The perfect weekend binge: Netflix’s strangest six-part crime thriller

Image: Netflix

For those familiar with the cinematic trajectory of Nicolas Winding Refn over the last thirty years, his work often demands a particular palate. The Danish auteur is unparalleled in his command of style, yet his filmography has evolved from the grounded, visceral intensity of crime sagas like the Pusher trilogy and Drive into increasingly abstract, meditative experiments. (His sprawling 13-hour miniseries Too Old to Die Young is a masterclass for those with the endurance for it.) If you are searching for a bridge between his classic grit and his avant-garde tendencies, his 2023 Netflix offering, Copenhagen Cowboy, serves as the perfect middle ground.

Returning to his Danish roots for the first time since his early crime work, Copenhagen Cowboy introduces us to Miu (Angela Bundalovic), an enigmatic, soft-spoken wanderer. Passed between various criminal syndicates in Copenhagen, she is treated as a talisman—a bringer of fortune whose proximity grants luck to her handlers. Yet, this prosperity is precarious; cross her, and that favor vanishes instantly. Throughout these six hypnotic chapters, Miu navigates a labyrinth of surreal locales: from the stark realities of an Albanian-run brothel and a restaurant concealing illicit activities to the eerie, potentially supernatural sphere of a wealthy, secretive family.

While another creator might have shaped this premise into a high-octane thriller reminiscent of John Wick, Refn is far less concerned with traditional action than with the cultivation of pure, lingering atmosphere.

Copenhagen Cowboy exists in a state of dream logic. Dialogue is delivered with a deliberate, haunting slowness; sweeping 360-degree camera movements force the viewer to obsess over every visual texture; and the pulsating, synth-heavy score by Cliff Martinez evokes the neon-soaked energy of a late-night club. Together with its lush, shadow-drenched aesthetic, the series feels akin to a vivid hallucination—a trance-like state where the boundaries between reality and nightmare blur.

It is entirely understandable if these stylistic choices feel alienating to some; however, for those of us who relish Refn’s most uninhibited creative impulses, the journey is exhilarating. Miu—a figure of profound stillness—functions as a “female evolution” of the classic brooding protagonist, existing more as a conduit of change than as a traditional character with clear inner motivations. Her origins and human status remain intentionally obscured, much like her uncanny aesthetic presence. Expecting traditional narrative markers like standard character arcs or conventional plotting is a fool’s errand in the Refn-verse.

Ultimately, Copenhagen Cowboy represents Refn doubling down on his idiosyncratic vision. Every frame—from the saturated color palette to the near-silent, performance-driven scenes—is a refinement of the aesthetic language he has been developing since the divisive reception of Only God Forgives. Looking ahead, his forthcoming feature Her Private Hell—slated for a Cannes premiere—is rumored to be his take on the slasher genre, centering on a Barbarella-esque production terrorized by a serial killer. It sounds like an essential evolution of his style, and I am fully prepared to watch it unfold.

Post-Drive, Refn has firmly established himself as a singular cult filmmaker, indifferent to whether his creative rhythm aligns with mainstream tastes. Copenhagen Cowboy stands as the most comprehensive realization of these sensibilities within a streaming format. It is an overlooked, spellbinding entry in Netflix’s catalog—a supernatural crime fable that challenges the conventions of modern episodic television. The series requires patience, an appreciation for ambiguity, and a willingness to surrender to its hypnotic wavelength. For those prepared to meet it halfway, the experience is profoundly mesmerizing.

Source: Polygon