Kim Kardashian is the star the series centers on (she and her mother are also executive producers), playing Allura Grant, a powerful, take-no-prisoners lawyer fighting bitter rivals and her own jealous husband. And yes, she’s bad in this show: Her face does not move, her monotone voice is equally inexpressive, and she conveys zero charisma. As a reality star, her entire thing is being an audience vessel for an obscene wealth fantasy, so in that aspect, her stunt casting makes sense. All’s Fair wants you to revel in the fashion choices and L.A. spectacle. Yet Kardashian’s total apathy as a performer only drives home how uninterested the entire series is in being appealing to the viewer. At least her cardboard line readings give us a break from her co-stars’ pantomime.
Murphy has often been lauded for giving juicy roles to actresses, especially older ones who have been sidelined by the industry. But one wonders if his team is even bothering to direct them nowadays. All’s Fair contains a murderers’ row of charismatic and varied talents—and also Kardashian—giving some of the worst performances of their careers. Sarah Paulson is particularly terrible in the token bitch adversary role that is likely meant to be campy and melodramatic but comes off as an exhausting shtick. Paulson has nothing to prove at this point in her storied career, and one wonders if performers like her (and Laurie Metcalf in Monster this year) find liberation in the opportunity to give such unhinged performances without the slightest request for nuance. Clearly, she’s having fun. The audience probably isn’t.
The Murphy oeuvre has long been defined by his desire to have his cake and eat it too. He wants trashy spectacle but also the weight of prestige, two forces that seem contradictory and are often proven as such by his shows. The Monster anthology has become indicative of this knotty problem: You cannot make giddily lurid spectacle out of real people’s trauma and then give it the sheen of importance and pretend it negates the harm done.
At least All’s Fair is all fiction and not dealing in anything as serious as serial killings, although its wannabe feminist credentials remain laughable. The only thing that comes close to conveying emotional force in this series is the image of these strong women taking on the patriarchy, one prenup at a time. It’s a cute idea but utterly hollow here. There’s no emotional realism nor any reason to invest in these characters beyond the fact that they’re wealthy, pretty, and the narrative pleads with us to like them. It wants a Sheryl Sandberg-esque Lean In proto-feminist sheen without putting in any effort, but it also hopes to be like a Real Housewives show in terms of catty women doing ridiculous things to one another. On reality TV, the performativity is the point, as is the self-awareness of its cast. All’s Fair is staggeringly blinkered by its own laziness.
Some of this would be forgivable if the show was at least fun, but it’s dull. There’s no schadenfreude to be mined, the first-draft qualities of the script force these actors to spew inane lines, and the plots are half-baked. Ryan Murphy has blank checks, a loaded contact book, and the undivided support of Disney on his side. And the expectations for his projects are high for a reason, so watching something that really does feel like it was made with a shrug cannot help but be insulting to his audience. At least make it a good time if you’re going to go that route.
