an excellent job keeping track of the show’s revolving cast of recognizable faces, socialites, politicians, and family members.
Yet even with all of that working in its favor, I remained emotionally detached for most of the series. Not because I dislike these people. Not because the performances are weak. But because I never felt like I was watching something that genuinely wanted to understand them.
I kept thinking about the Ryan Murphy who made The People v. O.J. Simpson. The Ryan Murphy who helped Darren Criss deliver an Emmy-winning performance in The Assassination of Gianni Versace. The Ryan Murphy who understood that compelling drama doesn’t require reality to be bent into shape because reality is already compelling enough.
That version of Murphy trusted the story. Love Story feels like a project made by someone who trusts himself more than the story he’s telling. That’s why, despite its polished production values, attractive cast, and occasional moments of genuine emotion, the series ultimately feels like a mirage, easily mistaken as an oasis, until you find yourself drinking sand.
I know many critics have embraced Love Story, and that’s their prerogative. For me, there have been stronger limited series over the last calendar year and stronger examples of historical storytelling in Murphy’s own filmography. When I think about the care that went into The People v. O.J. Simpson or the emotional precision of The Assassination of Gianni Versace, I don’t see the same level of craftsmanship here. I see a creator operating on volume rather than focus.
Love Story is watchable. At times it’s even compelling. It is certainly not the worst thing Ryan Murphy has made recently. In fact, it may be the best thing he’s done in the last twelve months. But that isn’t the same thing as being good enough.
As Taylor Swift sang, “It’s a love story, baby, just say yes.” I’m more of a “History has its eyes on you: type of guy, and Murphy only gets one shot at the JFK Jr story, and in my opinion, he missed it.
Rotten: 5.1/10
