Ryan Murphy Outdid Himself

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The show All’s Fair feels like empty empowerment. It’s filled with predictable, feel-good lines – the kind you’d find on a generic gift – mixed with unnecessarily crude language. While featuring a surprisingly flat Kim Kardashian and showcasing symbols of female power like designer clothes and expensive jewelry, the legal drama relies heavily on superficial feminist themes. It’s a bit of a mess, throwing around shock value words like “anal” for effect, but somehow, it’s still a captivating, typical Ryan Murphy guilty pleasure.

Ryan Murphy’s shows fall into a few different types. Some, like Glee, Scream Queens, and Doctor Odyssey, are over-the-top and campy. Others, such as Nip/Tuck and 9-1-1, focus on dramatic relationships and personal stories. He also creates genre-bending shows like American Horror Story and Grotesquerie. More recently, Murphy has explored American culture, particularly our fascination with true crime, through his anthology series Monster, which he created with Ian Brennan. At his best, Murphy expertly blends lowbrow entertainment with compelling storytelling, crafting fast-paced plots, memorable characters with sharp wit, and often provocative scenes. His show All’s Fair is a perfect example – it’s fun and engaging, but ultimately leaves you feeling both satisfied and a little overwhelmed.

The series All’s Fair introduces Allura Grant and Liberty Ronson, two lawyers who have long been mistreated at a sexist law firm. Dina Standish, a female partner at the firm, advises them to start their own practice focused on divorce law, and they do just that, recruiting investigator Emerald Greene. This decision alienates Carrington Lane, another female associate who feels left behind. While the characters have names reminiscent of 1980s TV dramas, the show’s language is very modern and explicit. The story jumps forward ten years to when Carrington, having watched Allura and Liberty’s firm become successful, sends them a deliberately offensive gift – an Edible Arrangement containing feces – along with a harshly worded note filled with insults. The pilot episode, co-written and directed by Ryan Murphy, features a close-up of Sarah Paulson as Carrington, dictating the message with intense anger, emphasizing her rage through facial expressions and physical tension.

The conflict between Carr and Allura’s team intensifies when Allura discovers her husband, Chase (a football player played by Matthew Noszka), wants a divorce – and that Carr is representing him. Chase is portrayed as unlikeable, mirroring the types of men Allura often fights against in court. However, his divorce demands are extreme: Allura wants $1 million per month in alimony and half ownership of the law firm Grant, Ronson, Greene & Associates. This storyline features some of the show’s most shocking moments, including Allura publicly getting tested for sexually transmitted infections after learning about Chase’s affair, a comment questioning Chase’s masculinity due to his partner’s use of a strap-on, and a character’s storyline mirroring a recent New York Times article about a woman who forged her husband’s signature to have embryos implanted.

The show has a clear structure, but it’s a bit uneven. While All’s Fair centers on Allura’s divorce – which is hard to care about because the actress doesn’t bring much depth to the role – each episode mainly follows her clients. Like its predecessor, Doctor Odyssey, a big appeal of All’s Fair is its guest stars. For example, Judith Light plays a client who hides in her closet to escape her husband, suggesting marriage can be a trap, and Jessica Simpson portrays a rock star’s wife whose husband demands she perform oral sex because he’s insecure about her aging appearance – highlighting the idea that society views older women as disposable. However, these storylines feel like short, 20-minute side plots because they all ultimately boil down to the simple message of “rich men are the problem.”

“All’s Fair” is very direct in its focus on the problems of wealthy women. Unlike shows like “Sirens,” “The Better Sister,” or “The Hunting Wives,” it doesn’t offer complex social commentary about gender or class. It’s difficult to discern whether the creator admires or dislikes these women, who come across as superficial and overly concerned with appearances. They’re presented as obsessed with wealth, extreme beauty standards, and maintaining a youthful image, raising questions about the limits of cosmetic procedures and the pressures on women’s bodies. The show suggests that divorce proceedings among the extremely wealthy provide a perfect setting to observe this particular type of lifestyle.

Despite its title, All’s Fair isn’t really about courtroom battles. It feels like a legal drama, focusing on messy divorces, but the first few episodes don’t feature a single court appearance. The show prioritizes over-the-top performances – Allison Paulson delivering fiery insults, Glenn Close channeling her intense Damages energy, and Natasha Lyonne showcasing her comedic brilliance with cutting lines. While the show has some troubling elements, like relying on harmful stereotypes about Muslims and a controversial political stance, when it’s at its best, All’s Fair reaches the wildly creative heights of Ryan Murphy’s other shows like Nip/Tuck, 9-1-1, and Doctor Odyssey – and then pushes even further, though it remains to be seen if it can sustain that momentum.

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2025-11-05 18:55