TL;DR: All’s Fair is a visual feast with nothing on the plate. Kim Kardashian’s poised performance and Murphy’s eye for opulence can’t save a story that confuses empowerment with excess. It’s not the worst way to spend a Sunday afternoon — but it’s proof that even the most beautiful shows can be spectacularly empty.
All’s Fair
There’s a special kind of TV show that feels like a high-end cocktail party where everyone looks incredible, the champagne never stops flowing, and yet… nobody’s really sure why they’re there. That’s All’s Fair in a nutshell — Ryan Murphy’s latest foray into glitz, glamour, and marital chaos, starring Naomi Watts, Niecy Nash, and Kim Kardashian in a story about high-powered women running an all-female divorce law firm for the ultra-rich of Los Angeles. It’s gorgeous, occasionally fun, and absolutely convinced of its own fabulousness — even when the script seems to have wandered off in Louboutin heels.
The premise has all the right ingredients for a guilty-pleasure binge: three powerhouse women taking on the emotional (and financial) battlegrounds of Hollywood divorce. Naomi Watts plays Liberty, the poised leader of the firm; Niecy Nash is the comic firecracker keeping the energy alive; and Kim Kardashian steps into the stilettos of Allura, a lawyer whose presence feels less about legal briefs and more about perfect contouring. You can almost sense the elevator pitch: Suitsmeets Big Little Lies, with a dash of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. On paper, that’s catnip for anyone who enjoys a bit of escapist opulence.
And to its credit, All’s Fair nails the surface-level spectacle. Every shot glistens with California sunlight, every outfit looks borrowed from a Met Gala fitting, and every set — from the modernist offices to the sprawling mansions — hums with the polished perfection of a luxury brand ad. Ryan Murphy has always excelled at world-building, and here he crafts a visual fantasy that’s pure aesthetic indulgence. The problem is, once you get past the glossy veneer, you start to realize there’s not much happening beneath it.
The writing — and I say this as someone who lives for campy television — is uneven to the point of surrealism. One moment we’re knee-deep in emotional turmoil, the next we’re being handed dialogue that sounds like it escaped from a motivational PowerPoint. When Liberty sighs, “My flight was turbulent and so is my mood,” it’s hard to tell if the show is being intentionally cheeky or just accidentally hilarious. Murphy’s best works have always known how to wink at the audience; All’s Fair sometimes feels like it’s winking at itself so hard it gets a migraine.
Kim Kardashian, stepping further into her screen-acting era, actually fares better than expected. She’s calm, composed, and, yes, a little expressionless — but she also radiates an effortless cool that oddly fits the show’s overly polished world. Naomi Watts brings real gravitas to the chaos, even when her lines border on self-parody, and Niecy Nash injects the kind of sharp comedic energy that keeps the series from tipping into full soap opera territory. Their chemistry occasionally sparks, but it’s fleeting — like a designer candle that smells great for ten minutes and then fades away.
Where the show truly struggles is in its tone. Murphy tries to balance satire, melodrama, and empowerment, but the blend never quite emulsifies. All’s Fair wants to say something about female ambition, about reclaiming identity after heartbreak, about the absurdities of wealth — but it keeps getting distracted by the shiny distractions of its own production design. Instead of unpacking the emotional weight of divorce and reinvention, it keeps detouring into fashion montages and champagne-fueled pep talks. It’s less “women supporting women” and more “women supporting wardrobe changes.”
Still, there’s something oddly hypnotic about watching it all unfold. The show moves with such unshakable confidence — so convinced of its sophistication — that it becomes almost fascinating. It’s like watching a couture dress rehearsal: no one’s quite ready, but everyone looks phenomenal pretending to be. Glenn Close even appears in a mentor role, lending the show a fleeting sense of prestige before vanishing into the narrative ether. You can’t help but smile at the ambition, even if the execution wobbles under the weight of its own excess.
For all its flaws, All’s Fair isn’t cynical; it’s just confused. It genuinely believes it’s saying something empowering, even when it accidentally stumbles into self-parody. There’s a sincerity to its messiness that almost redeems it — like watching a first-time director try to make The Devil Wears Prada by way of American Horror Story. The heart is there, buried somewhere beneath the layers of bronzer and designer handbags.
Ultimately, All’s Fair is a beautiful disaster — a glittering, overproduced mood board of a series that mistakes aesthetic for emotion. It’s not unwatchable; in fact, it’s strangely addictive in a “how did this get made?” kind of way. But it never quite becomes the sharp, sassy, empowering drama it sets out to be. Instead, it’s a reminder that even the most polished surfaces can hide a lot of narrative cracks.
If you come for the fashion, the absurd wealth, and Kim Kardashian’s impressively on-brand stoicism, you’ll find things to enjoy. Just don’t expect sharp legal drama or emotional truth — this isn’t The Good Wife, it’s The Expensive Life. Ryan Murphy’s magic touch occasionally glimmers here, but most of the time, it’s buried beneath layers of luxury and lip gloss.
