There are some assumptions that you grow so accustomed to, you just take them as reality. I assume that I will wake up around eight hours after I go to sleep, so I don’t set an alarm on the weekends. I assume that Timothée Chalamet will sport a strange little mustache and increasingly surprising haircuts for his film promotions, so I try not to miss his chestnut curls too much. I assumed, until a few days ago, that at this point in my life, I was finally safe from Ryan Murphy. That I’d made it out of Nip/Tuck with my mushy prefrontal cortex mostly intact vis-à-vis my body image; that I’d survived the vise grip of Glee thinking that only some covers are better than the originals; that I did my American Horror Story time, sure, but could now rest safely, knowing that if I see one of those nasty little Monster anthology shows, I will not press play. I will not succumb to Charlie Hunnam’s siren calls from the Netflix Top 10 …
But I was wrong. Murphy can still hurt me. He has, once again, made an ass out of u and me. His weapons grow stronger, sharper, and more Kardashian by the day. First, it was announced this Halloween that a positively stacked cache of former American Horror Story actors would be returning for the 13th season of AHS after several years of the anthology series airing blissfully into the cable ether. Then, a few days later, a not particularly anticipated new television show called All’s Fair—a series about an all-woman divorce-law firm run by Allura Grant (Kim Kardashian), Liberty Ronson (Naomi Watts), and Emerald Greene (Niecy Nash); mentored by Dina Standish (Glenn Close); and harassed by Carrington “Carre” Lane (Sarah Paulson)—dropped its first three episodes on Hulu. This show, even though it stars a quad of the most acclaimed actresses of our time, and also Kardashian, immediately debuted with a 0 percent score on Rotten Tomatoes and a flurry of unbelievable images blasted across social media.
When something is alleged to be this bad—when a series is reviewed as simultaneously “empty [and] unforgivably dull” and “fascinatingly, … existentially terrible” and “a crime against television”—well, I have to see exactly what all the fuss (and immediately ensuing claims of cuntiness) is about. Because it can’t just be that Oscar, Emmy, and Tony Award winners are playing sexy lawyers while cosplaying as Selling Sunset realtors, solving increasingly absurd crimes by sushi-dinner time.
This is a series that does not approach writing, performance, or plot like it’s afraid of being bad—I will give it that. All’s Fair offers us Kardashian in her positively Wiseau-ian debut in a lead role, employing an eyeline that can be described only as “occasionally curious about corners of the room just off camera.” The series dares to ask this question: Does a show need to be good, be funny, or even make sense for you dumb fucks to watch it, or does it just need to star Watts giving 25 percent next to Kardashian, who is not only her scene partner, but somehow also a professional peer within the construct of the show? Yes, All’s Fair is certainly fearless in that way—in the way that it’s not afraid to just pan the camera around to each person as they throw their head back in laughter to convey that something is funny, even if whatever they’ve just said is not “technically” a “joke.”
I would love to report back, after taking in the show’s first three episodes, that All’s Fair is a successful satire, always reaching the highs of attorney Glenn Close telling attorney Sarah Paulson that her mother should have swallowed, or attorney Sarah Paulson telling attorney Kim Kardashian, “See you in court, cuntburger.” But outside of the ghost of Sue Sylvester, who’s haunting every Carrington Lane line (and the ghost of Linda Tripp, who still seems to be haunting Paulson’s line readings), All’s Fair is less quippy cuntburger and more … second-wave feminism girlboss anthem in corsets? For some reason? This is Murphy’s fight song, and I can’t figure out why. He very clearly aimed for Selling Sunset meets Ally McBeal, missed entirely by trying to curve around Kardashian’s particular brand of blankness, and ultimately managed to juuust land a little bird shot in the ass of Drop Dead Diva.
How I wish I could tell you that this show is scripted Selling Sunset for attorneys who wear blazers that miraculously reveal sternum, belly button, and underboob all at once. But Drop Dead Diva had more camp in its Lifetime body-swap pinky than All’s Fair has in its (admittedly impressive) wardrobe budget. And not a single thing happens in the first three episodes of All’s Fair that even comes close to reaching the comedic heights of Maya from Selling Sunset spontaneously monotoning to a silent office of women pretending to work: “… the silent of the lamb.” That is camp! That is world-building in a single phrase! Give us silent of the lamb, Ryan Murphy, we are begging! Sue Sylvester is fun in small doses, but where are our Kurts, our Rachels, our Santanas? Main characters can do more than just serve cunt! They actually must. A business-casual thong does not—and cannot—make up for a lack of tangible character traits or an inability to emote!
