GROTESQUERIE – Season One

Since the first season of American Horror Story premiered in 2011, series creator Ryan Murphy has ascended from a successful showrunner to the head of an empire. He’s credited as a creator of over half a dozen series in the past five years, having easily reached the status of TV royalty. But his ability to turn ideas into commercial gold dust has had drawbacks; often his work engages in cheap thrills at the cost of well-defined or well-developed storytelling. Despite its drawbacks, the success of his long-running horror anthology series should have been the perfect teaser for Grotesquerie, Murphy’s latest horror outing.

Sure, AHS, like many Ryan Murphy projects, often falters well before its final hurdle. The vast majority of its seasons are at their best in their pilot episodes, and while they can usually sustain some momentum until about halfway through the season, the original plotlines eventually become so stale that they’re twisted into convoluted, absurd versions of their former glory. By their conclusion these seasons only slightly resemble their starting-off point. Time and time again Murphy and his team fail to identify what made their stories intriguing and entertaining in the first place, a confounding mindset that plagues almost every season of the show’s run.

Yet for as averse as shows like AHS are to sticking the landing in their endings, each new season plays into Murphy’s love of camp and excess with barely restrained glee, making them irresistible for fans of the series. Long-time viewers have identified the poison awaiting them not long after these humorous and happily violent first few episodes, and gulp down the next vial of it anyway, on and on with a voracious appetite for the broken promise of that rarest of AHS storylines; one that only dips in quality on occasion and ends on a satisfying note. (After watching its entire run, I regretfully say that only the show’s second season, Asylum, reached this artistic pinnacle.)

For as resoundingly flat as these seasons are, it’s an impressive skill of Murphy’s that he can keep reeling viewers in with his proudly trashy projects. These stories’ general flair for theatrics also leads to astonishing performances. Evan Peters, Sarah Paulson, Jessica Lange, and Angela Bassett are just some of the actors who have reinvented their careers on the series, turning in exquisite portrayals again and again. He is a demanding creative to his actors, but therein lies the reward: his villains are truly monstrous, while the series’ good characters will have their dignity and hope put to severe, gruelling tests. It’s incredibly sadistic viewing, but it does lead to some fine acting.

Although it becomes clear early on in Grotesquerie that it justifies being an original series rather than the latest AHS season, at times it still tries to capture the essence of that horror anthology… with middling results. The tone is far more serious, though often not deservingly so, while the plot is so basic that it’s hard not to view its jumping-off point as a rip-off of David Fincher’s Se7en (1995). The dark visual look is often ugly to look at, with unimpressive cinematography to match. Even the mock-ups of gruesome crime scenes, where it’s not unusual to see entrails glistening as they sit haphazardly outside their victims’ bodies — or even more repulsive sights — look staged and artificial-looking. The difference is night and day in terms of how they pair up against Se7en’s horrific crime scenes, which evoke disgust and revulsion each time.

Just like in Fincher’s film, Grotesquerie revolves around police officers trying to make sense of a series of unbelievably gory and graphic killings, which are so meticulously arranged that they don’t just suggest the work of a very busy serial killer, but of a wider message embedded in these executions. In the case of Se7en, working out the theory behind the murders takes time, but by no means the entire movie, to figure out. With Grotesquerie it’s not so much of a question of when it will start to answer these questions, but of whether they even matter.

The series follows Lois Tryon (Niecy Nash), an alcoholic and world-weary detective trying to keep it together as she investigates this grisly series of murders. Without wanting to get bogged down in an endless sea of Fincher comparisons, Lois is not unlike Herman J. Mankiewicz from the director’s film Mank (2020). Mankiewicz is presented as a flagrant drunkard, yet not only does his alcoholism free him of his inhibitions enough that he can speak his mind and stick it to the powers that be, but it gives him a weary, decayed sense of dignity as he fights on in a battle against himself and others, which he knows deep down he will lose on all fronts. Grotesquerie isn’t that poetic and doesn’t come close to being so sorrowful, but the bones of this idea are present in Lois’ character. She might be a tough cookie like all archetypal detectives are, but it’s in how she’s fraying at the edges that she paradoxically finds the most resolve.

Most of this is accomplished solely through Niecy Nash’s brave and commanding leading performance. She leans into these qualities too obviously — though who could blame an actor for doing so when they’re cast in such an aggressively unsubtle series? — but Nash is captivating all the same. Just like Mankiewicz, Lois staggers drunkenly, points fingers, and swirls the perpetual glass of alcohol in her hands. At its best, Grotesquerie paints its domestic scenes with a woozy, intoxicated feeling, where viewers don’t have to try very hard to imagine Lois’ state: tired, inebriated, sick of the world and everyone in it, yet always willing to poke the bear that manifests in everything and everyone around her. The cinematography and lighting might be consistently ugly, but there is promise in the show’s direction and writing in these moments.

