SIRENS! SIRENS! SIRENS! That’s the message Devon types, thumbs flying, as she bolts out of a police station. Not just a text, but a warning — something is off, and deeply so. The opening line of Sirens, Netflix’s five-part limited series created by Molly Smith Metzler (adapting her stage play Elemeno Pea), immediately sets the tone: Part alarm, part code, part primal scream.
When Devon turns up uninvited at Michaela’s island estate — equal parts rehab retreat and designer dungeon — she’s met not with the sister she remembers, but a stranger in bright pink custom Chanel and suspiciously dazzling veneers. Simone’s new life looks like a cult, complete with NDAs, a tech-savvy AI called Zeus, and Michaela’s unnerving habit of feeding her chewing gum (that she herself chewed earlier) to her assistant like a mother bird. The Cliff House sprawls over acres, comes with its own private sea access, and is so vast you need golf carts just to get from one end to the other. Of course, her wardrobe will make one envious. Filthy rich, yes.
It’s hilariously awkward when Michaela tries to hand Devon some money, waxing poetic about the waves sounding like mourning — and Devon deadpans: “Mournful whale songs, yes.” Devon, played by a wonderfully unvarnished Meghann Fahy, has no address, no contact — just her sister Simone’s WhatsApp profile picture, in front of a glossy seaside mansion. That breadcrumb trail leads her to Cliff House, a private island estate where Simone (Milly Alcock) now works as the personal assistant to Michaela “Kiki” Kell (Julianne Moore), a lifestyle mogul and raptor conservationist with the eerie grace of a high priestess. At first glance, Michaela “Kiki” Kell may evoke shades of Patricia Clarkson’s Adora Crellin in Sharp Objects or Madeleine Stowe’s Victoria Grayson in Revenge — women of immense wealth whose past achievements lend them a veneer of grace. But as with many former success stories cloaked in designer silk and legacy, Kiki reveals the darker undercurrents of privilege, control, and curated femininity that often define the lives of the ultra-rich.
Cult energy
As the Kells host a bevy of glamorous summer soirees, it is chilling to see people agree to every word Michaella speaks with a cult-like “Hey, hey!” and attending funerals of falcons. The world of Cliff House is as much a character as the women inhabiting it. Sirens doesn’t let you forget that even in paradise, the trapdoors are everywhere.
What starts off feeling like The White Lotus with a binoculars budget and a bird-watching fetish, soon spirals into gothic soap opera territory — complete with psychosexual intrigue, pastel-coloured cult energy, and a razor-sharp (and slightly unhinged) meditation on womanhood, class, and the art of not losing your mind on an island full of emotionally unstable rich people. The show revels in this absurdity, but also probes it — what does it take for a working-class woman to survive in a world like this? What must be traded, or silenced?
The power dynamics shift constantly, and often without warning. Michaela spirals when her husband (a subdued but chilling Kevin Bacon) fails to respond to a sext — drafted, ironically, by Simone. Simone, who herself is entangled in a steamy side plot with Peter’s friend Ethan, while Devon finds herself stuck in a bizarre employer-employee-ex-classmate triangle. Said employer? A married man with children who still thinks it’s a good idea to follow her to a remote island… with her dad who has dementia.
The story is engaging and familiar, but it is the unnerving performances that hold this binge-worthy series together. Moore is magnetic as Michaela, her polished poise cracking to reveal flashes of hysteria and hunger, ultimately revealing objectification of women runs in all classes of society. One moment she’s handing out wine with a smile; the next, she’s a glassy-eyed Stepford spectre clutching a bloodied falcon.
We also learn about her pre-nup which had no provisions if she couldn’t bear children. Milly Alcock plays Simone as a woman stitched together from trauma and desire — fragile yet ferociously calculating. And Fahy is exceptional, turning what could have been a stock “messy older sister” role into something bruised and beautifully complex. We’ve met the trope of the alcoholic elder sister before — but this one feels a touch different. There’s more nuance here, more layers to peel back.
What works best is the way the show balances its tone. It’s funny, yes, but the humour often curdles into something sadder — especially in its quieter moments. Peter’s confession that wealth couldn’t buy back his children’s affection lands like a punch, and for all her mania, Kiki is ultimately just another woman flattened by the demands of perfection. The commentary on womanhood — how it’s performed, consumed, and discarded — is sharp, if sometimes a little on-the-nose.
The fourth episode is where Sirens soars — secrets explode, monologues simmer, and the glossy satire sharpens into something raw and personal. Yes, there’s satire. Yes, there’s madness. But there’s also pain, sisterhood, and the raw ache of growing up only to realise you’ve turned into someone you no longer recognise. Devon is a stark reminder of class divide throughout the series where she begins and ends the series in her same black tank top and shorts while surrounded by guests in designer silk and diamonds. Michaela’s got so much power, she even manages to snag a sneaky photo of Peter and Simone locking lips — though the audience knows that it’s more like a quick, awkward peck with Simone already pulling back like it’s a bad Tinder swipe. Consequently, on the day of the big gala, Simone’s stuff gets packed up while the house staff quietly cheers, happy their dictator boss is finally leaving.
However, the finale falters. The fifth episode feels rushed, especially Michaela’s abrupt exit. For a woman so composed, so calculating — who once admitted being so poor that she went to Harvard Law on a below-the-poverty-line scholarship — it’s wildly out of character to quietly board a ferry after being replaced by Simone. That Peter, her husband, would swap her for a younger model hints at a midlife crisis or a need for more children, but the show barely explores it. It’s a disappointing turn for a series that spent so long unpacking power, privilege and performative femininity. In the end, Sirens still stings, wrapped in some seriously twisted, darkly hilarious chaos you can’t look away from.
Sirens is ironical, hysterical and deep, even though everyone looks like, quoting Devon, “Easter eggs”. How one man’s choices end up steering a woman’s fate — and just how far she’ll contort herself to survive the madness — wrapped in darkly hilarious, twisted chaos you can’t look away from. After crafting a world where women appear to hold the reins, it’s oddly jarring and familiar that the final move belongs to a man, whose decisions, in turn, are quietly puppeteered by another woman.
Layered with breezy satire and twisted dark humour, Sirens impressively maintains momentum across its five-episode run. In a landscape overcrowded with padded content, its tight structure is refreshing. But while the series is often sharp and visually striking, it occasionally mistakes oddness for depth. The tone, though confidently offbeat, can veer into self-conscious quirk. Yet, despite its flaws, Sirens remains a rare creature: Odd, elegant and impossible to look away from.
