It’s the series no one saw coming—a slow-burn true-crime nightmare that’s exploded to No. 1 on Netflix, leaving viewers gasping, googling, and sleeping with the lights on. Love & Death, the 2023 Max Original (now streaming globally on Netflix since its December 2025 acquisition), stars Elizabeth Olsen and Jesse Plemons in a macabre adaptation of the infamous 1980 Texas axe murder case of Betty Gore, a story steeped in forbidden affairs, secret betrayals, and a killing so cold it stunned an entire suburban community. Critics say the tension “tightens like a vice” as each seven-episode installment unravels the shocking truth behind a friendship turned fatal—and viewers are calling it “the most haunting Netflix thriller since Mindhunter,” with a 94% Rotten Tomatoes score and over 50 million hours viewed in its first week back.
Created by David E. Kelley (Big Little Lies) and directed by Lesli Linka Glatter (Mad Men), Love & Death transforms the real-life saga of Candy Montgomery (Olsen), a churchgoing housewife and PTA mom whose affair with neighbor Allan Gore (Plemons) erupts into unthinkable violence. Based on John Bloom and Jim Atkinson’s 1984 book Evidence of Love, the series opens in 1978 Wylie, Texas, a sleepy Dallas suburb where Candy’s perfect life—devoted husband Pat (Patrick Fugit), two kids, and a spotless minivan—hides a seething undercurrent of dissatisfaction. When Pat’s wife Betty (Lily Rabe) discovers the affair, what begins as a tearful confrontation spirals into a 41-axe-blow bloodbath in Betty’s kitchen, with Candy claiming self-defense after Betty allegedly attacked first. Kelley’s script masterfully dissects the banality of evil: Sunday services masking Monday scandals, potlucks laced with poison, and a trial that exposes the rot beneath the picket fence.
Olsen’s Candy is a revelation—sweet Southern charm curdling into steely denial, her wide eyes flickering between innocence and insanity in a performance that earned Emmy buzz and comparisons to Jessica Lange in American Horror Story. Plemons, Olsen’s real-life husband, is her perfect foil as Allan, his affable everyman facade cracking under guilt and desire. Rabe’s Betty is heartbreakingly human—frustrated, faithful, fatally curious—while supporting turns from Jessica Harper as Candy’s sharp-tongued mother and Tom Pelphrey as a sleazy detective add layers of small-town sleaze. Glatter’s direction, with its sun-drenched suburbia shot in suffocating close-ups, turns cul-de-sacs into cages, and Jeff Russo’s score hums like a migraine.
What elevates Love & Death beyond true-crime procedural is Kelley’s razor focus on the mundane horrors of repression: repressed housewives wielding axes as extensions of their silenced rage, church choirs harmonizing over hushed-up sins. The 1980 trial—where Candy was acquitted after testifying Betty attacked first—becomes a feminist fever dream, with Olsen’s courtroom breakdown (“I’m not a monster—I’m a mother!”) a tour de force that leaves you questioning everything. Flashbacks intercut with reenactments blur fact and fiction, mirroring the case’s own ambiguities.
Since Netflix’s global rollout, the series has surged past Baby Reindeer in hours viewed, with #LoveAndDeath trending in 40 countries. Fans rave: “Olsen’s Candy is unhinged perfection—twisted like Gone Girl but sadder” (@TrueCrimeTea, 100k likes). “The axe scene? I’ll never unsee it” (@BingeHorror, 80k retweets). Critics echo: “A deliciously dark dissection of Texas repression” (The Guardian, 4/5 stars).
In a true-crime boom of sensationalism, Love & Death is surgical and soul-crushing, proving the deadliest weapon in suburbia isn’t an axe—it’s the lies we tell ourselves. Stream all seven episodes now on Netflix; the reckoning awaits, and it’s sharper than you think.