But bad press can. Because all the chatter about how bad All’s Fair is has naturally resulted in it becoming Hulu’s biggest scripted debut in three years. On the other side of three episodes, I didn’t walk away feeling entertained, per se, but I did develop a needling obsession with trying to understand how a show starring these actors ultimately got made like this, written like this, filmed like … THIS??? The most fun I had was simply considering what the hell Murphy and Co. were thinking about when putting Allura in a blazer that makes her look like a labia giving birth to her own head. Is this how he sees women? And how am I, as a viewer, supposed to be consuming All’s Fair (other than while wearing a zoot suit that somehow shows areola, obviously)? Is this satire? A standard legal drama? Will these attorneys ever enter a courtroom, or are all divorce cases settled with a Mona Lisa smile?
Come with me, won’t you, as I attempt to make sense of what I’ve seen and try to figure out when, exactly, we’re supposed to start throwing our heads back in girlboss laughter.
Would you take legal advice from an attorney showing cheeks at the office? What if it’s just the tops of the cheeks?
Much like the show itself, I will not be starting at the most logical place. I will not even be starting in a place that would ground you in the question-and-answer construct of this piece. I will simply start wherever I want to—because this plot is made of cotton candy and strung together with loose wig hair. So here we go: Could you accept legal counsel from an attorney who was showing the top quadrant of their ass? Which is precisely what Allura is doing in her Jean Paul Gaultier skirted business suit, featuring a missing butt flap, as though it is a pair of cartoon children’s pajamas, replacing that blank space with, simply, a thong. But don’t worry; the thong matches her tie! Now, these women are wearing a lot of layers at all times in Los Angeles, and I can see how Allura may have been seeking a little ventilation. On the other hand, she is whale tailing during a legal mediation between an emotionally abusive man and her actual client. And while I try to keep an open mind about professional clothing and how misogyny seeps into every crevice of what we deem societally normal … ass out in the office is crazy. Even just the top part.
Why does the series start with a montage?
If I were a wagering woman, I would bet that 100 percent of people—even the ones who claim they love this show—thought that they’d accidentally started it on the wrong episode. Because the premiere of All’s Fair opens not in medias res, not in a flashback, but in a montage of an in medias res flashback. We just pick up with a compilation of Allura and Liberty being condescended to for the last time 10 years ago and then deciding to start their own firm in several strung-together sentences. It’s like when they rewind in a heist movie to show you how a team was assembled and the plan came together—but we just go ahead and start with that before getting to know any of the characters, their jobs, their hopes, their dreams, their butt flaps. That all comes later, and it will not become more nuanced. The whole show is basically a montage, now that I think about it.
Why is everyone named like a character from Clue?
Oh, you mean Allura Grant, Liberty Ronson, and Emerald Greene in the conservatory with the giant dildo? There are all these hints that we’re doing something fun and campy, but there’s just no contextual follow-through. Nash barely even wears green! Why is that her name? All of the world-building in All’s Fair is explicitly spoken out loud and then never picked up again. Like when Emerald says in the premiere, “Ladies, a toast—or as we call them here after a huge win: a victory fizz!” OK, and? This never comes up again, and it does not mean anything! Three episodes in, and the only thing I know about Allura’s motivations is that she says, “I failed; I hate failing” when her football player husband asks for a divorce. And how do I know he’s a football player? Because when he’s late for their anniversary dinner, he says, to his wife of several years: “It’s football season; you know I lose track of time during football season, Allura.” Spoken like a true football-playing football player during football season.
Did Paulson really need to go that hard?
