Vladimir

It’s the superior of the two shows, in large part because of Weisz’s performance, which seduces the viewer with sensuality and humor, only to shock us with unhinged behavior. But what gives it the thematic resonance Rooster never reaches for is Jonas’ psychological insight into a place steeped in art and ideas that still gets bogged down in bureaucracy and appearances.

An antiheroine as sharply funny as she is willfully blinkered and as oddly compelling as she is repellent, she has a voice that defines Julia May Jonas’ adaptation of her own novel — elevating it into something knottier than the feminist cancel-culture treatise might appear at first glance, and all the more insightful for it.

The style of the series takes a bit of getting used to – it’s fourth-wall breaking, with Weisz addressing the camera throughout and speaking in sometimes quite stilted, stagey language. But before long you fall into the rhythm of it. Think of it as Fleabag for 50-somethings.

It’s such fun. Awash with academic ego and sexual brinkmanship, it leans into the main character’s obsessiveness and makes us almost complicit in ways that feel naughty, grown-up and sophisticated — quite rare for a Netflix show these days but hugely welcome.

Vladimir may not be an obsessive page-turner, but it’s still definitely a book worth reading.

Sometimes, Vladimir finds the right balance, while at many others, it feels as lost in the weeds as its main character. Weisz is having a ball playing this dangerous mix of cockiness and cluelessness, but Vladimir as a whole never quite coheres.

“Vladimir” works because it is indeed funny and sexy but also because it has fully developed, complicated characters — the too-smart-for-their-own-good sort that are having a hell of a time sorting out their lives.

"Vladimir" is the kind of TV show that starts at an eight and only revs up from there, fast-paced and heart-racing without any computer-generated imagery explosions or daring deeds.

Proves strangely compelling. Even when we think we know where the series is going, it remains as slippery as its unreliable narrator, difficult to nail down in both genre and intent.

“Vladimir,” based on Julia May Jonas’ 2022 novel, is ultimately Weisz’s show, and she carries it capably, often by addressing the viewer through the fourth wall.

The zany, farcical, HOT MESS of the first seven episodes culminates in a satisfying eighth—that’s cheeky and ultimately about reclaiming power. Not everyone will make it past the first seven, though. If you do, a wink and an arched brow will be waiting for you.

Weisz’s abundant star appeal makes the show plenty watchable, however familiar the scenario might be.

Vladimir is brisk, easy to watch, and occasionally droll, but any higher aspirations have been brutally muted.

[An] over-long, repetitive, and scattershot affair which takes satiric aim at various targets and, to a tee, misses them all.

The whole thing falls flat, but really, Vladimir was never able to get it up.

Weisz aces the slapstick comedy of being hot and bothered in an inappropriate setting. But if “Vladimir” wants to prove erotic fixation can lead to artistic transcendence, it never fully walks the walk.

Netflix's "Vladimir" promises a steamy forbidden romance, but it fails to deliver, bogged down by curdled cynicism and tired clichés.

Much like M, it gets so caught up in proving its own relevancy, it overlooks the core principles of a good story. Obscurity awaits the show. Luckily, the book is still there, and infinitely better.

It flattens the complicated experience of desire into a boring and simple melodrama, sweeping its own leg pervasively over eight half-hour episodes.

As good as Weisz and the cast of Vladimir is, they’re trapped in a story that’s smothered in gimmickry instead of character development.

It comes as a surprising disappointment that the adaptation, a newly released eight-episode miniseries created by the book’s author and starring Rachel Weisz as the narrator (here given the initial “M.”), Leo Woodall (The White Lotus) as the eponymous Vladimir, and John Slattery (Mad Men) as the narrator’s husband John, is a pretty husk of the novel.