Fox's latest thriller series presents a compelling premise that immediately grabs attention: a professional assassin facing the gradual erosion of his most vital asset—his memory. Memory of a Killer, starring Patrick Dempsey, attempts to blend the high-stakes world of contract killing with the intimate tragedy of early-onset Alzheimer's disease. While the concept brims with dramatic potential, the execution reveals a series more interested in conventional thriller mechanics than exploring its unique psychological depths.
The narrative centers on Angelo Flannery, a man leading two meticulously separated lives. In the picturesque Hudson Springs, New York, he's a devoted father and traveling copier salesman who dotes on his pregnant daughter Maria, played by Odeya Rush. His other existence unfolds in New York City, where he becomes Angelo Boyle, a highly skilled contract killer employed by his childhood friend Dutch (Michael Imperioli), who now runs a restaurant as a front for organized crime operations.
This dual identity has functioned flawlessly for years. Dutch believes Angelo is a solitary operative with no personal attachments, while Maria sees only her hardworking father who frequently travels for business. The delicate balance begins to crumble as early-onset Alzheimer's symptoms manifest with increasing frequency. Angelo struggles to recall his apartment's security code, and in a moment that chillingly illustrates his cognitive decline, he discovers his firearm stored in the refrigerator instead of his safe—an error that could expose his secret life with fatal consequences.
The series draws inspiration from the Belgian film and novel "De Zaak Alzheimer," positioning itself within a growing subgenre of entertainment that examines the intersection of memory loss and criminal activity. Showrunners Aaron Zelman and Glenn Kessler, along with creators Ed Whitmore and Tracey Malone, have assembled a premise that echoes elements of The Day of the Jackal, The Copenhagen Test, and Ray Donovan—stories where protagonists maintain dangerous double lives while confronting personal demons.
Patrick Dempsey's portrayal of Angelo captures the character's internal struggle with subtle physicality and restrained emotion. He navigates the complexity of a man whose identity is literally fragmenting, whose profession demands precision while his mind betrays him with increasing unpredictability. The performance shines brightest in quiet moments—when Angelo visits his brother Michael in a memory care facility, witnessing the future that awaits him. Richard Clarkin's brief but poignant appearance as Michael serves as a haunting mirror of Angelo's potential fate.
Michael Imperioli brings his characteristic intensity to Dutch, the crime boss who values Angelo as both a friend and a valuable asset. The dynamic between them carries the weight of shared history, though the series hasn't yet fully explored the moral compromises that bind them. Odeya Rush provides a grounded performance as Maria, whose concerns about her husband Jeff's unemployment and her father's wellbeing create a domestic anchor that contrasts sharply with the violent underworld her father inhabits.
The show's visual language effectively distinguishes Angelo's two worlds. Hudson Springs is rendered in warm, natural lighting that emphasizes community and family ties, while his New York operations unfold in cooler, more sterile environments where danger lurks in shadows. The transformation sequence—where Angelo switches from his "dad clothes" to designer suits, from his VW to a Porsche—becomes a ritual that underscores the psychological compartmentalization required to maintain his double life.
However, after examining the initial episodes, a significant concern emerges: the series appears reluctant to fully commit to its most compelling element. The Alzheimer's narrative thread, which could elevate the show beyond standard thriller fare, often feels secondary to conventional plot developments. The introduction of external threats—a mysterious figure in a blue pickup who knows Angelo's Hudson Springs address, and the early release of Earl Hancock, the drunk driver who killed Angelo's wife—suggests a preference for external conflict over internal psychological exploration.
This represents a missed opportunity. The most fascinating aspects of Angelo's predicament lie not in who might be following him, but in how his deteriorating memory affects his ability to perform his job, maintain his cover, and preserve his relationship with his daughter. When Angelo improvises a kill using a bathroom paper towel dispenser rod after his target changes seats, it demonstrates his professional adaptability. But the series could delve deeper: How does he remember his cover story? What happens when muscle memory fails during a critical moment? How does he reconcile the moral weight of his profession with his desire to be present for his grandchild?
The cognitive decline elements, while present, often serve as plot devices rather than thematic foundations. A forgotten PIN code creates momentary tension; a misplaced gun signals danger. But these moments rarely spark the profound character examination the premise promises. The series seems more comfortable operating within established thriller conventions than venturing into the uncharted territory of a killer losing the very memories that define his identity—both professional and personal.
Comparisons to similar shows highlight both the potential and the limitations. Like Ray Donovan, Memory of a Killer explores a fixer figure whose family life complicates his criminal activities. Like The Day of the Jackal, it features a meticulous professional whose planning and execution are central to the narrative. Yet where these shows gradually reveal psychological complexity, Memory of a Killer appears to treat its protagonist's Alzheimer's primarily as a complication rather than a profound transformation.
The supporting cast shows promise for future development. Richard Harmon as Joe, Dutch's nephew, represents the next generation of criminal enterprise, potentially creating generational tension within the organization. Daniel David Stewart's Jeff, the unemployed app developer son-in-law, could become either a liability or an unexpected ally as Angelo's condition progresses.
For viewers seeking a straightforward thriller with a unique hook, Memory of a Killer delivers sufficient tension and intrigue. The production values are solid, the performances credible, and the premise undeniably attention-grabbing. Dempsey's star power and the show's high-concept premise will likely attract an audience curious to see how the Alzheimer's angle plays out in a crime drama context.
Yet for those hoping for a series that truly grapples with the philosophical and psychological implications of its central concept, the early episodes suggest tempered expectations. The show demonstrates the capacity for depth, particularly in scenes between Angelo and his brother, but too often retreats to safer narrative territory. As the series progresses, its success will depend on whether it embraces the profound questions its premise raises: What remains of a person when their memories dissolve? Can redemption exist for someone who can't remember their sins? How does a killer confront mortality when his mind is erasing itself?
Memory of a Killer stands at a crossroads. It could evolve into a groundbreaking exploration of identity, morality, and memory, or it could remain a competent but unremarkable addition to the crowded thriller landscape. The foundation is there—compelling performances, a strong premise, and moments of genuine pathos. Whether the series builds upon that foundation or settles for conventional storytelling will determine its ultimate impact and longevity.
For now, viewers must decide whether the intriguing concept and Dempsey's committed performance justify investment in a show that hasn't yet realized its full potential. The pieces are in place for something extraordinary; the question is whether the creative team will assemble them into the profound character study the premise deserves, or content itself with being merely entertaining.