Why Slangedræber Might Be the Rawest Cop Series Since The Wire

When it comes to diplomacy, Brian “Smiley” Petersen doesn’t waste time. As “Slangedraeber” begins, he is already struggling to reintegrate into a corrupt drugs squad that has just been damaged by scandal. The speed and emotional landscape both drastically change when one of his spies is killed in a Copenhagen alley. Instead of starting, the four-part Danish serial on Prime Video explodes.

There’s no denying the timing. Slangedraeber feels remarkably personal, rooted in the shadowy corners of a police department that many Danes would prefer to forget, in contrast to other Nordic crime novels that have pushed toward stylized brutality. During the 1980s and 1990s, the notorious Uropatruljen, who were notorious for their unreported raids and unbridled brutality, were a source of both dread and admiration. This program questions them rather than mythologizes them.

With a simmering complexity, Pilou Asbæk portrays Smiley. His conviction that the goals outweigh the methods is very evident. His tactics are consistent, whether he is yanking a suspect out of a brothel or confronting a senior prosecutor at a dinner party. However, there is a weight behind his eyes that illustrates the decay behind the righteousness. In episode four, a heart-to-heart with an elderly heroin addict almost made me lose my cool—there was a tenderness I wasn’t prepared for.

Jim, Smiley’s lifelong second-in-command, is played by Lars Ranthe, who is consistently among the best in Danish fiction. He exudes warmth and a tired sense of loyalty. He smiled like a man who has spent decades staring at the same corner of the street yet is determined to preserve what remains of its spirit. Mira As Louise, the wide-eyed recruit plunged into this moral haze, Elisa Obling enters. She anchors the audience with her quiet skepticism and defiance of conformity, and her presence cuts through the machismo with sharp uneasiness.

Anders Ølholm, the show’s creator, isn’t afraid of grime. Radio static, cigarette smoke, and streetlight orange permeate every episode. Sweat and shadows are purposefully layered to ensnare you in the 1990s rather than merely suggest them. The visual aesthetic is oppressive and retro, with characters carrying Nokia phones and sporting clunky sneakers.

I felt myself clenching my jaw during one tracking shot through a poorly lit motel used by traffickers. When it doesn’t feel contrived, which is rarely the case here, that type of visceral tension works quite well. Although it is clear that Ølholm has experience with the brutal 2020 film “Shorta,” this time he focuses more on empathy, particularly for individuals who are at the center of both crime and law enforcement.

Another aspect of Slangedræber’s strength is its conciseness. It doesn’t waste any of its four episodes. Every conflict intensifies, every arc gets tighter. Even its supporting cast members, such as Hans Henrik Clemensen’s grizzled Jørn, who is portrayed with subtle malice, provide a thorough backstory without going into too much detail. It’s very creative to strike a balance between nuance and rawness.

The series encourages similarities to David Simon’s work without copying it, thanks to its inspiration from actual people and operations. It addresses institutional decay, poisonous loyalty, and police violence without preaching. Rather, it causes discomfort and then makes it worse. The cost of seeking justice with damaged instruments is the focus of this series, not justice itself.

As Smiley lectures a younger cop about moral compromise in the middle of episode three, I couldn’t help but wonder if the distinction between a tyrant and a savior was ever intended to be clear.

Synths and Danish hip-hop dominate the soundtrack, which adds rhythmic intensity to the turmoil on screen. Beats, footsteps, and doors slamming are the only dramatic scores. This constraint is very helpful since it allows the tension to relax.

Even though the show has a serious tone, there are occasional humorous moments. A running joke with a cameo from a fishmonger provides a little respite from the violence. However, there is a sting to even that humor—these men jest to cope, not merely to connect.

For its characters, Slangedræber never expresses regret. Rather, it envelops them in moral paradox and lets us figure out the fallout. Although Smiley serves as the show’s main character, Louise takes on the role of conscience. Her increasing resistance speaks loudly, not through speeches but through unbreakable silences.

This is Denmark’s first original Prime Video production and a remarkably resilient foray into high-end criminal programming. It does not attempt to whitewash its own national narrative or imitate American clichés. Rather, it uses incisive storytelling and a reluctance to blink to address the uneasiness of recent events.

Debts are paid off both literally and figuratively by the end of the action. The final twist and the issue it dares to pose—what if the only people defending us are just as deadly as the ones they hunt—both highlight the price of doing what is “necessary.”

Perhaps that’s the tension we’ve always had; all we needed was a story that was bold enough to be told aloud.