Yes. Anyone saying that this show is camp is referring to Sarah Paulson and Sarah Paulson alone. You can set your watch by Carre asking Allura something along the lines of “never mind me, how are you, you poor, discarded cumrag?” But Paulson is also starring in an entirely different show than the four other lead actresses, who have all been cast as slightly different variants of sexy millionaire angels on a righteous feminist quest to restore wealth and dignity back to the wronged women of Los Angeles. At least since Paulson is grinding her teeth into chalk every time she speaks, we can understand that Carre is driven by pure rage and a deep-seated fear that she has never, and will never, fit in. What else could lead her to send the other gals an Edible Arrangement covered in fecal matter on the 10th anniversary of their firm, as they gather around a marble table and say powerful woman statements like: “10 years ago today, we stepped away from the patriarchy” and “We built a frickin’ empire” and “10 years, three women, one verdict: un-fucking-stoppable.” Paulson, on the other hand, gets to sit in a room and narrate Carre’s Edible Arrangement note: “Eat a melon ball, and maybe you can all give the Ozempic you’re mainlining a rest, you fat, treacherous lawn chairs. FUCK OFF, YOU FICKING FUCKS!”
Is All’s Fair where good acting goes to die?
As for the others … I mean, what are they supposed to do? Each time Watts or Nash says some new variation of “This tea is piping hot” or “Let’s put the fucking team in teamwork,” I imagine it’s like if someone just randomly paid me to go back to third grade. It would be weird, but I could do the work with my eyes closed, so why not? Except for cursive, which I would not stand a chance against, and that must be akin to the scene when Nash has to stand up at a boardroom table and declare, “We’re the greedy bitches” before meaningfully taking the hand of Jessica Simpson, who’s wearing botched facial surgery prosthetics and is moments away from throwing acid on her ex-husband’s face. (I think this girlboss show might hate women?)
Is there a dress code at Grant Ronson Greene?
There seems to be only one rule at Grant Ronson Greene: Someone must be wearing a jaunty hat at all times, or else everyone’s wig will fall off like that urban legend about the girl who always wore a choker. Nash is pulling double duty on the fedora front, but Watts and Kardashian help out where they can. It also seems important that in each episode someone is gifted a diamond ring the size of a Mazda Miata. But other than that, the all-woman team of Grant Ronson Greene approaches legal counsel the same way the all-woman teams on Netflix approach real estate: ass out and sisters before misters. Theoretically.
Exactly how famous are Los Angeles lawyers?
As a nonlawyer, I can think of, like, four lawyers I could recognize by name and/or face; two of them are from a commercial I grew up watching, one is my brother, and one is Kardashian’s dad. But every time a main character meets a new person on this show—an auctioneer, a tech billionaire, a rock star—the lawyers’ reputation has absolutely preceded them. If she introduces herself by name, the other person will inevitably respond, “Of course, the attorney.” Of course! I was just reading over some of your case files in my spare time between factory shifts, Allura! So wonderful to finally put a world-famous face to a world-famous name!
Or, as their first client of the season tells them: “You’re the best divorce lawyers in town, maybe even the whole country. That’s why I wrote to you.” Everyone has a favorite actor, a favorite sandwich shop, and a favorite trio of divorce attorneys they like to keep tabs on in case they ever meet them at a jewelry auction on the other side of the country.
How much money do lawyers make, because most of these women seem to personally and professionally own private jets?
I have to guess, at the clip they’re moving, that our three main characters settle about two cases per week, each worth $100 million to $200 million—and they never have to go to court or really even crack open a book or ChatGPT search (we’ll leave that to Kim). So if I take a conservative 35 percent of those settlements, plus a retainer; round the decimals; and dot all my i’s … yeah, they’re billionaires. That seems normal, right?
Has anyone on All’s Fair ever … practiced law? Read the divorce law Wikipedia page? Seen a courtroom?
Over the course of three episodes, we see Grant Ronson Greene take on four different cases and settle every single one out of court, generally after a single meeting with opposing counsel in which they mostly discuss the results after investigator Emerald Greene—just checking my notes here—“follows the fucker.” Practicing law in the world of All’s Fair seems very fun because there’s usually exactly one law that cracks the case right open. When Judith Light appears on-screen, she’s cheated on her husband, which would void her prenuptial agreement—but after flying across the country to meet her, Liberty simply tells her that she can sell her $40 million worth of jewelry and pocket the cash. And then they just walk off arm in arm, all “How I loooove being a woman.” I don’t even know whether that was technically legal counsel, but I also don’t know whether Judith Light technically ever hired them. Generally speaking, though, this law firm wins cases by finding out something embarrassing about the man across the table and then either verbally saying, “We won” or smiling coyly until he huffs out of the room (and they count those as wins, too).
Does the show seem … interested in any themes that are inherently contradictory to its execution?