Unfortunately, the vast majority of the series’ appeal rests in its actors. One wonders if a medic should have been on set to continually check up on Nash and Lesley Manville to ensure their backs were still in good condition from carrying the series so much. Manville is easily the funniest actor here, leaning into the intentional stupidity of her role with such glee that she and the character that she portrays, Cherry Redd, are more reminiscent of AHS’s camp theatrics than anything else here. Cherry is a welcome change of pace from the rest of this grim, dour story of obsessive serial killers and their just-as-obsessed pursuers. She is the nurse looking after Lois’ husband, Marshall (Courtney B. Vance), who’s comatose and despised by Lois for his infidelity.

Cherry has fallen madly in love with Marshall and constantly criticises Lois for being a terrible wife. It doesn’t matter that this protagonist was the victim of cheating; nothing could dissuade Cherry from taking the side of the unconscious, incapacitated man she loves so dearly (for whatever reason). It’s all incredibly silly, but this is Murphy’s wheelhouse, and it’s played to excessive, over-indulgent camp perfection. The same cannot be said of how seriously this show takes the rest of its characters, some of whom have little to offer, like Lois’ daughter Merritt (Raven Goodwin), or a young nurse she takes a liking to, Ed (Travis Kelce).

Goodwin manages to produce fine acting out of the scant and often lacking material she’s provided, but those interested in Grotesquerie will be far more curious about how famed American football player Travis Kelce does in his first acting role. It’s not always spectacular work, with the actor seeming to lose grasp of how to portray Ed about halfway through the season, but other than that his performance is solid. As a first-time actor, he shows promise, especially given how much of a tall order this role is for someone looking to develop this skill in a professional capacity so late in life. He was thrown in the deep end but comes up for air all the same. That doesn’t change how little these characters do, where they feel like props to be pushed around by the show’s creatives.

Nash might convincingly sell most of Lois’ pontificating, but the self-indulgent, overlong monologues are grating, with each one being more insufferable than the one preceding it. It’s in moments like this where it would seem Grotesquerie was inspired by Mike Flanagan’s more traditional horror storytelling. As for how these monologues in particular compare to Flanagan’s love of soliloquies, no one can quite match Murphy’s theatrical flair, though he and his team aren’t nearly as technically proficient as the other horror aficionado. But this isn’t Murphy’s wheelhouse, and shouldn’t ever be. Putting aside the showrunner’s ambitions, he has made camp his home, and this series is far too self-important for that.

One area that could have been very entertaining is the back-and-forth dynamic between Lois and Marshall, but that becomes so mired in their absurdly diametric personalities that there isn’t even a semblance of a believable relationship on display. While Lois is a rough-around-the-edges detective, who is used to the horrors of the world and seems unfazed by almost any unwelcome development in her life, Marshall takes being erudite and soft-spoken to inhuman extremes, coming across as a parody of mental health professionals in how he interacts with his family.

While Lois could be easily imagined uttering the line, “This motherfucker don’t know shit,” Marshall’s verbal repertoire is more on the level of, “His loquaciousness scarcely shrouds a chasm where an eager and inquisitive mind should rest.” (Trust me, these are only mild exaggerations of their speech patterns.) Now imagine an argument between the pair when these are their modes of communication. When the duo are left alone to discuss the state of their fractured marriage, the comic absurdity is so out of place with the dour, bland and derivative main plotline that it stops being funny very quickly.

Though Merritt shows up often in this story, she is always strictly in ‘side character’ mode. When she finally makes a decisive choice, it’s after a single encounter (that we hardly even see) with a man she soon becomes engaged with. This is par for the course in Grotesquerie, as plot points simply fall into place with scant characterisation or reasoning. (A therapist character even uses the words “to be continued” at one point.)

Rounding out this cast is Sister Megan (Micaela Diamond), a nurse struggling to maintain her vow of chastity who possesses a keen interest in this show’s unknown serial killer. The character is effectively bizarre, as is intended, but dour weirdness shouldn’t keep being this series’ placeholder for entertainment. Megan is desperately attracted to Father Mayhew (Nicholas Alexander Chavez), an attractive priest. The latter character has a lot of monologues, but those are entirely forgettable and feel like limp attempts to mask that Chavez’s primary role in this story is to be a piece of eye candy.

Much of Grotesquerie’s essence can’t be explored in a spoiler-free review, since this show is very happy to subvert expectations and turn characters, plots, themes and everything else about this series on its head. While Se7en and Mike Flanagan’s horror series seemed like obvious influences at first, it wouldn’t be wrong to describe Grotesquerie’s final few episodes as Ryan Murphy’s attempt to pay inspiration to Twin Peaks (1990-91). As crazy as that idea sounds for anyone who hasn’t yet watched this latest series, the execution isn’t nearly as fun. If only this were American Horror Story, then the camp elements and gory excesses would have been a sight to behold in a dreamlike, twisted tale that keeps questioning its own narrative, to the point that nothing here can be trusted.

