In the quiet suburbs of 1980s Texas, where church potlucks and PTA meetings form the backbone of community life, darkness can fester beneath the surface of picket fences and Sunday sermons. That’s the unsettling premise at the heart of Love & Death, the HBO miniseries that has stormed back onto Netflix and claimed the top spot in a whirlwind of renewed fascination. Starring Elizabeth Olsen in a role that’s equal parts heartbreaking and harrowing, this seven-episode true-crime saga isn’t just a retelling of a gruesome murder—it’s a scalpel-sharp dissection of forbidden desire, shattered illusions, and the razor-thin line between love and lethal rage.

What makes Love & Death so profoundly disturbing? It’s the slow, inexorable unraveling of ordinary lives, where a seemingly perfect housewife embarks on a clandestine affair that spirals into one of the most shocking killings in American history. Viewers aren’t just watching a crime unfold; they’re peering into the fractured psyches of people who look, sound, and feel a lot like us. Social media is ablaze with confessions: fans binge-watching late into the night, only to bolt upright in bed, hearts pounding from nightmares of swinging axes and splintered church friendships. “I had to sleep with the lights on after that finale,” one viewer tweeted, echoing a chorus of unease. Another called it “the kind of show that makes you hug your spouse a little tighter—and check the garage for hidden hatchets.” As December chills the air, this Texas tale is proving to be the ultimate fireside fright, blending psychological dread with raw emotional gut-punches in a way that rivals the tautest entries in Netflix’s thriller canon.

At its core, Love & Death draws from a real-life horror that gripped the nation four decades ago: the 1980 axe murder of Betty Gore, a devoted elementary school teacher and mother of two, at the hands of her close friend and fellow churchgoer, Candy Montgomery. On a sweltering Friday the 13th in June, in the sleepy town of Wylie, Texas—then a burgeoning bedroom community on the edge of Dallas—Betty was found hacked to death in her laundry room, her body bearing the marks of 41 frenzied blows from a wood-splitting axe. The weapon, eerily enough, belonged to her husband, Allan, a telecommunications engineer whose own secrets would soon come to light. Candy, a 30-year-old graphic designer, wife, and mother, was the last person to see Betty alive. She claimed self-defense, alleging that Betty had attacked her first during a confrontation over Candy’s year-long affair with Allan. The trial that followed wasn’t just a legal spectacle; it became a cultural flashpoint, exposing the hypocrisies of evangelical suburbia and turning Candy into a paradoxical icon—victim, villain, or something far more complex.

The case exploded across front pages and evening news broadcasts, captivating a public hungry for the lurid details of how two women, bound by Bible study groups and playdates, could descend into such savagery. Investigators marveled at the ferocity: Betty’s skull was nearly cleaved in two, her fingers mangled as she clawed desperately for her life. Yet Candy, petite and poised, emerged from the blood-soaked scene with only minor scratches, her alibi hinging on a tale of primal panic. Psychologists pored over reenactments, forensic experts debated the biomechanics of those blows, and the all-female-heavy jury deliberated for just 21 minutes before acquitting her. Candy walked free, her story immortalized in books, articles, and even a made-for-TV movie. But it was the underlying rot—the illicit passion between Candy and Allan, conducted in motel rooms and stolen glances at church socials—that truly horrified. In a place where divorce was taboo and adultery equated with eternal damnation, their entanglement wasn’t just a betrayal; it was a ticking bomb wrapped in floral dresses and pot roast recipes.

Fast-forward to today, and Love & Death resurrects this nightmare with a reverence that borders on reverence for the macabre. Created by David E. Kelley—the Emmy-winning mind behind Ally McBeal, Big Little Lies, and The Undoing—the series adapts the saga from a pair of iconic Texas Monthly articles penned in the early ’80s by John Bloom and Jim Atkinson. Titled “Love and Death in the Silicon Prairie,” those pieces delved into the affair’s mundane mechanics: the coded phone calls, the alibis crafted around grocery runs, the way Candy and Allan justified their trysts as “harmless release” in a marriage grown stale. Kelley, known for his whip-smart dialogue and penchant for moral ambiguity, transforms this into a mosaic of quiet desperation. The show doesn’t rush to the kill; instead, it luxuriates in the prelude, painting Wylie as a pressure cooker of repressed longings and pious facades.

Elizabeth Olsen anchors the production as Candy, delivering what many are hailing as her most transformative performance since breaking free from the Marvel mold. Best known as Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch, Olsen has long proven her dramatic chops in indies like Martha Marcy May Marlene and prestige fare like WandaVision. Here, she channels Candy’s duality with unnerving precision: the bubbly homemaker who bakes lemon squares for youth group fundraisers, her eyes flickering with unspoken hunger; the woman whose laughter at PTA meetings masks a storm of guilt and exhilaration. Olsen’s Candy isn’t a monster or a martyr—she’s achingly human, her Texas twang (honed through dialect coaching) dripping with folksy charm even as her choices veer toward catastrophe. In one early scene, as she navigates a church picnic with Allan stealing sidelong glances, Olsen’s micro-expressions— a bitten lip, a fleeting blush—convey the thrill of transgression without a word. It’s a masterclass in restraint, building to moments of explosive vulnerability that leave audiences breathless.

