The Watcher, Netflix review — true-crime thriller is all sensation and excess

Set in a suburban mansion, new true-crime thriller series The Watcher seems like a desirable offering from the outside. With compelling true events and a talented ensemble, it’s built on solid ground. But a more thorough survey of Netflix’s latest listing reveals a flimsy structure and a chintzy, inconsistent design.

The swiftness with which our expectations for the seven-part series give way to a sinking feeling nicely mirrors the experience of the show’s main characters, following their move to a grand, savings-draining new home in a commuter town. Having left the city in search of community and security, the Brannock family — Nora (Naomi Watts), Dean (Bobby Cannavale) and their two teenagers — quickly discover that both are in short supply in Westfield, New Jersey.

At first the meddlesome, unwelcoming neighbours just seem like a particularly waspish hive in a Waspy locale. But soon the new residents begin to receive chilling letters from an anonymous voyeur. Signing off as “the watcher”, he declares himself the property’s protector, hints at an intimate knowledge of the family and makes unsettling demands on behalf of the house. With the police oddly dismissive, the Brannocks are left in a state of deepening paranoia, turning on their neighbours and, before long, on themselves.

While Watts and Cannavale gamely do their best to bring dramatic weight to their roles, their co-stars seem content to cut loose. The cantankerous couple next door (Richard Kind and Margo Martindale), the doddery local conservationist (Mia Farrow) and the snooty, self-serving realtor (Jennifer Coolidge) are all imbued with a knowing, caricature-like quality. The actors seem to be in on a joke that nobody thought to share with the two leads.

The scene-stealing support roles bring some levity to a cumbersome narrative but they’re also symptomatic of divisive writer-director Ryan Murphy’s typical (and usually misguided) indulgence of archness and schlocky shocks. Instead of tapping into legitimate fears about safety and surveillance, the show overplays its hand, revelling in conspiracies about a local satanic cult and other grisly atrocities.

The more it leans towards sensation and excess, the more The Watcher dilutes the impact of the real story. And yet, for all the transparency of its methods — think jump scares and an insistent strings-led score — and its dated hysteria about the hellishness of suburbia, the show just about manages to sustain our curiosity. As we let another episode load, it’s hard not to feel a little like the Brannocks — sticking around against all better judgment.

★★☆☆☆

On Netflix now