Grotesquerie becomes a deconstruction not of any genre, but of itself. But to what end? Not only does this cull the mild camp and chaotic energy the show depicted in timid bursts, which was easily its most compelling quality, but it also asks the audience why they’d ever have expected something so silly from its plot in the first place. But that’s exactly what any viewer who’s seen Murphy’s previous forays into horror would have expected (in fact, many of these viewers will be let down by how tame these episodes are).

Having to listen to boring monologues by a priest and nun about why they’re enamoured with serial killers made it seem as though this show was poised for introspection, where depicting the most pious members of society as being preoccupied with gruesome murders parallels the many ordinary, virtuous people who are fascinated by true crime stories. Grotesquerie’s twist, which upends all that it has established, would appear to confirm this sentiment at first.

Perhaps this is a meta-commentary on its showrunner’s desire to platform real-life trauma, or even entirely fictional acts of gruesome violence, more appropriately than he once did. AHS was downright gleeful at times in its depictions of serial killers’ bloody acts. As just one example of many, just look at the ninth season’s fawning approach to how cool and attractive its iteration of Richard Ramirez is. (One character attracted to Ramirez is eventually dissuaded by others from this relationship because he ‘kills old people’. Ramirez’s first murder was of a nine-year-old girl that he beat, raped, and then strangled to death. But why would AHS bring up this horrifying case, when its ugliness would counteract how slick and suave he’s supposed to be here?) So perhaps this show is intended as a new leaf for Murphy. But aside from how this lofty goal is antithetical to someone with his particular storytelling skillset, I don’t buy it in the slightest.

Even in the showrunner’s more respectful series depicting real-life killers, his empathy is only as strong as an artist viewing his subject. Victims of real-life violence are always subjects to Murphy, never human beings. (Hence why he didn’t just state that he has no interest in meeting the Menendez brothers in person as he’s documenting their lives in Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story, but also that he did right by them, that his show is the best thing to happen to them in 30 years, and that they should be sending him flowers as thanks for his fictional examination of their lives for a profit motive they will never benefit from.)

So when Merritt is tasked with transforming her audition tape for a docuseries about obese women into a trauma narrative, which goes against all that this character has accomplished so she can be re-framed as a victim, it’s unclear if this topic is being approached with any degree of self-awareness. Murphy’s preoccupations with true crime in AHS involved excitable depictions of gruesome killings and the real-life figures who committed them, just as the series as a whole delights in the whims of the truly evil and deranged. His recent focus has shifted towards real-life cases where he can mine the depths of real people’s trauma for emotive plot beats. In the case of his miniseries Dahmer (2022), one of its main goals was to convey that the serial killer was able to evade capture because of systemic discrimination, showing how it wasn’t just those executed by the sadistic killer who were victims in this whole affair.

So why should this series be any different in focusing on Merritt’s accomplishments, when Murphy has proved so keen to make his characters victims, especially when they have identity markers that he can use to highlight how underprivileged they are? It’s an issue not without grey area, as this showrunner has also been a champion of women’s representation in horror, with many seasons of AHS featuring female protagonists (and almost all-female casts in some seasons). Looking beyond just AHS at his wider filmography, Murphy’s efforts towards greater representation of several different underrepresented groups deserve praise. Perhaps this grey area could have been the best possible starting point for Murphy to assess his artistic interests, and whether his trashy recreations of serial killers were ever irresponsible.

Such conversations won’t be had amongst viewers after watching Grotesquerie. Instead, they will be left to figuratively scratch their heads at a show that is constantly commenting on its own developments, in a way that isn’t boastful, but which hinders entertainment value. Clues and set-ups go nowhere, and reality itself can’t be trusted, with no foundation on which any of this story can rest. New interpretations could be dredged up out of practically any scene, but none of them are compelling or insightful. Given Murphy’s reputation for nonsensical storylines that get more convoluted over time, anything is possible here, but that hinders intrigue instead of bolstering it. This series’ left turns are a bold move that is in no way aided by the show’s execution.

Murphy has always struggled with endings, but it’s in his most glaring example of this flaw that he has found his ultimate excuse: a meandering mess with no tonal consistency whatsoever, which entrusts that its viewers will be interested in watching something that has no legs on which to stand and no solid ground in place should it have even tried to. Unlike many shows, Grotesquerie doesn’t grind to a halt in its first season: it pummels you into submission for thinking a worthwhile story or exploration of its themes had ever existed. If only the series didn’t have such a dour tone and ugly cinematography, it might have been faintly intriguing to watch its messiness unfurl. Anyone holding out for a second season of this show should prepare themselves for disappointment. It’s one of Ryan Murphy’s cornerstones in storytelling, after all.

USA | 2024 | 10 EPISODES | 16:9 HD | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

writers: Ryan Murphy, Jon Robin Baitz & Joe Baken.
directors: Max Winkler, Ryan Murphy, Alexis Martin Woodall & Elegance Bratton.
starring: Niecy Nash, Courtney B. Vance, Micaela Diamond, Raven Goodwin, Nicholas Alexander Chavez, Lesley Manville & Travis Kelce.