Movies

Netflix’s ‘Bad Boy’ Tries to Be the Next ‘Euphoria’—But Misses the Mark

BBG News

In the initial scene of the Netflix-released Israeli drama series “Bad Boy“, titled “Tamara Scheinman”, we find Tamara opening her apartment door to a hallway filled with policemen. It’s still dark outside, but they have obtained a search warrant for Tamara’s home and plan to arrest her older son, Dean (Guy Manster). Tamara pleads with the social worker accompanying the police, stating she had asked them not to come and called due to fear. Despite her objections and his resistance to get dressed, they take him forcefully from his bed and put him in a patrol car, where he rides to the station in just his underwear.

For approximately 130 million Netflix viewers who have made “Adolescence” one of the streaming service’s top three most-watched English-language series ever, the initial scene might seem familiar. This miniseries begins with a situation strikingly similar: police presence, a shocked family, the quiet stillness of an early morning, and a young suspect being woken from his sleep. At 13, Dean shares the same age as “Adolescence”‘s middle school murderer. However, it is important to note that “Bad Boy” is not a remake or copy; it was first shown at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2023 before airing in Israel the previous year. Netflix might have strategically released the show around the time when “Adolescence” was losing its viewership peak. In reality, though, these series share little beyond their opening scenes. The comparison between them doesn’t favor “Bad Boy,” whose entertaining but disjointed and tonally inconsistent portrayal of juvenile detention falls short compared to the focused and insightful original.

In the series Adolescence , the storyline delves into misogyny within a generation heavily influenced by social media, using a young, violent character as its focus. On the other hand, Bad Boy tracks its main character through juvenile detention without a clear purpose or objective. The narrative is complex, featuring various timelines that make understanding Dean’s arrest, which he believes was instigated by Tamara, difficult until late in the eight-episode season. Initially, it becomes clear that Dean managed to escape prison with minimal repercussions. The series is structured around comedy routines performed by an older version of Dean (now known as Daniel Chen), who is also a real comedian, actor, and co-creator. One might expect these performances to provide insight into Dean’s experiences through the lens of maturity, but they mainly rely on unrefined humor. For example, one joke goes: “You know why I don’t like pedophiles? They think small.” In the early episodes, a message from an old acquaintance is used to build tension, but it ultimately leads nowhere.

The series becomes more engaging as it explores the dynamic between young character Dean and his cellmate Zion Zoro (Havtamo Farda), a juvenile known for violent actions at the detention center, including brutally killing a girl with a rock. Zoro is disliked by other inmates, who rumor that he drove his previous cellmate to take his own life, though it’s unclear how much of their hostility stems from his crimes and how much from his ethnicity as a Black Ethiopian. However, Zion appears remorseful, making the cell a peaceful sanctuary for Dean amidst an institution controlled by a ruthless mini mob boss, Freddie (Ishay Lalosh). Eventually, Freddie will put Dean in a difficult position, requiring him to choose between his own safety and his allegiance to Zoro, which is complicated by Dean’s awareness of what Zoro did and his lack of knowledge about the circumstances surrounding that heinous act.

Through subtle yet unobtrusive camera work, the actors, particularly Manster and Farda, deliver profound psychological insights that are often masked by their tough exterior portrayals. These powerful performances are what truly shine in the series Bad Boy. However, the show, while dealing with raw subject matter, seems overzealous in its attempts to be edgy. One of its creators is Ron Leshem, known for writing the Israeli version of the controversial teen drama Euphoria; he even refers to it as “the next Euphoria.” Yet, it falls short of that comparison. Elements such as a bluesy garage- and folk-rock soundtrack and animated sequences reminiscent of those found in the Netflix series Heartstopper, suggest an attempt to lighten the show’s seriousness. If Daniel’s humor were more witty, thoughtful, and less reliant on stereotypes, it could have served a similar purpose. Unfortunately, a flippant stage routine about Arabs, coupled with a semi-comic depiction of Dean in a Muslim prison, might have been less offensive if Bad Boy had more substantial Arab characters.

It’s likely not solely Leshem and his collaborators’ fault if much of their work seems puzzling to an American audience, as humor can be notoriously challenging to transfer beyond its original language and culture; what is funny in Hebrew might be Daniel. Some of my bafflement about the narrative and character interactions could stem from my own lack of understanding, not only of the Israeli legal system, but also how aspects like race, ethnicity, and religion influence it – similar to trying to grasp the intricacies of Orange Is the New Black without prior knowledge of the U.S. criminal justice system.

Despite the fact that “Bad Boy” offers a continuation of the discourse about boys and violence, initiated by “Adolescence”, there seems to be an essential piece missing – a depth that was eloquently presented in its predecessor. The show’s apparent lack of introspection and analysis leaves many themes underdeveloped and thoughts unresolved. Questions like what haunts Zoro, why Dean yearns for the unique camaraderie offered by Zoro and other juvenile detainees, and how society lets down teenagers who see themselves as proficient in prison life, remain largely unexplored. It’s surprising that “Bad Boy” portrays such a superficial approach to these profound questions, imagining decades in prison with Zoro as a “life sentence of freedom”.

The show’s main plot is driven by two major mysteries concerning Dean’s past and how it influences his present. Firstly, we are unaware of the reason for his falling out with Zoro (a subplot that, like another involving another old friend, seems to be resolved too quickly). Secondly, we question how Dean transformed from a troubled juvenile delinquent with no aspirations for the future into a successful comedian. The series provides an explanation, albeit one that seems disconnected from most other aspects of the show, suggesting that a drama program in a detention center discovered something special in him – the same quality that made Zoro view Dean as superior and worthy of protection. It’s odd because Dean’s humor doesn’t necessarily demonstrate exceptional talent. However, what’s even more troubling is how this supposed talent overshadows the humanity of the other inmates. After all, what made Adolescence so haunting was the suggestion that its protagonist could have been any disgruntled boy anywhere.

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2025-05-02 20:07

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