The Penguin — From Gargoyle’s Shadow to Cheap Neon Glow

The Penguin: full review

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The production of The Penguin seems to have emerged from a clandestine meeting between HBO Max’s budget managers and a cabal of villain fanatics who believe gravity exists solely to hang bodies. Instead of a cohesive vision, the series unfolds like an Excel spreadsheet filled with yellow-highlighted cells labeled “almost acceptable.” Claqueta Ácida survived this aberration not thanks to the resilience of its coffee, but out of sheer necessity—to prove that irony can still bloom in this swamp of mediocrity.

From the first episode, the sensation is the same as stepping into a lukewarm bath only to realize the faucet is still running: a promise of cleansing that never arrives. The writing team, led by showrunner Lauren LeFranc, appears to have chased the philosophical depth of The Godfather only to replace it with the subtlety of a McDonald’s billboard. The cast’s voices strain to lift the plot like magicians pulling rabbits from a hat, but they end up flinging rubber duckies into Gotham’s night.

A Trippy Descent into Absolute Boredom

The premise of The Penguin is as original as asking, “What if the Penguin became mayor?” The story follows Oswald Cobblepot (Colin Farrell)—a penguin who, according to the script’s logic, has evolved from pigeon thief to mob boss in a suit stitched together by a seamstress who’s never seen a real men’s suit. His dialogue is a mix of melancholic pretension and gangster-movie clichés, sounding like it was lifted from a 1990s screenwriting manual. Every line becomes a pebble in the shoe of any cinephile hoping for something more than a checklist of “It’s all my fault” moments.

The supporting characters are mere shadows, popping up to justify “what if…?” plot twists. Michael Zegen, as Alberto Falcone, tries to inject a dash of humanity, but his performance dissolves into a fog of “background acting,” reminiscent of extras who appear in the closing credits of a low-budget film. Every intimate moment between Cobblepot and his enemies feels like a Godfather mise-en-scène stripped of elegance, as if the camera were operated by a robot running on low battery.

The dialogue, instead of revealing layers, becomes a cascade of shattered cymbals, each line hollower than the last. When Cobblepot waxes poetic about his “vision for Gotham,” you hear echoes of Breaking Bad mixed with the bombast of an insurance sales pitch. The series tries to immerse the viewer in a 1990s time capsule, but everything is so over-reheated that the nostalgia feels like battered gravy—unmanageable and unappetizing.

B-Movie Aesthetics and Pepsi-Cola Chic

Visually, The Penguin clings to a “neo-noir” aesthetic that ends up looking like the decor of a 2000s lounge bar. The cinematography, helmed by the talented Darran Tiernan, becomes a neon light show straight out of a soda commercial. The saturated purples and blues, paired with neon signs, aim for a “gothic-futuristic” vibe, but the result is so cheesily low-rent that you wonder if the budget was measured in cans of soda.

The CGI effects are another love letter to the era of shoestring budgets: daggers that glow like they were rendered in Microsoft Paint, explosions that look like they were made with kids’ party fireworks. Instead of immersing you in Gotham’s shadows, you’re stuck on a dance floor filtered through Instagram. Every car chase resembles a shaky TikTok video, and the overall “look” feels more like a beer commercial set than a crime anthology.

The series’ marketing is equally ridiculous. The trailers feature Colin Farrell with a “I’m the worst villain, but also your best buddy” stare, while the background music is synth-pop straight out of the 1980s bargain bin. The ad campaign leans on hashtags like #ThePenguinRises and #GothamReborn, oblivious to the fact that audiences are already sick of reboots and spin-offs selling the same empty promises. In short, the aesthetic is a neon light parade on a concrete sidewalk—a spectacle where the only thing moving forward is the viewer’s dwindling patience.

The Best

• Colin Farrell delivers such a committed performance that, despite the script’s mediocrity, he manages to be the only bright spot in a series drowning in shadows.
• The score by Brian Tyler creates moments of genuine tension, with strings that sound like they were tuned in the final hour of recording.
• The production design captures the essence of a Gotham that could exist in a bleak dream, with rain-soaked alleys and lampposts casting a deathly glow.

The Worst

• The script reads like a collage of clichés stolen from The Godfather, Scarface, and every gangster show that’s aired in the last 30 years.
• The visual effects are so bargain-bin that viewers might swear they’re watching a 1990s low-budget flick—just in 4K.
• The narrative structure moves at such an erratic pace that the series feels more like a series of sketches than a coherent story, dragging the audience along a rollercoaster with no tracks.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

In the end, The Penguin is an experiment in turning a side character into the lead of a series that can’t decide if it wants to be a dark thriller or a bad-faith comedy. It stumbles through the neo-noir dance floor in worn-out trench coat heels, tripping over every attempt at depth. If the goal was to make Oswald Cobblepot a pop culture icon, the result is so disconnected that the only dignity left belongs to the audience, who soldier on through sheer sarcasm. The series is a warning that even penguins can have too much ice in their hearts—and thus, a vision so raw that only lovers of mediocrity’s horror will enjoy it. In conclusion, a production that barely escapes the shadow of its own failure, and that’s already an achievement worthy of a cynical smirk. 💀