Quick Read
- Netflix’s ‘His & Hers’ stars Tessa Thompson and Jon Bernthal as estranged partners entangled in a murder mystery.
- Directed by William Oldroyd, known for ‘Lady Macbeth’ and ‘Eileen,’ it’s adapted from Alice Feeney’s bestselling novel.
- Critics largely found the series disappointing, citing predictable plot points and a lack of chemistry between the leads.
- The narrative is criticized for its numerous ‘just happens to be’ contrivances and an ‘inept finale’ with confusing endings.
- Reviews highlight a struggle to translate the book’s dual perspective, resulting in a generic and often artificial viewing experience.
In the competitive landscape of streaming television, a new series often arrives with a weight of expectation, especially when it boasts an acclaimed director, well-regarded source material, and a pair of photogenic stars. Netflix’s “His & Hers” certainly checked all these boxes, bringing together William Oldroyd, known for his work on “Lady Macbeth” and “Eileen,” with a popular novel by Alice Feeney, and the undeniable talents of Tessa Thompson and Jon Bernthal. Yet, as the calendar turns to 2026, critics are quick to label this highly anticipated mystery thriller as one of the year’s first major disappointments.
From the outset, the series struggled to translate its promising elements into a cohesive and engaging narrative. The Hollywood Reporter notes that Oldroyd, despite his past successes in gothic romance and feminist noir, was “thoroughly thwarted by Alice Feeney’s book,” ultimately “fumbling the mystery’s structuring device and failing to build any momentum on the way to an inept finale with two endings — one stupid and obvious, the other merely stupid.” This sentiment echoes across reviews, painting a picture of a show that, while not overtly bad, is largely forgettable, resembling a less interesting version of other disposable Netflix limited series.
A Premise Riddled with Contrivance
The story unfolds in the seemingly tranquil, indistinct town of Dahlonega, an hour outside Atlanta, where a brutal murder shatters the peace. The victim is stabbed multiple times and staged with a taunting message, a crime unprecedented in the town’s history, save for Detective Jack Harper (Jon Bernthal), a native son who previously worked in Atlanta. This setup immediately introduces the central figures: Jack, investigating the murder, and Anna (Tessa Thompson), a former Atlanta news anchor who returns to Dahlonega after a year-long absence following the death of her child. Anna, seeing an opportunity to reclaim her career, insists on reporting the story, inadvertently drawing her back into Jack’s orbit.
However, the narrative quickly becomes bogged down by what critics have termed an abundance of “just happens to be” contrivances. The murder victim, Rachel Hopkins (Jamie Tisdale), just happens to be Anna’s high-school frenemy. Jack just happens to have his own undisclosed relationship with the victim. And perhaps the most glaring coincidence: Jack and Anna just happen to be estranged husband and wife, a technicality given Anna’s year-long disappearance. These coincidences, rather than weaving a complex web, create a sense of artificiality, pushing both Anna and Jack into the role of primary suspects almost immediately, though as The Hollywood Reporter points out, “there wasn’t a single second in the series that gave me reason to think either of them was a killer.” Instead, viewers are left to contend with the characters’ shared ineptitude, which paradoxically becomes the most believable aspect of their fractured relationship.
Squandered Potential and Narrative Missteps
The core issue, as many critics observe, lies in the show’s inability to effectively adapt its source material. Alice Feeney’s novel is structured around the dual perspectives of Jack and Anna, presenting ‘his and hers’ sides of the story. The series, however, largely abandons this intriguing device. While we follow both characters, the narrative often defaults to a ‘standard TV omniscience,’ losing the potential for subjective interpretation and audience engagement that the book offered. This shift diminishes the mystery, making the audience less a participant in uncovering the truth and more a passive observer of predictable plot mechanics.
The narration itself, delivered by an ambiguous, ungendered voice, further exacerbates these issues. Intended to create suspense and keep viewers guessing, it instead devolves into a series of ‘reductive platitudes’ and ‘ominous clichés’ that border on parody, according to The Hollywood Reporter. The impact of these philosophical pronouncements, such as “There are at least two sides to every story. Yours and mine. Ours and theirs. His and hers. Which means someone is always lying,” is minimal, failing to deepen the mystery or alter the viewer’s perspective over the course of the five-episode journey. By the time the finale repeats these opening blatherings verbatim, the artificiality becomes actively irritating, undermining any sense of genuine intrigue.
Character Depth Lost in Translation
A significant criticism leveled against “His & Hers” is the underdevelopment of its characters and the lack of compelling performances, particularly from its leads. Despite the individual talents of Tessa Thompson and Jon Bernthal, critics found ‘almost no chemistry between them,’ leading to a portrayal of an estranged couple that feels unconvincing. Their interactions, or lack thereof, fail to convey a long and difficult shared past, a fault attributed more to the writing than to the actors themselves. Both Anna and Jack are depicted as remarkably inept in their respective professions – Anna as a reporter whose judgments are perplexing or illogical, and Jack as a detective whose orders are ‘really obvious.’
Supporting characters fare no better, often reduced to convenient plot devices rather than fully dimensional individuals. Anna’s mother, Alice (Crystal Fox), is defined by her convenient dementia, while Jack’s sister, Zoe (Marin Ireland), is characterized by convenient alcoholism. While actors like Ireland and Sunita Mani (as Jack’s partner Priya) manage to bring some moments of relatable perplexity or searing pain to their roles, their efforts are largely overshadowed by the series’ overall shortcomings. Even the inconsistent Southern accents among characters who supposedly grew up in the same town highlight a directorial oversight, further detracting from any sense of realism or immersion.
An Aesthetic of Artificiality
The series’ visual style also contributes to its hollow feel. Oldroyd and co-director Anja Marquardt employ a ‘pretty, glossy and hollow aesthetic,’ with scenes often ‘lit in ways unsupported by the location,’ creating an artificiality that mirrors the narrative’s contrivances. While Oldroyd has previously used distinct stylistic choices to make a statement about genre in films like “Lady Macbeth” and “Eileen,” here, the intent behind the artificiality remains elusive. The show’s tone, too, is erratic; TIME magazine highlights its “sloppy vibe calibration,” swinging between ‘arch at some moments and grim at others,’ ultimately failing to land as either a self-aware black comedy or a poignant exploration of trauma. This tonal inconsistency, coupled with lazy dialogue and a tendency towards ‘playfully soapy’ moments, prevents the series from achieving any genuine emotional resonance or critical depth.
The series, despite its promising ingredients and the undeniable talent involved, ultimately serves as a stark reminder that even the most compelling source material and celebrated creatives can falter when the underlying script and execution fail to forge a coherent, engaging vision. It became less a gripping mystery and more a cautionary tale of how high expectations can lead to profound disappointment when narrative integrity is sacrificed for superficial contrivances, leaving viewers with a hollow, forgettable experience rather than the deep, psychological thriller it aspired to be.