In the throbbing underbelly of Manhattan, where the skyline’s sparkle masks a sewer of secrets and the clink of cocktail glasses drowns out the screams of the damned, Netflix has unleashed a beast that bites back. It’s September 22, 2025, and Black Rabbit—the eight-episode crime thriller miniseries that dropped like a Molotov cocktail on September 18—has clawed its way to the top of the streaming charts, devouring 85 million hours viewed in its first weekend. Starring Jude Law and Jason Bateman as estranged brothers teetering on the razor’s edge of family loyalty and felony fallout, this isn’t your garden-variety sibling squabble. It’s a seductive spiral into New York’s nocturnal nightmare, where a chic restaurant becomes a powder keg, loan sharks circle like starved wolves, and every whispered promise tastes like betrayal. Skeptical about Law’s suave schemer pairing with Bateman’s boy-next-door gone feral? You’re gonna hate the casting… until it hooks you harder than a bad bet in a backroom poker den. Directed in parts by the duo themselves and laced with the grit of The Bear meets Uncut Gems meets Ozark‘s moral quagmire, Black Rabbit is the sexiest, most soul-crushing addiction Netflix has served up since Squid Game made us all masochists. Pour yourself a stiff one—because once you start, you won’t stop until the last drop of blood hits the bar top.

Flash to the premiere episode’s pulse-pounding opener: Sirens wail through rain-slicked SoHo streets as masked marauders burst into Black Rabbit, the eponymous hotspot that’s equal parts culinary cathedral and celebrity confessional. Gunshots echo off exposed brick walls, shattering the illusion of upscale serenity. Cut to Jake Friedken (Jude Law), the restaurant’s silver-tongued owner, mid-toast to a room of A-listers and influencers, his Armani suit now spattered with the chaos he never saw coming. “To new beginnings,” he smirks, right before the world explodes. It’s a hook sharper than a switchblade, yanking us back a month to unpack the powder keg. Jake, 45 and flawless on the surface, has clawed his way from Queens obscurity to Black Rabbit’s velvet-rope throne. A former music manager turned restaurateur, he’s the guy who charms Michelin inspectors with a wink and investors with a vision of “molecular mixology meets midnight confessions.” But beneath the bespoke tailoring lurks a man haunted by half-buried grudges—chief among them, his older brother Vince, the black sheep who bolted years ago, leaving Jake to shoulder the family wreckage alone.

Enter Vince Friedken (Jason Bateman), slinking back into Jake’s orbit like a ghost with a gambling jones. Bateman, shedding his Arrested Development affability like a snake molts its skin, transforms into a whirlwind of wide-eyed whimsy masking Machiavellian madness. Fresh off a Reno bender where he accidentally flattens a coin thief in a casino parking lot (don’t worry, the show’s got a dark sense of humor about vehicular manslaughter), Vince crashes Jake’s empire with open arms and empty pockets. “I didn’t budget for you,” Jake hisses in the trailer, his British lilt cracking like fine china under pressure. But blood’s thicker than the artisanal bourbon flowing from Black Rabbit’s taps, so Jake lets him in—first as a silent partner, then as the spark that ignites the inferno. Vince’s debts? A cool $2 million to a syndicate of Eastern European enforcers who collect with crowbars and compound interest. His baggage? A trail of bounced checks, botched heists, and a charisma so disarming you almost forgive him for torching everything he touches. Almost.

The genius of Black Rabbit—penned by Zach Baylin (The Card Counter) and Kate Susman in their Netflix debut—lies in how it weaponizes brotherly bonds as a Trojan horse for tragedy. Creators Baylin and Susman, who executive produce alongside the stars, started with the Friedkens’ fractured fraternal dynamic: Jake, the golden child turned control freak, forever chasing validation from a father who favored Vince’s reckless charm; Vince, the eternal screwup whose “one last score” promises keep pulling Jake under like quicksand. “Vince is kind of a fuckup,” Bateman admitted in a Tudum interview, his grin belying the beast he unleashes. “But he’s well-meaning—until he’s not.” Law, reprising his chameleon chops from The Talented Mr. Ripley, infuses Jake with a predatory poise that’s equal parts seductive and sinister. Their scenes together? Electric dynamite. A tense kitchen confab where Vince pitches a “harmless” loan shark shakedown devolves into a bare-knuckled brawl amid sizzling sautés; a midnight rooftop reconciliation under the Empire State glow turns confessional, with Jake admitting, “You were always the favorite—the one who got away with murder. Literally.” It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s the kind of sibling savagery that makes Succession‘s Roy kids look like the Brady Bunch.

