The series tells of the criminal operations of the interrogator, Martin Jones. Martin lives a double life as a murderer and is simultaneously living in the deadly land of Los Angeles. Over time, Martin confronts different paths and challenges through an existential crisis that leads to the violent events he always causes.
Unfolds in a glazed and shimmering fugue state, like a chopped and screwed Michael Mann crime epic, or Michael Douglas in Falling Down wading through golden syrup.
It remains to be seen if the show can make its many variables gel, but there's an inherent intrigue to watching the story in medias res and still find that it offers some measure of closure in its final moments.
Dimly-lit neon-drenched dreck, the two episodes I saw presented at Cannes look and feel like a bad David Lynch parody, with none of Lynch's oddities, humor, or appreciation of both the grotesque and the spiritual.
All the signature Refn elements are there: a trippy, synth-heavy score from Cliff Martinez; high contrast lighting; and moments of shocking, bloody violence.
Take this for what you will, by the time the piece rolled around to the murder-porn plotline and a nameless girl buried alive in the New Mexico sands by two pornographer brothers, I was... ready to bolt.
