When Prestige TV Whispers Instead of Screams
A Review of Black Rabbit (Episodes 1-3) I wrote for my College Critical Writing Class...
Going to do something different today than a typical Writer’s Room Wednesday.
As some of you who have been following me from the start of my journey here on Substack know, I’m a full-time college student along with all the other writing I’m doing.
And with that full-time workload, majoring in Creative Writing and Philosophy, I’ve had to take some gen ed courses that included critical writing. What came from it, though, was something I didn’t expect. I actually enjoyed the papers I wrote in that class.
This one in particular stood out to me. We were tasked with writing a review of a restaurant, TV series, movie, song, album, or car. Anything really that can be reviewed and done so for a publication already in existence.
I had just finished watching the new Netflix series Black Rabbit. A good old-fashioned binge viewing over the course of a weekend, and knew right away what I was going to review.
I wanted to share that review, written as if I was writing for Screen Rant. For two reasons. One, I thoroughly enjoyed the type of writing I did here and what came from it. And second, because if this is something you all might want to see more of, then I’d be happy to start doing reviews like this once a month of different TV series and movies that I’m currently enjoying.
If that’s the case, then what I would do is also try and look at them from a screenwriting perspective. So, please let me know what you think and if I should do more of these in the future.
My Review of Black Rabbit
Look, I’m not going to pretend I came into Black Rabbit unbiased. When I saw Jason Bateman was directing again—after his work on Ozark and that unsettling, atmospheric run on HBO’s The Outsider—I was already sold. But what hooked me in the first three episodes wasn’t just Bateman behind the camera. It was Bateman in front of it, playing Vince Friedken, the kind of addict who can’t stop reaching for the next fix even when he knows it’ll destroy everything he touches. Something I know something about.
The show opens with Jude Law’s Jake Friedken—restaurateur, control freak, man-on-the-verge—preparing for the review that could make or break his Brooklyn hotspot, Black Rabbit. It’s sleek, it’s buzzing, it’s exactly the kind of place where you’d drop $200 on dinner and feel like you got proximity to something dangerous and beautiful all at once. Then his chaotic older brother, Vince, shows up, fresh from a bad deal in Reno, dragging every bad decision behind him like tin cans on a wedding car. The problem with Vince returning to NYC is that he owes $100,000 to a family of loan sharks run by Troy Kotsur’s terrifying Joe Mancuso, and it doesn’t take long for them to find out he’s back. But Jake’s got dreams bigger than his wallet, and suddenly Black Rabbit stops being about a restaurant and becomes about two brothers who destroy everything they love—including each other—whether they mean to or not.
Created by Zach Baylin (King Richard) and Kate Susman, the show pulls inspiration from real New York hotspots like The Spotted Pig, mixing celebrity glamour with the messier side of the city’s dining scene. That blend of exclusivity and excess is baked right into the atmosphere.
The Unspoken Language of Self-Destruction
What Bateman and Law do in these first three episodes is masterclass-level character work. They’re playing two men who’ve spent their entire lives speaking a language nobody else understands, built on trauma, resentment, love, and codependency that feels like family but functions like poison.
There’s a scene in Episode 2 where Vince admits he owes money to Mancuso, and Jake doesn’t even look surprised. He just looks tired. Like he knew this was coming. Like he’s been bracing for Vince to ruin his life again for years. And yet—and yet—he doesn’t kick him out. Because family looks far different than we want it to. Because sometimes the person who’s destroying your life is the only person who understands why you’re still standing.
That’s the thesis of Black Rabbit in three episodes: prestige TV doesn’t need to be loud. Sometimes the most devastating moments are the ones left unspoken.
Bateman’s Direction: Dark, Slick, and Always Lurking
Bateman directs the first two episodes, and his fingerprints are all over this thing. If you loved the way The Outsider felt like dread in slow motion, you’ll recognize that same atmospheric tension here. Every scene feels like trouble is lurking just around the corner, and it usually is. When Ozark alum Laura Linney takes over for Episode 3, she maintains the tone, yes, but she also deepens it, holding on faces longer, letting silences linger, and knowing exactly when to let the unspoken do the heavy lifting.
The cinematography is dark and moody, all shadows and muted tones. The Black Rabbit restaurant itself is this gorgeous contradiction: warm lighting, exposed brick, the kind of place that feels intimate and exclusive, but underneath it all, there’s this rot. Which might be why the production design team decided to leave the exposed framing and ripped-out walls as part of the aesthetic. I’m not sure, but I would love to ask them because it works beautifully to enhance the vibe. This sense that no matter how beautiful the plating is, the food’s about to spoil.
The NYC setting matters too. This isn’t the glamorous Manhattan of Succession or the scrappy underdog Brooklyn of The Bear. This is the New York that exists in-between—where ambition and desperation live on the same block, where you can be one bad night away from losing everything you’ve built. It’s where you can really feel the creators may have pulled from the sexual harassment and other scandals surrounding the real Spotted Pig gastropub, which they credit as inspiration for the bones of the series.
How It Stacks Up
Black Rabbit feels like what would happen if you took Ozark‘s family dysfunction and high-stakes crime, stripped away the cartel plotlines, and transplanted it into a Brooklyn restaurant with Troy Kotsur playing a deaf loan shark who communicates in terrifying sign language. But it’s more intimate than Ozark. More claustrophobic. The stakes aren’t “will the cartel kill us?” The stakes are “will we destroy each other first?”
Some reviews compare it to The Bear, but that’s the wrong comp. The Bear has heart. It has hope. It has people who are trying to be better. Black Rabbit is about people who keep making the same mistakes over and over, fully aware they’re doing it, unable to stop. It’s closer to Uncut Gems in that way—watching someone spiral and being unable to look away.
The Verdict
If you’re looking for a feel-good show, Black Rabbit isn’t it. If you want heroes or even likeable antiheroes, look elsewhere. But if you want a character study in how family trauma manifests, how addiction isn’t always about substances, and how sometimes the people we love most are the ones we hurt worst—even when we’re trying not to—then Black Rabbit is absolutely worth your time.
The first three episodes hook you immediately. Law and Bateman are doing career-best work. The direction is tight, atmospheric, and unrelenting. And the show understands something a lot of prestige TV forgets: you don’t need to scream to devastate someone. Sometimes a look is enough. Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
Some critics say the characters are too unsympathetic to care about, but after three episodes, I’m in. Not because I like Vince and Jake. But because I understand them. And in a world full of TV shows trying to be the loudest voice in the room, Black Rabbit knows when to shut up and let the damage speak for itself.
Rating: 4/5 Stars
Black Rabbit is now streaming on Netflix. All eight episodes are available to binge.