It has happened again. Just when the streaming charts seemed settled for the holidays, a seven-year-old limited series has roared back to the very top of Netflix’s global rankings, dethroning brand-new releases and holding firm at No. 1 for days on end. Love & Death, the 2023 HBO Max masterpiece created by David E. Kelley and directed by Lesli Linka Glatter, quietly re-entered Netflix’s library in several territories in early December 2025 — and the internet has lost its collective mind. Elizabeth Olsen and Jesse Plemons are earning a fresh wave of breathless praise for performances once called “career-best,” while new viewers discovering the show for the first time are flooding social media with the same stunned reaction: this is the most unsettling true-crime drama since Mindhunter, and it’s based on a real story so twisted it makes Gone Girl look tame.
Set in the sleepy, church-going suburbs of small-town Texas in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Love & Death tells the stranger-than-fiction tale of Candy Montgomery — an ordinary housewife, choir singer, and mother of two — who embarked on a consensual affair with Allan Gore, a fellow parishioner at the local Methodist church. What begins as a seemingly harmless escape from marital boredom spirals into obsession, jealousy, and, ultimately, one of the most shocking axe murders in American criminal history. On Friday the 13th of June 1980, Candy Montgomery walked into the home of her lover’s wife, Betty Gore, and struck her forty-one times with an axe. Betty, eight months pregnant at the time, fought desperately for her life; the crime scene was so gruesome that seasoned detectives had to step outside to compose themselves.
Elizabeth Olsen disappears completely into the role of Candy — a performance that somehow manages to be both magnetic and deeply unnerving. She captures the bubbly, almost cartoonish cheerfulness that neighbors remembered (the real Candy was known for her wide smile and relentless optimism) while slowly letting the mask slip to reveal something colder, more calculating beneath. Critics who saw the series upon its original release already knew Olsen was operating at another level; now a whole new audience is discovering why she was robbed of an Emmy nomination. Jesse Plemons, playing the mild-mannered, emotionally repressed Allan Gore, is equally devastating. His quiet devastation and moral cowardice make him the perfect foil to Olsen’s dazzling, dangerous energy. The chemistry between the two is palpable from their first awkward flirtation at a church volleyball game — a scene so steeped in repressed suburban lust it feels almost indecent to watch.
The supporting cast is stacked with heavy hitters who elevate every scene: Lily Rabe delivers a heartbreaking turn as the lonely, anxious Betty Gore, a woman struggling with postpartum depression after her second pregnancy and sensing something off in her marriage. Patrick Fugit is tragically good as Candy’s oblivious husband Pat, a traveling salesman who believes his wife is the picture of domestic perfection. Krysten Ritter appears as Candy’s brash best friend Sherry, while Tom Pelphrey and Elizabeth Marvel round out the ensemble as neighbors caught in the fallout.
What makes Love & Death so effective — and so profoundly disturbing — is how faithfully it recreates the banality that surrounded the crime. This wasn’t a seedy underworld killing; it happened in broad daylight in a tidy ranch house on Dogwood Lane, while children played in the next room. The series lingers on the mundane details — potluck casseroles, Bible study groups, awkward Christmas pageants — until the violence erupts with a suddenness that leaves viewers reeling. Director Lesli Linka Glatter stages the murder sequence with unflinching brutality, intercutting the frenzied attack with flashes of Betty’s desperate attempts to protect her unborn child. It is one of the most difficult scenes ever committed to television, and audiences are warning each other in advance: do not watch alone.
Yet the show’s true genius lies in what comes after. Candy Montgomery claimed self-defense, alleging that Betty attacked her first with the axe after confronting her about the affair. What followed was one of the most bizarre trials in Texas history. The defense argued “dissociative reaction” triggered by childhood trauma (Candy had been disciplined harshly as a child whenever she showed anger), essentially claiming temporary insanity caused by repressed rage. In a verdict that stunned the nation, an all-male jury acquitted her after just a few hours of deliberation. The real Candy walked free, changed her name, and lived out the rest of her life as a family therapist — a fact the series reveals in its devastating final moments.
David E. Kelley’s script walks a razor’s edge, refusing to fully exonerate Candy while also refusing to paint her as a cartoon villain. The result is a moral ambiguity that lingers long after the credits roll. Was she a cold-blooded killer who got away with murder, or a woman pushed to the brink by the suffocating expectations of 1970s suburban femininity? Viewers are bitterly divided, with Reddit threads and TikTok debates raging over her guilt or innocence years after the original release.
The resurgence couldn’t come at a stranger time. True crime has never been bigger, but fatigue is setting in with endless documentaries and sensationalist podcasts. Love & Death stands apart because it treats its subjects like real human beings rather than characters in a pulp thriller. There’s no ominous voice-over, no cheap jump scares, just a slow, suffocating build of dread as ordinary people make choices that lead to catastrophe. The 1970s production design is immaculate — shag carpets, wood-paneled station wagons, and pastel kitchens that somehow feel more oppressive than any haunted house.
For Elizabeth Olsen, the role remains a high-water mark. Fresh off her acclaimed run as Wanda Maximoff in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, she sought projects that would let her stretch dramatically. Love & Death was that project, and her commitment is total — she gained weight for the role, mastered a Texas accent that never wavers, and reportedly stayed in character between takes to the point that crew members found her unnerving. Olsen has spoken openly about how draining the experience was, particularly filming the murder scene over several grueling days.
New viewers stumbling across the series in 2025 are experiencing it with fresh eyes — and fresh trauma. “I had to sleep with the lights on after episode 6,” has become a common refrain online. Others report dreaming about axes and pastel bathrooms. The fact that it’s based on a true story only heightens the horror; as one viral post put it, “Somewhere out there, the real Candy is still alive, probably giving marriage advice.”
In an era of endless content, few shows manage to feel this dangerous. Love & Death doesn’t just tell a crime story — it dissects the quiet violence of conformity, the lies we tell ourselves to stay sane, and the terrifying randomness of fate. That it has clawed its way back to No. 1 two years after release is a testament to its power. Netflix may have dozens of new thrillers premiering this month, but none are keeping people up at night quite like this one.
If you’ve been putting it off because you “don’t like scary stuff,” consider yourself warned. If you love true crime that respects both its victims and its audience, clear your schedule. Just maybe keep a lamp on when you’re done.
