Review: 'Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story' Delves into Glamor, Confusion, and Sex Appeal

Since the 2011 debut of "American Horror Story," Ryan Murphy has taken the American Gothic Horror genre and turned it on its ear. Now he's following suit in the true crime genre.

Murphy's insider perspective of the most consequential trial of its time, the OJ Simpson trial, opened the lens on the inner goings-on that fed a rabidly obsessed audience and turned the courtroom into a reality show. Murphy's continuing preoccupation with murderers and maniacs led to the debut of his "Monster" true crime series, the first season of which focused on Jeffrey Dahmer. Now Murphy is back with "Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story." Along with his collaborator, Ian Brennan, Murphy promises that the nine episodes are fact-based and revelatory.

Episode one gives audiences unfamiliar with the brothers a perspective on Lyle and Erik Menendez, or at least who the media made them out to be. Nicholas Alexander Chavez and Cooper Koch star as Lyle and Erik, respectively, and they don't pull any punches, portraying the pair as the unlikable entitled Beverly Hills brats that many expected them to be. Their parents, José and Kitty Menendez (played by Oscar winner Javier Bardem and Emmy-nominated Chloë Sevigny) were shotgunned at point-blank range by their sons in the TV room of their upscale home in Beverly Hills.

The brutal slayings were first attributed to the Mafia before Erik, the younger of the two Menendez brothers, admitted to his therapist, Jerome Oziel (played by Dallas Roberts), that he and Lyle were responsible. This revelation would ultimately turn the spotlight of the investigation on the pair, who, immediately after their parents' murder, treated themselves to lavish gifts and extravagant partying – spending that made them appear suspicious. Koch is well invested in revealing Erik's angst about the killings, contrasting with the cavalier behavior Chavez portrays as Lyle.

The incredible scheme is examined through various set pieces (many of which feature the chiseled bodies of the boys on full display), most of which depict Erik as little more than a shallow waif, although one who suffers at the hands of a domineering father and absent, alcoholic mother. Both Menendez brothers were ridiculed and belittled by their parents, but still had every advantage afforded to them by their father's wealth and privilege. They decided that murder was the only way to achieve their freedom.

The murder scene is graphic, explosive, and visceral. After their arrest and incarceration, it becomes evident to the pair that their charisma, sex appeal, and privilege are not going to serve them in this situation, especially when super lawyer Bob Shapiro finds them impossible to defend. The two decide to find a more compelling story in hopes that it might save their hides. This soon becomes the catalyst by which the brothers recalibrate the entire situation.

In the fifth episode, Erik shares with his attorney a story of the alleged abuse his father, Jose, put him through, and does so in graphic detail. It's a scene done in one dramatic shot, as Erik elaborates on the torturous regiment he was put through from a very young age, up to three months before the murders. As performed by Koch (if these are indeed the facts), it's tough not to arrive at some conclusion that the brothers were indeed fearful for their lives and determined to protect themselves from the atrocities of the real monsters.

Still, the series depicts a pair of largely unlikeable narcissists who may have experienced a nightmare in their home life. Still, they didn't rise above their unfortunate circumstances, instead committing a gruesome act of parricide and seeking the spotlight to avoid the consequences.

The psycho-sexual meandering and titillation that the audience is hoping for quickly devolves into a far more distorted vision. The brothers' hunger for celebrity, as the world becomes enthralled with them, makes it inevitable that the bubble will eventually burst. This unraveling is established by the introduction of Nathan Lane as Vanity Fair writer Dominick Dunne, and by Ari Graynor's portrayal of criminal defense attorney Leslie Abramson, who was manufactured for the Court TV frenzy that ensues.

Much of the supporting players and adjuncts to the tale come off as little more than caricatures. Some even feel like they've popped like gremlins out of an early '90s sitcom, or would comfortably fit the bill as background on "Less Than Zero" or "St. Elmo's Fire." This is deliberate, and illustrates how vapid the Menendez brothers' orbit was. Even as more severe events – earthquakes and riots – happen on the peripheries of the trial, the brothers only notice the seismic shifts of their own situation.

The advent of the internet means that, three decades later, a new generation has rediscovered the details surrounding the brothers' conviction. Likely attracted by their sex appeal, intrigue about the circumstances of the sentences by social media influencers (a large percentage of which are female) are convinced that the people of "their parents" era had gotten it all wrong, and are now campaigning to get the Menendez brothers freed.

The series doesn't make them any more sympathetic than they were portrayed in the media, and the case itself is as glamorized as one would expect, especially when the story is saturated in the late '80s/'90s nostalgia, vernacular, and soundtrack. "Monsters" the Menendez brothers may be, but the real monsters might be an audience willing to turn a blind eye to the horrors of child abuse and its repercussions.

"Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story" is currently streaming on Netflix.