Copenhagen Cowboy Season 1: Every director has at least one weird, smug work in them that the studio system won’t let them make, that audiences can’t understand, and that feels as much like therapy as it does like making a movie. Nicolas Winding Refn is a well-known director who has made psychedelic movies like “Journey,” “Only God Forgives,” In this way, the neon demon is different from other demons because he only seems to be interested in strange, wild things.
Copenhagen Cowboy Season 1 Recap
His most recent work is a six-part Netflix series called Copenhagen Cowboy. It’s about a young woman named Miu (Angela Bundalovic) who likes to dress up as Nico Bellic from Grand Theft Auto IV and looks for revenge in the neon-lit Danish underworld. This dreamscape of debauchery is a mix of squealing pigs and blinding lights. It’s not as aggressively macabre as some of Refn’s other settings and stories. However, it’s still an odd, attractive, and almost mystical land of beautifully constructed illusions, the kind that it seems Netflix exists to bring to life when other, more traditional platforms wouldn’t dare.
The pig squeaks mentioned above are a recurring theme in this play. The sows make them at times of sex and violence, blending the bad behaviour of humans with the natural warnings of hungry animals. Are we like pigs who eat whatever they get, or are we like humans who ignore the cries of the animals we’ve caught until it’s time to kill and eat them? It’s hard to say. Anyway, we’re somewhere near the main character, who might be magical, the bad gangsters, the cruel, delusional women who are trying to get miracle ideas for less money, and the lost, paperless hostages who have been stripped of their identity and respect. One way or another, all of humanity is here, but it’s not always easy to find, and you won’t always be glad when you do.
Refn’s camera often looks like it doesn’t care about what’s going on and floats away, as if it has somewhere else to go. His screenplay, which was written by Sara Isabella Jonsson, Johanne Algren, and Mona Masri, barely notices you, and when it does, it seems a little annoyed. The main character, Miu, is called “mysterious” in the first episode’s title, and she stays that way for the rest of the show. She is an unknowable guide through a kaleidoscopic world. There isn’t much information, no typical story structure, and a lot of it is funny when you know you shouldn’t laugh. Even though it’s still early in the year, you can bet that Refn will write one of those vague reviews.
But what else can be said? Copenhagen Cowboy is made to be hard to classify on purpose. I could call it anything, and whether I was right or wrong, I would still miss the point. You can’t put something like this in a neat genre box because it breaks all the rules, including some that it makes for itself. It’s a revenge thriller and a coming-of-age story set in a magical realist world. It’s both funny and dramatic, and it’s as much about how bad people can be as it is about how powerful hope can be and how kindred souls can get their salvation mixed up. It is all of these things and more, but at the same time, it is none of them. It’s simple.
Miu is often just as quiet as the rest of the audience. She looks better than everything else. She stares. Thanks. She does sometimes act, sometimes with a lot of force and intent, but she doesn’t do anything on a whim. Bundalovic, who is excellent in this, is a statuesque representation of our voyeuristic nature. He is a distant observer trying to put the pieces together, sometimes looking shocked to be privy to the same things we are. But Refn wants to know more about this character, like who she is and where she comes from, so after a while, we do too. The observer becomes the observed, and the observed becomes the observer. Miu’s attempts to put herself back together reflect how we put together her identity and her potential from bits and pieces we’ve found here and there.
Copenhagen Cowboy Season 1 Review
This, in my opinion, is Copenhagen Cowboy’s greatest strength: it is a collaborative exercise for discovering what everything means and who everyone is by exploring a hall of mirrors and trying to make out their silhouettes. The broken, crumbling quality that permeates most of Refn’s work, especially his more recent output, is especially pronounced here in the passive arc of a six-episode series that feels longer than season order but still in No. 1 time seems to have passed at all – almost as if it never happened, or only in a feverish haze, which it did, on some level.
People who aren’t fans of Only God Forgives or The Neon Demon might not care, but fans of Bronson and Journey are likely to enjoy it. Netflix members won’t benefit from this, but it will attract a rabid fanbase that will promote the show relentlessly on social media.
It won’t bring in huge ratings. It needs to be renewed. Still, it will probably threaten to move on anyway because of the infinite possibilities of its ideas and the striking oddity of its execution, making it feel like something that happened to someone else a very long time ago in the minds of all who watch it. And that will be sufficient in the end.
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