Yes! It seems interested in the challenges of being an aging woman, being in a romantic heterosexual relationship, and also, girl power. All of which have no real stakes here, because the gals are never at risk of losing anything—when men leave them, they were cheating assholes anyway. When they leave men, they easily get them back. When they lose a case—well, they don’t lose cases. The only case they don’t settle is Elizabeth Berkley’s because she simply … jumps off a balcony after they tell her that her case is going to be impossible to win. Sadly, she didn’t know that “impossible” to these ladies probably means looking up two, maybe even three laws to find a loophole.
They just sit down to bento boxes, and Close tells them that they shouldn’t be afraid of aging while sitting across the table from a real-life Kardashian. Naturally, Allura immediately brings up the vaginal PRP she got, to which Emerald screams, “SOMEBODY’S GOT A REVENGE VAGINA!” How I love being a woman!
OK, wait, does All’s Fair think I’m a fucking idiot?
You know what … I think it does. This show thinks that if Kardashian just says, “What we have here is knowledge, and knowledge is the key in the lock. All we have to do is turn it just the right way,” I’ll just be like, “Hell yeah, sister. I fucking loooove keys, and I love metaphors, and I have NO follow-up questions.” Well, they’ve got another thing coming, because I’d actually like it if this show were fun and maybe had some light object permanence around its characters, the law, and its characters as they relate to the law. I’m sorry, but Allura, the most famous lawyer on earth, just forges her husband’s signature to implant their shared embryos while they’re actively going through the contentious legal process of splitting their assets? If this woman is nuts, it would be really nice to occasionally seed that into the story! (And again, just flashing the business-attire thong doesn’t count.)
Am I a fucking idiot? HOW does Kardashian’s hair change this often?
Admittedly, my object permanence could also use some work. Because not being able to make sense of Kardashian’s frequently changing hair lengths made me, personally, feel like one of those babies who can’t recognize its dad when he comes in the room after shaving his beard. I know that this must be due to the wigs; I know logically that it’s probably just extensions. But every time Allura’s hair goes from long, to lob, to slicked-back bob, to fuck-ass bob with bumped edges, and all the way back to long again over the course of a few scenes … I imagine her like that creepy old-timey doll whose hair grows out of the weird doll follicles in her doll head when you turn a crank in her back like the window of an old Toyota Camry. (And I may be an idiot, but I still don’t think finding a crank somewhere on Kardashian is out of the question.)
Does All’s Fair know that it’s bad?
All’s Fair knows that it’s bad like I know when my outfit is bad but just go ahead and leave the house anyway—it doesn’t make the outfit any better, but I’m already 10 minutes late. Close is expecting a fat check one way or another, and no amount of time or cunty trench coats is going to make Kardashian know how to act. The show is a mess! The only good news is that I’m sure the checks were fat, and everyone involved in All’s Fair seems like they just did it to have some fun on the press tour, get sloshed on martinis at Kardashian’s house, and secure an invite to Kris Jenner’s 70th birthday party. If I got the opportunity to look the uncanny valley in the eye and renovate my kitchen on Hulu’s dime for the actor’s equivalent of sleepwalking, I’d do it, too.
Is Kardashian personally breaking the news that she failed the bar exam again the funniest thing she could have said during all of this?
Yes. This is objectively hilarious. I don’t know why she’s like this; I don’t know why this show is like this—I am more confused than I was when I started. But nothing is funnier than Kardashian trying to rawdog the California bar exam for the past six years and then starring in one of the worst legal shows I’ve ever seen—thanks in large part to her performance—days before announcing that she’s officially failed the bar exam after six years of not going to law school. So it seems that All’s Fair isn’t like Glee, whose former cast is now frequently on Broadway, or even like The Pitt—at this point, I’d probably trust Noah Wyle to safely intubate me. The legal skills of All’s Fair, limited as they may be, are not transferable. But the Rachel Berry AI bot that Murphy seems to have written the entire show with is. And I think he let Kardashian borrow it for her failed bar exam announcement, so I’ll leave you with her deeply uninspiring words: “Falling short isn’t failure —it’s fuel.”
Jodi Walker
Jodi covers pop culture, internet obsessions, and, occasionally, hot dogs. You can hear her on ‘We’re Obsessed,’ ‘The Morally Corrupt Bravo Show,’ and ‘The Prestige TV Podcast,’ and yelling into the void about daylight saving time.
