Netflix’s latest crime drama, Black Rabbit, has quickly become a talking point among fans of gritty urban thrillers and restaurant dramas alike. Created by Zach Baylin and Kate Susman, this eight-episode series stars Jason Bateman and Jude Law as the Friedken brothers, whose tangled lives and shared past draw viewers into a world of ambition, family dysfunction, and the relentless hustle of New York City. The show, which debuted before September 18, 2025, has already sparked comparisons to both classic crime films and contemporary television hits, and not without reason.
The Friedken brothers—Jake (Jude Law) and Vince (Jason Bateman)—are native sons of a Coney Island bar owner. Their upbringing among the sticky floors and smoky air of neighborhood dives sets the stage for their adult lives, which revolve around their own restaurant, the Black Rabbit, now a white-hot downtown spot with lines out the door. But beneath the surface, their partnership is anything but smooth. Jake, the younger brother, is a hustler who just turned 50 and lives in a rented penthouse filled with loaned art, while Vince, the older sibling, is a self-described former addict who always seems to be one step away from disaster.
From the outset, Black Rabbit leans heavily into its central metaphor. As noted by Variety, the show invites viewers to follow Jake and Vince down a proverbial rabbit hole—a spiral of codependency, resentment, and risky schemes that is foreshadowed in the very first scene, which teases a climactic armed robbery. The brothers’ relationship is fraught with tension, shaped by both their childhood trauma and their adult ambitions. Their father, a master of the con, once told them as children, “They’re as real as you tell people they are,” after gifting them fake gold watches. That philosophy—fake it till you make it—permeates their lives and the show itself.
In the present, Jake is trying to break free from the constraints of his business partner Wes (Sope Dirisu), a musician-turned-mogul whose influence and expensive taste (think $400 bottles of Barolo) keep the Black Rabbit’s buzz alive but also threaten its financial stability. Jake’s desperation to strike out on his own leads him to embezzle from the restaurant, all while courting investors for an even grander venture. His personal life is no less complicated, with a chemistry-free romance with interior designer Estelle (Cleopatra Coleman) offering little solace from the mounting pressures.
Vince, meanwhile, can’t seem to escape his chaotic tendencies. When he’s introduced, he’s trying to hock an antique coin collection in a Las Vegas parking lot—a scheme that, unsurprisingly, goes awry. He’s soon drawn back to New York, fleeing debts owed to a ruthless loan shark played by Oscar winner Troy Kotsur. Kotsur’s performance stands out, with Variety noting that he “earns our affection rather than assuming it, and also has a point—Vince really ought to pay him back!” Vince’s presence is described as a storm, not a traveler seeking shelter, and his return upends whatever stability Jake has managed to build.
The restaurant itself is more than just a backdrop. Its name, atmosphere, and celebrated female chef (Amaka Okafor) evoke the real-life Spotted Pig, the iconic New York restaurant of the mid-2000s. The show’s soundtrack, peppered with hits from Interpol, Cold War Kids, and The Strokes, serves as a nostalgic nod to the so-called indie sleaze era, placing the series firmly in a New York that’s both present and past. The Friedkens’ surname, just two letters off from disgraced restaurateur Ken Friedman, hints at further real-life parallels, especially as the series delves into revelations about misconduct and betrayal.
Flashbacks are a staple in Black Rabbit, filling in the brothers’ backstory and the formation of their band, the Black Rabbits, in the 1990s. Their brief brush with fame—enough for a karaoke hit, not enough for a lasting career—serves as both a source of pride and regret. As one flashback reveals, Vince once convinced a reluctant Jake to open their own place, arguing that “restaurants are the nightclubs of adults” and a “port in a storm.” But as the show makes clear, Vince himself is the storm, perpetually dragging Jake into new trouble.
Despite its ambitions, the series doesn’t always hit the mark. Reviewers have pointed out that the show “sags in its middle stretch,” with its eight-plus hours of content sometimes feeling oppressive rather than immersive. The Atlantic observed that there’s “so little variation in its eight-plus hours that its intensity becomes merely oppressive,” and that the show “keeps telling us it’s for real, but it’s writing checks that it can’t cash.” The chemistry between Law and Bateman as brothers is also questioned, with their odd-couple dynamic sometimes failing to convince. Bateman, who also directs the first two episodes and serves as executive producer alongside Law, is known for roles where his apparent straight-laced persona gives way to darker tendencies. Here, he starts out grimy, and as Variety notes, “Vince, a recovering addict with a scraggly beard, starts too grimy for the actor to capably sell.”
Law’s Jake fares slightly better, with the actor’s experience in playing schemers and native New Yorkers lending some credibility to the role. Still, his character’s compulsive need to live beyond his means and his lack of genuine connection with those around him make it hard for viewers to root for his success. Most of the women in the series, unfortunately, serve mainly as collateral damage, a point that hasn’t gone unnoticed by critics.
Comparisons to other works abound. The show’s attempts to capture the textured realism of the Safdie brothers’ films are evident, with a particularly stressful diamond store set piece evoking Uncut Gems. The family drama set in a bustling restaurant inevitably draws parallels to The Bear, though Black Rabbit trades some of that show’s warmth for a colder, more relentless tone.
Ultimately, Black Rabbit is a show about the lies we tell ourselves and others, the relentless pursuit of success, and the ways in which family bonds can both sustain and destroy. Its central message—echoed in the words of the Friedken patriarch—is that reality is often a matter of perception. But as the series unfolds, it becomes clear that some debts, whether financial or emotional, can’t be faked or wished away. The final episodes deliver the action and momentum that the middle section lacks, culminating in the armed robbery teased at the start.
For all its flaws, Black Rabbit offers a compelling, if occasionally exhausting, look at ambition, addiction, and the costs of chasing an ever-elusive sense of belonging. Whether viewers will want to follow the Friedken brothers all the way down the rabbit hole is another question entirely.
