Love Story’ Reflects on the Passing of JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette, Echoing the End of a ’90s Era

Love Story, which wrapped up its stint on FX but remains available on Hulu for those inclined to indulge in a somber viewing experience, delves deep into the theme of loss. The immediate thought might be of John F. Kennedy Jr., often dubbed “America’s prince,” yet the true focal point of the series is Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. Sarah Pidgeon delivers a poignant, breakout performance as Carolyn, portraying a woman who sacrificed everything, even her life, for the sake of her marriage. The tragic tale includes Carolyn’s sister, Lauren Bessette, a promising Wall Street executive, who also perished in the 1999 plane crash alongside JFK Jr. and Carolyn.

The series mourns more than the loss of three promising young lives; it laments the end of an era. In its somewhat melodramatic yet ultimately impactful manner, Love Story evokes a bygone time. The plane crash off the Massachusetts coast didn’t just mark a tragic accident; it symbolized the conclusion of the ’90s dream. Despite its imperfections, the show will likely stand as a defining document of ’90s nostalgia, much like American Graffiti and Happy Days did for the ’50s, Dazed and Confused for the ’70s, and Stranger Things for the ’80s. Now, the ’90s dream finds a renewed audience.

When I refer to the ’90s dream, I’m not talking about my personal ’90s. Back then, I was a newspaper reporter in Chicago, frequenting poetry slams and listening to bands in less-than-glamorous venues. I was young, carefree, and certainly more content than the troubled romantic figures in Love Story. JFK Jr. and Carolyn weren’t living the downtown hipster lifestyle; they were spending weekends in Hyannis, jet-setting to exotic locales, and constantly hounded by paparazzi. Their lives were marked by realities that most of us navigating the ’90s couldn’t fathom, yet we shared a collective experience.

The allure of the ’90s today lies in its resemblance to our current times. We had email, Oprah, CNN, credit cards, Thai takeout, and The Simpsons. It’s not an unrecognizable past. However, many of today’s burdens and challenges were absent then: no social media, no invasive airport security, no smartphones, and no looming threat of AI. It was before Bush v. Gore, before 9/11, before the obesity epidemic. Donald Trump was a mere boastful real estate mogul in Manhattan, and backward baseball caps were all the rage. When JFK Jr. and Carolyn encountered gossip about themselves, it was through newspapers or occasionally Inside Edition. While toxic, it was escapable.

This is why younger viewers resonate so strongly with the show. It’s undeniably an enticing love story. Pidgeon and Paul Anthony Kelly, portraying JFK Jr., captivate as the central figures. Creator Connor Hines crafted a narrative that is clean, evocative, and deeply romantic.

Love Story stumbles around in its early episodes. There’s a ludicrous scene where Naomi Watts, playing Jackie Onassis, dances around her luxury townhouse, dying of cancer, to the theme song from the Broadway musical Camelot in front of a portrait of her slain husband. That’s a little on the nose. And actress Daryl Hannah, JFK Jr.’s most prominent ex, comes off as a needy, moronic fool, a portrait so slanderous that it caused Hannah to write a response essay for The New York Times. 

Love Story gains power in its second half, though, as Hines’s true purpose takes shape. Once Bessette agrees to marry JFK Jr., suddenly the ice princess melts and becomes vulnerable. The Kennedy mythos, and the toxicity that surrounds it, consumes her soul and destroys her. She loses her career, her friends, and her identity — even her soul — while JFK Jr. continues to play around with George and go to book parties and Vanity Fair launches while pursuing his amateur pilot’s hobby that eventually kills the both of them. 

Once those elements are in place, Hines focuses his lens. The show’s penultimate episode ends with a long, seemingly single-take argument as Kennedy and Bessette desperately try to save their flailing marriage. After the plane goes down, there’s a long and heartbreaking grief scene between JFK’s sister Caroline and Bessette’s mother, played with stunning effectiveness by longtime TV ringer Constance Zimmer, giving what might be her best-ever performance. There’s a funeral and an ashes-spreading and then the show drifts off into infinity. 

So what are we really mourning? When I watched Love Story, I didn’t feel actual grief for the people involved, however real the performances felt at times. I didn’t know them. They were magazine characters to me. I did feel some grief for people in my life who I’ve actually lost, but any evocation of grief, like Hamnet, can do that. Instead, I found myself mourning a time, and a place, and, to some extent, my youth. 

Even viewers who didn’t live through the ’90s are mourning the decade’s loss through the show. Love Story features a protagonist who, even though he was one of the richest and most famous people in America, rides his bike through Manhattan on dates. You took cabs, you didn’t Uber. If you wanted takeout, you called the restaurant, for there were no Door Dash grandmas to exploit. If you saved up $250, you could get on a plane and be in Europe the next day. 

JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy weren’t like us. They were American royalty. But they lived in our time. The world as it is today isn’t nearly as bad as people say. But when someone who was there tells you that the ’90s were better, believe them. Because it’s mostly true. 

Neal Pollack is the author of ten bestselling books of fiction and nonfiction. His latest novel is the sci-fi satire Keep Mars Weird. He lives in Austin, Texas.