If there is one face that has defined emotion throughout the past three decades of television, it is the Claire Danes Crying Face. Whether it’s romantic despair, professional desperation, or the myriad shades of grief, Danes has delivered it peerlessly. Netflix’s new series, The Beast in Me, immediately acknowledges this, opening with that very visage—an acknowledgment, but also a warning: the show exploits the Claire Danes Crying Face to the point of being overwhelming and monotonous.

Despite featuring a powerful and talented cast, this eight-part series is nothing more than an exercise in the monotonous regularity of prestige television. It is a thriller devoid of any noteworthy twists and a character study whose insights into human nature barely scratch the surface of the notion: “We all have a ‘beast’ inside us, and that’s why we’re obsessed with stories about monsters.”

I wonder, are there perhaps two kinds of “beasts” within each person—one who is fascinated by stories of wealthy Long Island people committing murder, and one who is utterly bored by them? If I ever housed the first beast, it has now been overfed to the point of nausea.

The Tedious Premise and Two Desperate Characters

Aggie Wiggs (Danes)—a name that’s more fun to say than anything in the show is to watch—is introduced following a car accident that claimed her son’s life, destroyed her marriage to Shelley (Natalie Morales), and left her isolated in her beautiful but decaying Nassau County home.

Five years later, Aggie is a brilliant, Pulitzer-winning profile writer struggling to complete her next book, which sounds frankly stupid. Bills are overdue, pipes are spewing murky water—everything is perfectly set for the Melancholy Danes Face.

Into her life steps Nile Jarvis (Matthew Rhys), a New York City real estate mogul in wealthy exile because all of Manhattan believes he killed his first wife. Nile possesses a look I’d call the “Resting I Killed My First Wife Face”—a distinct visage also overused, much like Danes’ Crying Face.

Nile, a fan of Aggie’s book, bizarrely wants to build a jogging path near his home. Aggie, suspecting Nile is a killer, refuses to sign the approval. From there, she gets drawn into proposing to write a book about him, using it as a pretext to investigate the crime he may or may not have committed. The plot essentially boils down to: “What if Taffy Brodesser-Akner moved next door to Robert Durst and decided to write a book about him?”

Wasted Intelligence and Script Monotony

The series, directed in part by Antonio Campos (who created genuine tension in The Sinner), generates an atmosphere of “whimsical paranoia.” While there are intriguing elements—such as the fact that every conversation involves two characters who each think the other is an idiot—the script is not sharp enough to keep the audience truly on edge.

The dynamic between Martin (Jonathan Banks), Nile (Rhys), and Tim Guinee’s menacing character also opens up a potential story about wealth and toxic masculinity, but unfortunately, the show doesn’t delve into that direction.

The biggest issue is this: Almost everything that actually happens in The Beast in Me is uninteresting. The series fails to deliver anything even slightly surprising for nearly six full episodes. It then offers a promising twist, but immediately drains the momentum with a sluggish flashback episode, and then returns to the main story in a way that instantly defuses all the potential potency of the earlier cliffhanger.

Stagnant Performances

The excellent performances from the cast are dragged down by the script’s lack of forward momentum.

Danes plays the somber note she is asked to deliver well, but stretching it over eight hours makes the performance feel exhausting.

Rhys is typecast in a creepy, intense role—a slight departure from Philip Jennings—but eight episodes of repeating the cycle of “malevolent sneer” followed by five seconds of “disarming earnestness” is simply too much.

Brittany Snow continues her thoroughly earned career renaissance, which is admirable.

Natalie Morales is likable in her sincere role, but I appreciate her more when she gets to go full-snark.

Jonathan Banks became my personal avatar in the second half—walking around perfectly impatient and bored with everything.

If The Beast in Me had been a 100-minute thriller in 1993, starring Julia Roberts and Michael Douglas, it probably would have worked. But as the latest installment of “The Real Rich Sociopaths of Long Island” and an extended showcase for the Claire Danes Crying Face, the beast in me is ready for a nap.