‘Assassination of Gianni Versace’ fails to live up to expectations

The twisted, true story of Andrew Cunanan’s 1997 killing spree exists in whatever dark sliver of cultural space remains between lurid and sordid. It dangles just out of satisfying reach, even with all the fresh attention being lavished upon it by Ryan Murphy and company in FX’s watchable yet incrementally disappointing The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story.

A stylish but depressing nine-episode tragedy, the series heralds the much-awaited return of the true-crime anthology that launched two years ago with a marvellously textured retelling of O.J. Simpson’s murder trial.

This time, the series takes a big swerve into a dead-end story that is far less compelling. Fascinating yet repellent, The Assassination of Gianni Versace demonstrates why some celebrity-related crimes acquire lasting notoriety and others fade away.

The brilliance of The People v. O.J. Simpson was how it made a widely famous case seem entirely new. The failure of Versace is that it takes a case that is at best vaguely remembered (mostly by fashionistas and gay men) and tries to apply to it the same degree of resonance and insight.

Alas, the themes that so easily presented themselves for fresh scrutiny in People vs. O.J. (systemic racism and sexism, media manipulation, elusive justice) are far from evident in The Assassination of Gianni Versace: Is it about beauty? Is it about psychosis? Is it about gay rights?

Yes to all that, but never effectively. (And why has Versace’s murder been upgraded to an “assassination”? We’ll get back to that.)

It’s far from a total bust, however. As with People v. O.J., the series has that intoxicating mix of reported fact (drawing on Vanity Fair journalist Maureen Orth’s 1999 book Vulgar Favors for details) and a dash of invention that now defines the American Crime Story style.

Glee star Darren Criss is plenty creepy and believable as Cunanan, a 27-year-old charlatan and chronic fibber who mooches off the kindness of strangers. Criss capably holds the series together when the writing and dialogue can’t, particularly in how he portrays the smarmy banality of Cunanan’s evil. Sometimes he is a charming creep. Sometimes he is a violent creep. It works like a light switch, and it does get predictable; as such, the scary legend of Cunanan might have better lent itself to a serial-killer season of Murphy’s American Horror Story.

In the first episode, Cunanan arrives in Miami in July 1997 and wastes no time locating his ultimate target, the Italian fashion designer Gianni Versace (Édgar Ramírez), who lives in an ornate South Beach mansion. Versace takes a morning stroll to a nearby news-stand to buy a stack of magazines; when he returns to his front gate, Cunanan walks up and shoots him a few times, including a bullet through his face. As the murderer flees, Versace’s long-time companion, Antonio D’Amico (Ricky Martin, crying sufficient soap-opera tears) cradles a dying Versace in his arms.