Love Story: John F. Kennedy Jr. & Carolyn Bessette Kennedy has a surprising villain. Along with the paparazzi who stalked the photogenic couple until their deaths, the FX drama singles out John’s longtime girlfriend Daryl Hannah for intense scorn. In her cruelest scene, Daryl (Dree Hemingway) shows up uninvited at his mother’s wake after months apart. “I know how much she meant to you,” she tells John. Then, in the same breath: “Is there a coat check?” Later, she corners him, saying mourners keep asking about their relationship status. “People are asking about us at my mother’s wake?” he scoffs, rightfully shocked. When John goes onto the apartment’s terrace to greet his mother’s admirers below, Daryl suddenly appears beside him. She grabs his hand. He drops hers to wave.

The character has little screen time, but when we see her, she’s almost always doing something objectionable. In one scene, John comes home from a work event to find Daryl standing on her head in his industrial-chic living room—a cringe-worthily obvious symbol of the performative lengths she’ll go to get what she wants—while friends snort cocaine. In another, Love Story all but says marrying a Kennedy was her path to lasting fame and fortune. “We’ve talked about how work feels like it’s drying up for me,” she tells John. “Maybe the universe is making space for us.”

This depiction from creator Connor Hines and executive producer Ryan Murphy is a misstep, and I’m far from the only one who thinks so. “What’s [Murphy’s] issue with Daryl Hannah, who comes across as a total ditz?” a former writer for JFK Jr.’s George magazine asks, noting her boss was “preternaturally attracted to smart, strong women.” The widespread backlash to the character confirms Love Story’s portrait isn’t just cruel to Hannah—it’s lazy writing.  

Now, Hannah has publicly disputed her portrayal. In a statement published Friday, the actress writes:

The character “Daryl Hannah” portrayed in the series is not even a remotely accurate representation of my life, my conduct or my relationship with John. The actions and behaviors attributed to me are untrue. I have never used cocaine in my life or hosted cocaine-fueled parties. I have never pressured anyone into marriage. I have never desecrated any family heirloom or intruded upon anyone’s private memorial. I have never planted any story in the press. I never compared Jacqueline Onassis’ death to a dog’s. It’s appalling to me that I even have to defend myself against a television show. These are not creative embellishments of personality. They are assertions about conduct—and they are false.

Even if most of this is true, Hannah has a right to be angry. Despite moments where Hines implies John’s avoidance fuels Daryl’s bad behavior, giving a villain edit to a living person who didn’t sign a reality-TV waiver is unkind. An opening disclaimer that “certain depictions of people and events have been dramatized or fictionalized for storytelling purposes” may have legal weight, but the ethical harm remains.  

The show’s viewers should be annoyed too. Not because Love Story strays from the truth—something all docudramas do—but because its cartoonish take on the character insults our intelligence. Did Hines and Murphy worry that if they didn’t make JFK Jr.’s ex a monster, we wouldn’t get why the couple didn’t stay together? As Hannah notes, pitting “bad” Daryl against “good” Carolyn repeats a misogynistic trope where women compete. She quotes producer Nina Jacobson, who said: “Given how much we’re rooting for John and Carolyn, Daryl Hannah is an adversary to what you want narratively.”

This is a telling statement—it reveals the show’s depiction of Hannah is first and foremost a failure of imagination. Couples break up for countless reasons, few of which boil down to one partner being irredeemably bad. Even in Love Story, there are hints of more nuanced reasons Hines could have used: mismatched priorities, careers on opposite coasts, Jackie’s reluctance to let go of her son.

Some of TV’s best love stories end with two likable characters splitting up. When Cheers’ beloved Sam (Ted Danson) and Diane (Shelley Long) finally parted ways, it was because he found the maturity to let her chase her dreams. There was still love between Better Call Saul’s Jimmy (Bob Odenkirk) and Kim (Rhea Seehorn) when their paths became incompatible. A partner doesn’t have to be an antagonist to be wrong for our hero—think of how many decent people Insecure’s Issa (Issa Rae) and Lawrence (Jay Ellis), a long-term couple who split in season one, dated before finding their way back. What unites these three shows is psychologically smart character development. Like real life, their characters aren’t good or evil—they’re flawed but lovable, at least to another flawed but lovable character.

Love Story, like many Murphy projects, is too focused on revising history to care about complex characters, let alone who its simplification hurts. The irony is this revisionist work tries so hard to redeem Bessette Kennedy—who was torn apart by the press—that it ends up trashing a living woman who faces reputational damage. If the show has a point, it’s that mass media warps the famous lives it claims to document beyond recognition. And that’s exactly what Love Story has done to Hannah.