busterjack-82681

I watched what I thought was the second episode (after watching the first of course) and sat there waiting for the third and presumably final one - but to my amazement it wasn't there. I was left with the feeling that there's a third episode but someone forgot to film it.

What I did see in the only two episodes that exist was reasonably interesting but I feel short-changed and annoyed.

Whoever made this very short series seems to be unaware that the story they have told is incomplete and most viewers will feel cheated by not telling the whole story.

There are stories that flicker like gaslight and stories that roar like the engines of a Gatsby roadster hurtling into the indigo twilight... and Sirens, that melancholy dream of a series streaming into our modern parlours via Netflix, is assuredly the latter.

The show unfurls like the silk hem of a flapper's gown, drawing us not into the past, but into a glittering, salt-drenched mythology that feels both ancient and bracingly modern. It is a tale where ocean and omen meet, where the ethereal and the tragic collide with a kind of opaline brilliance that is rare in our age of coarse entertainments. In the world of Sirens, beauty is not merely surface-deep; it is weaponized, mournful, and wild.

What I found most arresting - and perhaps this is my own romantic disposition speaking - was not the action, nor the spectacle (though both are rendered with an opulence that would not disgrace the halls of West Egg), but the aching emotional undertow of the characters. The sirens themselves are no mere mythic muses, but haunted, complex women trailing secrets and sorrows like seafoam from their gowns. Their songs, once thought to lure men to doom, here summon something more elusive and modern: the longing for connection, for home, for self.

The cinematography is a sort of visual jazz - syncopated, sultry, and saturated in marine hues. Every frame seems dipped in memory, like a postcard from a summer that never quite happened but somehow lingers still. The dialogue, too, possesses a lyrical clarity, evoking the lost art of saying something beautiful even when saying something brutal.

It is, in the end, a series less concerned with plot than with feeling. One does not watch Sirens as much as one dreams it - softly, vividly, and with a slight ache upon waking.

I liked it. I liked it the way one likes the trace of perfume on a silk scarf left in the backseat of a cab - mysterious, fleeting, unforgettable.

This felt like a re-hash of another documentary about the same woman that I watched a few months ago, with hardly anything new in terms of scandalous revelations. While I don't doubt that Ghislaine Maxwell deserves to spend the rest of her life in prison, it's difficult to ignore the nagging feeling that she has been hung out to dry as a scapegoat. There are many super-rich individuals who are not being named even if we can guess at the identities of a handful of them.

So I found this latest Filthy Rich 'documentary' a total anti-climax, although in fairness it would be interesting if you haven't seen any previous offerings from other production companies.

And I wonder if I will live long enough to see the as yet unmade Filthy Rich documentary that, for once, really exposes the scandals we haven't been told yet. That would be worth watching.