Reflections on FX’s The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story

Inspired by the real-life titular event in 1997 (and by Maureen Orth’s 1999 book Vulgar Favors), the second season of Ryan Murphy’s American Crime Story takes on the contested and mysterious case of Gianni Versace’s killer Andrew Cunanan, which culminated in what Orth called “the greatest failed manhunt in American history.” Cunanan killed four men before he got to Versace, and The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story shows us the murders in (more or less) reverse chronological order, interspersed with flashbacks and insights into both Cunanan’s life and the lives of his victims. Versace finished its nine-episode run on March 21.

Despite some unrealized ambitions, strange narrative gaps, and uneven pacing, Murphy turns the Cunanan case into a surprisingly, albeit modestly, successful TV tale. A psychological portrait of an enigmatic killer, this “crime story” also comes up with critical takes on police corruption and homophobia, classism, the AIDS crisis, the US military’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy (DADT), and cultural narcissism. It doesn’t all work, but it worked better than I expected it to.

I’m fairly lukewarm on Ryan Murphy, and could never finish American Horror Story. I also missed the first season of American Crime Story, on the O.J. Simpson case – although I’ve heard it’s great. I do, however, remember the actual assassination of Gianni Versace; I was young but I loved fashion. Not knowing the details of the case I intuitively understood that the motivation had something to do with Versace’s extraordinariness. Even a child could see that Gianni Versace was a man to be remembered. That’s exactly what Versace’s killer Andrew Cunanan wanted to be, too – voted “least likely to be forgotten” by his class, in ACS Cunanan’s most fervent desire is to be impressive, special.

Cunanan’s crimes are horrifying in any context. But right now feels like a particularly inappropriate moment to have compassion for a psychologically turbulent lone gunman. Still, ACS: Versace boasts a wildly engrossing performance by Darren Criss (as Cunanan) that, although creepy as hell and harrowing at times, is not without sympathetic aspects. For the most part the series avoids easy answers and simple condemnations. The closest we get to a blanket condemnation is perhaps the police and FBI, who don’t seem to have a clue – or a care – what they’re doing. The one exception is Detective Lori Wieder, in an excellent turn by Dascha Polanco. The FBI is apathetic and the local PDs are disgustingly homophobic; everyone other than Wieder seems almost deliberately inept. So much so in fact that a recurring question for me became: could Versace have lived if law enforcement had been more willing to do their jobs?

We’ll never know, so for now we have to content ourselves with Versace’s Versace. The Versace family is a delight: Édgar Ramírez is downright touching as Gianni Versace, playing almost every scene with the gentle pathos of a man who seems to know he’s going to die. He’s radiant and wise, but a little bit sad, throughout – with more than a few suggestions of an HIV-positive diagnosis (the truth on this matter is still unknown). Penélope Cruz is superb as Donatella Versace, and Ricky Martin delivers a solid, if not especially noteworthy, performance as Gianni’s long-term partner Antonio D’Amico. Outside of the Versace clan, Ronnie (played by Max Greenfield) and Marilyn Miglin (played by Judith Light) are also captivating. And as far as I’m concerned, the Versace mansion counts as its own character as well. Fantastically luxurious and opulent, the designer’s house was recreated faithfully for the show and is a frequent scene-stealer.

The Versace family’s sacrifices, as well as their successes, poignantly illuminate Andrew’s own desperation to be “someone” – Gianni makes choices that define his fame and sphere of influence (listen for the great lines about why he could never be a novelist). His choices exclude as much as they include. Andrew refuses to make self-limiting choices; he doesn’t know how. Although as a whole The Assassination of Gianni Versace did little to change my life, there are a few parts that haunt me. In one memorable episode finale Andrew dances in a gay club, and as he twirls to Lisa Stanfield’s “This is the Right Time,” he unfurls one identity after another for his dance partner. “I’m a serial killer,” he says, “I’m a banker. I’m a stockbroker; I’m a shareholder. I’m a paperback writer. I’m a cop; I’m a naval officer; sometimes I’m a spy. I build movie sets in Mexico and skyscrapers in Chicago; I sell propane in Minneapolis. I import pineapples from the Philippines. I’m the person least likely to be forgotten.” Andrew can’t decide who he is, so in the end he settles – not on “man to be remembered,” like Versace, but instead just “least likely to be forgotten.”

Ultimately we are the choices we make, which always have consequences. Who do you want to be – and what will it cost you? More importantly, perhaps: what will it cost the people around you?