What does being horny do to us? This question is arguably at the core of every story since time immemorial, from the tragedy of “Oedipus Rex” to the romantasy of “A Court of Thorns and Roses.”
“Vladimir,” a new Netflix limited dramedy series, aims to unpack the power of horniness with provocation and power, but it misses the mark by a mile. It flattens the complicated experience of desire into a boring and simple melodrama, sweeping its own leg pervasively over eight half-hour episodes. It’s a series of fundamental miscalculations and arbitrary storytelling decisions, a pandering “Fleabag” without any of that show’s humanity. If you want to half-watch something while scrolling on your phone, it’s, like, fine?
Rachel Weisz, also an executive producer, is clearly down to clown as the enigmatically named M, a writer and college professor gritting her way through a phonebook of rich white people problems felt by streaming service protagonists. Her husband John (John Slattery) is canceled because of allegations of sexual impropriety with young students, complicated by their open marriage. Her daughter, Sid (Ellen Robertson), lost her job, is in a messy relationship, and is loafing purposelessly around M’s home.
Most pressingly (and where the show gets its title), M is possessed with the curse of horniness thanks to new professor Vladimir (Leo Woodall), a hunky, hotshot writer who comports himself with a level of animalistic masculinity that intrigues M. And it sure seems like Vladimir is intrigued by M, too, despite Vladimir’s wife Cynthia (Jessica Henwick) also working on campus. Will M lose herself in the arms of a new lover? Or will she burn down her already unstable life along the way?
Now, horniness looks different on everybody. But I would argue that a fundamental ingredient of the cocktail is distance, a lack of tangible fulfillment. For example, if you’ve been excited about the release of “Vladimir” since its initial announcement, every day without watching “Vladimir” is a day thinking about how excited you are to watch “Vladimir,” which is an opportunity for your desire to ferment and strengthen. Once you actually watch “Vladimir,” that fire of the future tense is extinguished, replaced by something new and more complete.
Within the universe of the show, “Vladimir” technically plays by this rule, keeping its title character and M at an arm’s length as the unspoken spark of sexual obsession crackles in the air between them. But from the perspective of an audience member, “Vladimir” gives us what we ostensibly “want” too early and too often, without foreplay.
The show, created by Julia May Jonas and based on her own novel, gives us access to M’s private thoughts and point of view, including via direct-to-camera asides (inevitably earning the “Fleabag” comparison). So, when M sees Vladimir in a public setting and fantasizes about a sexual encounter with him, the show literalizes that fantasy, presenting Weisz and Woodall in sexual congress before cutting back to “reality.”
I believe “Vladimir” does this trick in every one of its eight episodes, sometimes presenting the same sexual act multiple times per episode. It’s supposed to cinematically convey the volume and depth of M’s desire, and I suppose it technically does. But, egregiously, it oversatisfies its audience. There is no room for longing, for future tense fantasizing, for the vicarious sensation of horniness that M seems to feel because we keep seeing them fulfill each other over and over, regardless of the textual “reality.” It becomes rote and neutralizing, stopping any power of forward momentum between the two characters. It makes horniness feel safe while insisting that it’s dangerous, and the dissonance between showing and telling becomes insurmountable.
Beyond the mishandling of its central romance, “Vladimir” fills in its runtime with clichés and trite, retrograde observations about the generation gap. Talking points like “cancel culture,” “sexual liberation vs. slut shaming,” and “performative feminism” aren’t just tackled gracelessly; they’re tackled like items on a checkbox of things to tackle without any point of view one way or the other.
One college student character functions like an AI-generated conceptualization of “woke”; they’re soft-spoken, dressed in young, hip clothing, and have a “comedy” set piece about their wacky sexual orientation and gender identity. Does Jonas think that a younger generation of people exploring themselves and progressive politics on a college campus is contemptible? Or is she filtering this through M’s perspective thoroughly so that the character’s contempt is contagious? Whatever the answer is, the only audience impact felt is a groan of abject corniness — and we’d much rather feel the horniness it so wants us to feel.
If there’s any consistent element of “Vladimir” that works, it’s Weisz herself, which should come as no surprise for any fan of the performer (“Mummy” hive, rise up). She jumps on the material with exactly what it needs, and while she can’t quite elevate its inherent limitations, she makes the case for casting her in a more successfully complicated psychosexual thriller — especially in sequences with, of all people, “Veep” alum Matt Walsh; they have great chemistry together!
But a compelling performer does not a compelling show make. “Vladimir” doesn’t justify its running time; instead, it runs away from the juiciest meat on the table to leave us with reheated leftovers. To put it succinctly: not horny enough!
“Vladimir” premieres Thursday, March 5, on Netflix.