In the gold-drenched realm of prestige streaming, Netflix’s Sirens arrives in a feathered swirl of myth, privilege, and psychological tension—but it stumbles beneath its own excess. Created by Maid showrunner Molly Smith Metzler and boasting a high-wattage cast led by Julianne Moore, Meghann Fahy, and Milly Alcock, the limited series sets its sights on contemporary class satire and ancient myth. But much like the coastal estate it glamorizes, Sirens is all façade—opulent, yes, but emotionally vacant.
The five-part series opens with Moore’s enigmatic Michaela Kell, a wealthy conservationist-socialite, releasing a falcon from a seaside cliff—one of many heavy-handed metaphors tying the show to the Greek mythology it gestures toward. Michaela’s mansion, ominously named Cliff House, becomes a gilded stage for a tale that wants to be part psychological thriller, part sisterhood drama, and part commentary on late-capitalist cults of personality. Instead, Sirens ends up playing like affluence porn with literary aspirations—more obsessed with designer fabrics and charity galas than coherence or character.
The plot circles around two estranged sisters: Devon (Fahy), a hardened, sarcastic mess fresh out of jail, and Simone (Alcock), the Yale-educated golden child who has seemingly traded her identity for a nose job and a Hamptons-adjacent lifestyle. They reunite under tense circumstances: their father’s worsening dementia, Simone’s involvement with the cryptically benevolent Michaela, and a fog of unresolved trauma. With Kevin Bacon playing Michaela’s hedge fund titan husband and a rotating ensemble of eccentric house staff, Sirens initially promises a sharp-eyed upstairs-downstairs exposé. But as the narrative sprawls, any potential bite is dulled by inconsistent tone and cartoonish execution.
Despite its gothic-glamour setup and mythological winks (the digital assistant is named Zeus, naturally), Sirens never decides what it wants to be. Is it a mystery? A satire? A psychological deep-dive into family dysfunction? Metzler tries to braid it all together, but the result is a muddled pastiche where dramatic irony substitutes for depth, and whimsy trumps weight. A sharper script might’ve turned this into The White Lotus with claws. Instead, it lands closer to a sleepy echo of Nine Perfect Strangers—and not just because Julianne Moore appears to be channeling Nicole Kidman.
That’s not to say the show is without merit. Fahy, who previously excelled in HBO’s The White Lotus Season 2, once again proves she can anchor a narrative with both humor and pathos. Her portrayal of Devon, perpetually teetering between rage and resignation, brings rare emotional honesty to a show too often in love with its own illusions. Alcock’s Simone is equally compelling, her transformation from self-possessed assistant to vulnerable sibling handled with subdued precision. The duo’s scenes together—charged with bitterness and buried affection—are among the few that truly resonate.
Yet even with standout performances and an eye for luxury (the cinematography often gleams with intentional artifice), Sirens never quite earns the prestige it’s aiming for. The mythological references, instead of enriching the story, feel like an academic veneer plastered over a melodrama afraid to fully commit. Lines like “Don’t you care about raptor conservation anymore?” are played for laughs but land as tonal whiplash. And while there’s obvious intent to satirize billionaire benevolence and the cultish allure of wealth, the critique feels half-hearted, like clinking champagne glasses during a slow-motion breakdown.
If you’re intrigued by the collision of myth and money, shows like Kaos—another Netflix experiment now cut short—at least dared to be more daring. Sirens, by contrast, plays it safe in its ambiguity, using luxury as both theme and distraction. It’s beautiful to look at, occasionally witty, and never boring. But in the end, it’s a siren song with no real pull—inviting you to the rocks, then letting go of the wheel.
