For a story concerned with mangled corpses, haunting blood pools, and a weaponization of a childhood arts and crafts project, there’s a neatness to it all that feels oddly storybook.
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Even the finale, one that some viewers with a passing knowledge of Danish film and TV might be able to sniff out a little sooner, is short on catharsis mainly because the ending plays out like an obligation.
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So that mixture of an artful veneer and an oversimplified brutal mystery underneath turns out to be its biggest hook, as well as the thing that keeps the series from being something more. But with the singular focus on drawing connections among this jumble of broken and repairing psyches, there isn’t much room for anything besides proclaiming they exist. Over six episodes, “The Chestnut Man” takes plenty of opportunities to invoke the nature of cross-generational trauma and the respective burdens felt by both parents and children. Rosa and husband Steen (Esben Dalgaard Andersen) are stuck in a land of grief, and the Thulin-Hess combo are locked into the same monomaniacal devotion to the case as the show overall. When the moving pieces here become a little bit clearer and the mess of threads is untangled in a pretty explicit fashion, it feels like a missed opportunity to let a more-than-capable cast do some of their own heavy lifting. Without the kind of visual shortcuts that can convey information with a destabilizing insert shot (of which there are many here), a detective novel can put you inside of the mind of Thulin or Hess or government minster Rosa Hartung (Iben Dorner), whose own unspeakable family horror becomes interwoven with everyone else’s fates. Even past the point when it seems excessive, chestnuts are ever-present in “The Chestnut Man” in the same way that Sveistrup can get away with relentless repetition on a page. It’s a ripple that runs through every last inch of the show, a main key for understanding both method and motive. It’s nowhere near the austerity of something like “The Investigation,” a decidedly different spin on gathering information about a suspicious death, but it does share a similar kind of sobering bleakness.Īnd those chestnuts. In the same way that Sveistrup would have to set up all of these locations on the page - a weather-worn farmhouse, a wood-panel home interior, an apartment building with a facade like a mosaic, public buildings with surprisingly reflective hallways - there’s an added beat to each successive establishing shot that carries a kind of novelistic patience amid the greater race-against-time elements of the mystery. “The Chestnut Man” is perhaps on that same spectrum, but to its credit, there’s decidedly more visual panache here. Netflix is certainly no stranger to the crime-novel-to-TV pipeline, having carved out an entire programming wing devoted to Harlan Coben stories. (If that rudimentary, stick-figure evocation of lost innocence has you thinking “I gave you all the clues,” it only makes sense that Sveistrup is a credited screenwriter on “The Snowman.”) One of the only clues? A tiny chestnut figurine left behind in place of a missing appendage. From there, “The Chestnut Man” jumps forward, following a pair of detectives, Naia Thulin (Danica Curcic) and Mark Hess (Mikkel Boe Følsgaard) as they get drawn into a present-day homicide investigation. The show’s 1987-set opening sequence might as well be labeled “Prologue,” a walk through a vicious and bloody crime scene punctuated by one more act of violence to add to a pile that will only keep growing. But rather than reflect the pedigree of someone whose previous TV work capitalized so well on an episodic form of storytelling, “The Chestnut Man” feels like an attempt to not so much adapt his own book as transpose it.