At his best, novelist turned screenwriter Dennis Lehane deftly blends his sociopolitical ideas with genre-friendly sensibilities. As seen in films like Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone, and Shutter Island, Lehane’s pulpy crime sagas can result in thought-provoking adaptations that vigorously and stylishly examine the depths of trauma, grief, and criminality.
Lehane’s first project as a showrunner, Black Bird, is a slick, contemplative morality tale that’s clearly influenced by the brooding but grounded style of other recent crime dramas, notably True Detective and Mindhunter. Over the course of six episodes, this cat-and-mouse thriller explores themes of justice and redemption. Never quite a mystery, nor a story strictly about atonement, Black Bird is a study of the ways in which criminals are born.
Based on Jimmy Keene’s 2010 memoir In with the Devil: A Fallen Hero, a Serial Killer, and a Dangerous Bargain for Redemption, Black Bird follows Jimmy (Taron Egerton), a charming but arrogant drug dealer who’s sentenced to 10 years in the slammer. Concerned about the failing health of his father (Ray Liotta), an ex-cop, Jimmy agrees, in exchange for a get-out-of-jail-free card, to enter a neighboring prison, befriend serial killer Larry Hill (Paul Walter Hauser), and get him to confess to his crimes and the whereabouts of his young victims’ bodies.
Through a dual narrative that bounces between inmates and investigators, the series never loses sight of the fragility of humanity—and the loss thereof—that drives its hardened personalities. It’s soul-searching without slipping into sentimentality but doesn’t lack a sense of vulnerability. But Black Bird can feel plotty and overly pensive, struggling to justify its six-hour runtime. Each narrative decision and creative detour plays out logically and soundly, if not always in the most compelling or original ways.
Black Bird is at its strongest when it follows the budding relationship between its two unlikely criminal companions. As Jimmy tries to extract the information he needs from Larry, we’re slowly but deliberately exposed to the horrific details of the latter’s crimes, which Hauser communicates with an unnerving subtlety. It’s a haunting performance, and one that infuses the series with morbid intrigue. Black Bird competently, if not always vibrantly, explores the delicate relationship between criminality and culpability, but its sleek, mechanical presentation begs for a little more grit to match its cast’s soulful performances.
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