But Black Rabbit isn’t just a two-man psychodrama; it’s a full-throttle plunge into the Big Apple’s criminal carnivale. The restaurant itself is a character— a labyrinth of leather booths, hidden speakeasies, and a VIP lounge where deals are sealed with NDAs and narcotics. Supporting players flesh out the frenzy: Cleopatra Coleman as Elena, Jake’s razor-sharp sommelier and secret flame, whose affair with him simmers like a reduction sauce on the verge of boiling over; Amaka Okafor as Roxie, the brilliant but burnout-prone head chef whose off-menu “specials” fund her own side hustles; Ṣọpẹ Dìrísù as Wes, a chart-topping rapper and Black Rabbit investor whose platinum records hide platinum-plated grudges from Jake’s old management days. Then there’s Troy Kotsur, the Oscar-nominated CODA star, as a deaf enforcer for the loan sharks—silent, swift, and scarier than a subway rat with rabies. Odessa Young slinks in as a nosy New York Post reporter sniffing around the robbery’s “inside job” vibes, while Abbey Lee and Chris Coy round out the rogue’s gallery as a pair of junkie jewel thieves who owe Vince everything and everyone.

Visually, it’s a feast for the filthy-minded. Bateman, directing the first two episodes with his Ozark eye for economic unease, bathes Brooklyn’s back alleys in noirish neon—crimson reds bleeding into electric blues, shadows swallowing secrets whole. Composers Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans (fellow Ozark alums) score it with a throbbing pulse of trap beats laced with lounge jazz, turning every foot chase through Flatiron alleys into a symphony of sin. Laura Linney, Bateman’s Ozark on-screen spouse turned off-screen collaborator, helms episodes three and four, infusing a woman’s gaze into the boys’ club: Her lens lingers on Elena’s quiet rebellions, Roxie’s kitchen tantrums, and the invisible labor propping up Jake’s patriarchal paradise. The time-hopping structure—flashing from heist night to Reno flashbacks to pre-Vince idylls—keeps you guessing, but it’s the emotional gut-punches that land hardest. One episode’s centerpiece: Vince, high on hope and horse tranquilizers, drags Jake into a high-stakes poker game at a TriBeCa penthouse, where a single bluff spirals into a bloodbath. “We’re not players, Vince—we’re the pawns,” Jake snarls, as the table flips and loyalties shatter.

Critics are divided like a bad divorce—Rotten Tomatoes clocks in at 64% fresh, with the consensus praising the “elegantly plated but over-seasoned grit” buoyed by Law and Bateman’s “committed carnage.” Detractors call it “unbearably bleak,” a “lifeless slog” that withholds too long before the why-cares-why-bothers payoff. But fans? They’re feral. X exploded with #BlackRabbitBros memes splicing Bateman’s manic grin onto Bateman’s Ozark Marty Byrde; TikTok’s flooded with thirst edits of Law’s shirtless chef meltdown, captioned “When the brotherly love hits different.” Binge-watch parties in LA lofts devolved into dawn confessions—viewers admitting the show’s siren call lies in its unflinching mirror to our own family fractures. “It’s not about the crime,” one viral post rants. “It’s the slow poison of letting your brother back in—knowing it’ll kill you both.” Netflix’s algorithm is loving it: 92% completion rate, with viewers chaining straight into Ripley for more Law-fueled debauchery.

What elevates Black Rabbit from gritty guilty pleasure to cultural catnip is its unapologetic dive into the dark heart of the American Dream. In a city where billionaires brunch beside the broke, Jake’s ascent—from immigrant kid slinging falafel to king of the culinary castle—mirrors the myth we all chase. Vince’s return? The rude awakening that success is a house of cards built on blood oaths. Creators Baylin and Susman, drawing from Baylin’s boxing-ring roots (Creed) and Susman’s indie edge (The Climb), craft a thriller that’s as much psychosexual as it is pulse-racing. The brothers’ bond crackles with unspoken homoerotic tension—stolen glances over sautés, brawls that end in breathless embraces—echoing The Talented Mr. Ripley‘s seductive sins but grounded in fraternal fury. And the ending? No spoilers, but it’s a bittersweet gut-wrencher: Jake, unmoored and unbreakable, toasts to “new beginnings” alone at a bar that bears his scars. Vince? Well, let’s just say freedom comes at a price steeper than Soho rent.

As the credits roll on this limited labyrinth, one question lingers like cigar smoke in a back booth: In a world of endless reboots, does Black Rabbit hop the fence into timeless? With Law eyeing Oscar whispers for his tour-de-force unraveling and Bateman proving he’s more than Marty Byrde’s ghost, it’s a resounding maybe—leaning hard toward yes. This isn’t prestige TV for the faint of wallet; it’s for those who crave the thrill of the fall, the sex of the scam, the addiction of watching good men go gloriously, grotesquely wrong. Stream it if you dare—because in the underworld of Black Rabbit, the house always wins. But damn, what a delicious defeat.