The Beast in Me – A Thriller So Intense It’ll Have You Checking Your Neighbours for Shovels

Howard Gordon has been churning out TV brilliance for decades—24, Homeland, and now, because apparently he doesn’t believe in sleep, he’s teamed up with Gabe Rotter to drop Netflix’s latest anxiety-inducing masterpiece: The Beast in Me.

And let me tell you, this thing doesn’t just grip you; it leaps out of the shrubbery, knocks you over, steals your biscuits, and sprints away laughing.

The story follows Aggie Wiggs, played by Claire Danes, who is an author suffering from writer’s block so severe it should qualify as a medical emergency. Her son has died, her creativity has evaporated, and she’s basically one bad day away from shouting at her furniture. Then in moves Nile Jarvis, Matthew Rhys, looking exactly like the kind of neighbour who’d borrow a lawnmower and return it covered in blood.

Jarvis, a real estate mogul with a past shadier than the M1 on a foggy morning, becomes Aggie’s new obsession, not because he’s charming, oh no, but because everyone suspects he murdered his wife. And naturally, Aggie thinks, “Yes. Perfect. This is great material for a book.” As you do.

Jarvis arrives in the neighbourhood like a man on a mission to annoy absolutely everyone. First thing he does? He tries to convince Aggie that they should build a pavement so he can go running. Running! On purpose! Like some sort of sweaty gazelle. Aggie, sensibly, looks at him like he’s lost the plot.

But Jarvis is persistent. He wines her. He dines her. He smiles that smile that suggests he knows where the bodies are buried because he put them there. Before she knows it, she’s writing his story—the one he suggested, because deep down he’d quite like the world to forget that his wife mysteriously vanished.

And then the trust issues begin. Oh yes. Think cat and mouse—if the mouse was armed and the cat was clinically insane.

Thank heavens. After a long stretch of Netflix shows that felt like chewing cardboard, The Beast in Me is a proper punch to the solar plexus. No filler episodes. No subplots about someone’s pet rabbit. It’s a relentless sprint from scene one—like being chased through IKEA by Lee Evans mid-panic attack.

The writing? Superb. Every moment feels like it’s pulling you toward something dark and deliciously dreadful.

Aggie is desperate to create. Jarvis is desperate to pretend he’s not a psychopath. It’s a match made in… well, probably prison.

Claire Danes is outstanding—as always—but Matthew Rhys? Good grief.

There’s a scene early on where he eats an entire chicken. Not cuts. Not slices. The whole thing. And he does it with the calm menace of a man who’d set your house on fire just to toast marshmallows in the flames. It’s honestly one of the most chilling things on television this year.

Every time something goes wrong for Jarvis, a little switch flips—click—and suddenly he’s cold, calculated, and absolutely terrifying. It’s brilliant. Horrifying, but brilliant.

The production behind the scenes is just as good: eerie cinematography, unsettling score, and set designs that look like they’re hiding secrets behind every curtain.

The music creeps in gently during soft moments and then absolutely wallops you during the dark ones. It’s like having your emotions conducted by someone who’s enjoying it a little too much.

Is The Beast in Me Worth Watching?

Short answer: Yes.

Long answer: YES, YOU FOOL, WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?

This is one of the best crime thrillers of the year. Every episode ramps up the tension until you’re pressing “Next episode” with the same intensity as Lee Evans punching the air in one of his sweaty stand-up finales.

I would be shocked—shocked—if this isn’t knee-deep in Emmy nominations next year.

It’s tight, it’s terrifying, and it’s absolutely top-tier television.