Furious - Review

Rating: 5 out of 5

THE spectre of the real-life horrors of sex trafficking (and Jeffrey Epstein in particular) hangs over Furious, a ferociously brilliant yet rightfully angry new thriller from Elizabeth Meriwether (of Dying For Sex fame).

Headed by a top tier cast and boasting some of the most memorable characters to hit the small screen this year, the show exists as both a riveting and wholly unpredictable thriller and a damning indictment of male misogyny and female degradation in a world that doesn’t really seem to have learned many of the lessons of the #MeToo movement.

Although inspired by the 1987 film Black Widow, starring Theresa Russell and Debra Winger, this eight-part series couldn’t be more different given the rage it exhibits through virtually every one of its primary characters.

Emmy Rossum heads the cast as Alice Black, a former NYPD officer now with the FBI, who finds herself assigned to the case of a female serial killer named Catherine (Lola Petticrew), who is systematically killing wealthy men.

So far, so ordinary you might think. But there’s so much going on here that the case itself is merely the backdrop for the deep, dark and twisted psychological journey this series takes you on.

For starters, Catherine is the past victim of an Epstein-style sex trafficking ring, who was regularly abused as a teenager and forced into doing things she did not want to. She subsequently tortures her victims after injecting them with a powerful immobilising drug. And she kind of toys with them as they plead for their lives.

But this is no Saw style torture porn show.

Catherine is gathering information. She’s also sending a message. And despite being petite and almost child-like (in what continually proves to be fatally tempting to her victims), she’s a wily and formidable adversary. Albeit supremely damaged too.

Rossum’s pursuing Fed [Black] is almost her mirror image. As an NYPD detective, she was dating her childhood sweetheart until he turned violent and beat her, leaving her similarly scarred, especially as her attempts to report him largely fell on deaf ears and curtailed her standing within the department.

The abuse has created a recklessness and fury inside of her, as well as a fear of showers and a propensity for meeting strangers and having them beat her up. But it hasn’t dampened her instincts as a first-rate investigator.

Yet as Black pursues Catherine it also becomes painfully clear that she has further secrets to hide from her own past.

Her superior, sex crimes unit boss Nora Washington (Quincy Tyler Bernstine), is similarly traumatised from a career existing in the shadow of her male colleagues and from the toll of having to watch and see so many unsettling acts. She’s an alcoholic.

But she too carries an anger that drives her forwards, determined to land the prized scalp of local billionaire Jay Easton, the man ultimately responsible for Catherine’s plight - and whom Nora has had in her sights for too many years, only to find herself repeatedly being stonewalled by her superiors.

All three lead actresses give tour-de-force performances - complex portrayals that dig deep into the corrosive reality of living with and around abuse, as well as existing as women in a predominantly man’s world.

You feel their frustrations, you feel their pain, and you feel their fury. Each win - even those perpetrated by Catherine - feels somehow cathartic. But it’s the nature of how loaded the dice are against them, as well as the knowledge of real-world headlines involving billionaire predators going largely unpunished, that gives this show its edge.

Justice doesn’t come easy, if at all. And certainly not always in the form you would expect. For, as Nora chillingly asks Alice early on: “You think you’re ever going to catch anyone who matters?”

That’s not to say that Furious is resolutely anti-men. Another of the show’s memorable characters is Scoot McNairy’s former colleague and one remaining friend Dt Danny Kelly, who has suffered the consequences of supporting her.

Danny epitomises decency. He loves Alice but is too afraid to say it. He isn’t interested in playing the games that his colleagues continually play in order to get ahead. And he frequently bends the rules to get what he needs done (but in a good way). As a result, he’s an outsider - much like Alice and Nora, ostracised by his colleagues. He also has a son in a care home, who he seldom speaks about and struggles to connect with. But whom he also loves.

On the wider periphery, there’s also Alden (played by Steve Way), a homebound, disabled young man, confined to a wheelchair, who forms a unique romantic connection with Catherine, who has been serving as his home-healthcare aide.

In real-life, Way suffers from muscular dystrophy (having been diagnosed at the age of four) and his performance is notable for the honesty and lived experience he brings to the role. When he speaks of his frustrations at not being seen, or even allowing himself to be duped by Catherine, his insights are also affecting. It’s another measure of the show’s quality that it draws from such a diverse cast and is disability affirming.

Of the villains, there are many. And I hesitate to include Catherine among them. But they come in various guises. Peter McRobbie’s Jay Easton is the most obvious and his storyline echoes with that of Epstein - a powerful mogul who is seemingly untouchable.

But there’s also the various men in Easton’s network, which provide for some starry cameos - Rob Delaney is terrifically awful as another high powered businessman who makes no bones about forcing young women to sign NDAs before having his way with them, while Campbell Scott is similarly ‘nice’ but evil as Easton’s lawyer - someone who claims to be compiling evidence against him, yet who clearly acts in his own self preservation while enabling Easton through silence.

Representing the wider establishment and its propensity for covering things up is Danny McCarthy’s top tier FBI man Ed George, whose complicity at some level is something that Nora is desperate to expose (her baiting of him is brilliant), while Jake Lacey is misogyny and toxic masculinity personified as Alice’s ex-boyfriend, a cop on the rise who manipulates every situation to his advantage, to the detriment of his ex.

All contribute to the rich tapestry the show weaves, with twists aplenty and moral and ethical dilemmas flying thick and fast.

But it’s the psychological element that hits hardest and which lends the series its distinct identity. The interactions between characters are riveting, the insights into their psychology fascinating, messy and complex.

Take how Alice is continually drawn to her abuse, often inviting repetitions of it. Or how Catherine often uses her body to seduce her prey, placing her in many of the same situations that saw her being abused.

Furious doesn’t linger on the details. It takes no joy in the kills. And it doesn’t feel voyeuristic or explorative. It shies away from the gory details of either the kills or the abuse.

The horror lies in its aftermath; in the pained looks; the tortured, ruined lives of its victims; or the grinning faces of vile men who conduct such atrocities and get on with their own lives as if nothing had happened, often returning to families. Given its proximity to the headlines, Furious doesn’t need to sensationalise.

It’s also what makes the small gestures of kindness so rewarding. The sight of Danny waiting outside the shower to reassure Alice that she is safe and the momentary release it affords her. The small acts of kindness and recognition between Alice and Nora.

For Catherine, it’s the pockets of joy she finds with Alden (even if it’s difficult to tell whether she is using it to her advantage), or the compassion she is able to show in certain cases: allowing the daughter of one victim to live, even though she is a witness.

It’s worth circling back to state just how impressive the central trio of female performers are: each memorable in their own way and embracing their darkness and just how screwed up they have become.

But then they exist in a similarly fucked up world… one that’s all too real. Furious should fill you with the same fury its characters exhibit. It should prompt you to ask questions.

It’s an angry piece of work - but it's also a downright thrilling one. It is, without doubt, another of 2026’s finest TV shows: furiously provocative and breathtakingly performed.