Opposite her, Jesse Plemons embodies Allan Gore with a brooding intensity that recalls his turns in Breaking Bad and The Power of the Dog. Plemons, often cast as the everyman with a sinister undercurrent, nails Allan’s awkward affability: the devoted dad fumbling through bedtime stories, the husband whose midlife malaise leads him to risk everything for a spark he can’t name. Their chemistry, while not overtly steamy, simmers with the awkward authenticity of real infidelity—stolen kisses that feel more like confessions than conquests. Lily Rabe, stepping into Betty’s sensible shoes, brings a poignant fragility to the role, portraying her as the unwitting linchpin in this triangle of doom. As the church organist whose quiet anxieties bubble beneath a veneer of marital contentment, Rabe’s Betty is the emotional core, her final episodes laced with a tragic foreshadowing that tugs at the heartstrings.

The ensemble rounds out the mosaic with pitch-perfect period flavor. Patrick Fugit and Elizabeth Marvel shine as the Goodletts, Candy’s steadfast neighbors and unwitting confidants, their scenes injecting levity amid the gathering gloom. Supporting turns from Krystoffer Polaha as a smarmy prosecutor and Olivia Luccardi as Candy’s loyal best friend add layers of small-town intrigue, while Tom Pelphrey pops up in a memorable cameo that underscores the era’s evangelical fervor. Directed by Lesli Linka Glatter (Mad Men, Homeland), the series unfolds with a cinematography that’s as crisp as a summer storm: wide shots of endless Texas plains contrasting the claustrophobic interiors of split-level homes, where secrets fester like mildew in the laundry room.

Production on Love & Death was a labor of love—or perhaps obsession—spanning years of development. It originated as a Blossom Films project under Nicole Kidman, who executive produces alongside Per Saari, drawn to the story’s exploration of female complexity. Filming took place in Georgia’s piney woods, standing in for North Texas, with meticulous attention to ’80s aesthetics: the chunky jewelry, the wood-paneled station wagons, the synth-tinged score by Ian H. Ballinger that evokes a sense of creeping unease. Kelley scripted the entire season, infusing his signature blend of wry humor and courtroom theatrics, particularly in the trial sequences that form the back half. Released initially on HBO Max in April 2023, the show earned immediate buzz, holding its own against a crowded true-crime landscape that includes Hulu’s 2022 take, Candy, starring Jessica Biel in the lead. Where Candy leaned into campy Southern Gothic, Love & Death opts for a more measured, almost meditative pace, allowing the horror to seep in gradually.

Critics have largely embraced this approach, with an 89% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes lauding Olsen’s “career-defining” work. Roger Ebert’s review called it “a slow-burn triumph that tightens like a noose,” praising how the series humanizes its players without excusing their sins. The Guardian deemed Olsen “mesmerizing,” her portrayal elevating what could have been a rote procedural into a character study of seismic proportions. Detractors, though fewer, point to occasional pacing lulls and a lack of fresh insight into the genre’s well-trodden ground—echoing gripes that it’s “familiar territory” for fans of The Staircase or Dirty John. Yet even skeptics concede the finale’s visceral impact: a reconstructed crime scene so graphic and unflinching that it prompted walkouts at press screenings and hushed whispers of “too real” from hardened reviewers.

Viewers, meanwhile, are devouring it like forbidden fruit. Since hitting Netflix in late November 2025, Love & Death has skyrocketed to No. 1 globally, amassing over 50 million hours viewed in its first week—a testament to the platform’s knack for resurrecting prestige miniseries. Reddit threads buzz with spoiler-free raves: “Olsen makes you root for Candy even when you know you shouldn’t,” one user posted, while another admitted, “The church scenes gave me chills—it’s like Midsommar in a Methodist hall.” TikTok is flooded with reaction videos, fans recreating Candy’s iconic perms and debating the ethics of self-defense in suburbia. The disturbance factor? Off the charts. That axe sequence, drawn faithfully from trial testimony and forensic recreations, unfolds in real time, the sound design alone—a wet thud, a gasp, the splinter of bone—enough to induce nausea. It’s not gore for gore’s sake; it’s a mirror to the primal fury that simmers in us all, amplified by the intimacy of the setting. No shadowy alleys or serial lairs here—just a cozy home where laundry waits to be folded.

What elevates Love & Death beyond schlocky true-crime fodder is its unflinching gaze at the era’s gender traps. Candy’s acquittal wasn’t just a verdict on evidence; it was a referendum on repressed womanhood, where housewives were saints or sinners, with little room for gray. The series probes this through montages of Candy’s domestic drudgery—ironing Allan’s shirts while fantasizing about escape—juxtaposed against Betty’s quiet unraveling, her diary entries hinting at suspicions she dares not voice. It’s a narrative that feels eerily prescient in 2025, amid reckonings with domesticity and desire in the age of #MeToo and endless therapy-speak. Comparisons to Gone Girl abound, with its twisted marital mind games, but Love & Death trades snarky narration for sincere pathos, closer in spirit to Mindhunter‘s cerebral chills or Big Little Lies‘ whisper-network scandals. Like those, it asks: How well do we really know our neighbors? Our lovers? Ourselves?

As the credits roll on that gut-wrenching finale, Love & Death leaves you not with tidy catharsis, but a lingering disquiet—the kind that lingers like humidity after a storm. Candy Montgomery, now in her 70s, lives quietly under an assumed name, her story a footnote in Texas lore. But in Olsen’s hands, and Kelley’s keen script, she’s reborn as a cautionary siren, luring us into the seductive perils of the heart. In a streaming sea of forgettable procedurals, this is the rare gem that doesn’t just entertain; it excavates. So dim the lights if you dare, but keep one on—just in case. Because in the end, love and death aren’t opposites. They’re bedfellows, waiting in the shadows of every cul-de-sac.