If you’ve ever watched a show and thought, “What if Big Little Lies was a little drunker, a little paler, and a lot more obvious?” – congrats, you’ve already emotionally prepared for Sirens, Netflix’s latest dark comedy limited series that serves up wealthy white dysfunction with a side of lukewarm “murder” mystery.

Set on the fictional island of Port Haven (Cape Cod with a lobotomy), Sirens follows Devon (Meghann Fahy), a woman trying to maintain a grip on her sobriety, high-functioning anxiety, and her emotionally fragile sister Simone (Milly Alcock), who’s become dangerously enmeshed with her new boss Michaela (Julianne Moore). Michaela is the kind of person who wears white cashmere to brunch and stares at you like she’s mentally redesigning your life choices. She’s married to Peter Kell (Kevin Bacon, in full succession but with secrets mode), a zaddy finance titan with generational wealth and the emotional availability of a broken Roomba.

If that cast list doesn’t scream one-percent melodrama, I don’t know what does.

To be fair, the show wants to be mysterious. There’s this low hum of a question running through every scene: Do these women have powers? Are they actual sirens aka mythical, manipulative, and dangerous beings? At first, it almost feels like we’re heading into supernatural thriller territory. The coastal isolation of Port Haven, the whispered references to lost time, and the swirling sisterhood dynamics hint at something bigger, darker, and maybe even magical.

But spoiler alert (without spoiling anything): the show doesn’t commit to the fantasy. Instead of leaning into the siren mythology, it dips its toe in just long enough to tease us before pivoting back to rich people whisper-fighting in marble kitchens. If you’re going to tempt us with mystical femme power, at least dive in and give us glowing eyes or an ethereal scream that shatters glass and patriarchal legacies. Instead, we get long silences, loaded stares, and another dinner party where everyone is lying and/or microdosing.

Let’s talk about the casting while we’re at it – because Sirens is a feast of chaotic white wealth, where people of color are only allowed to serve hors d’oeuvres.

Felix Solis plays José, the house manager/chauffeur who holds it all together with the patience of a saint and the backstory of a paper towel. Britne Oldford shows up as Missy, the Kells’ seasonal housekeeper who feels like she could expose the entire family if she ever stopped scrubbing spilled wine out of carpets long enough to write a memoir. And then there’s Josh Segarra as Raymond, Devon’s ex-boyfriend and current boss, who’s also her part-time sex buddy. Because, of course, he is.

Look, I love Josh Segarra as much as the next person with eyes and taste – but even his perfect jawline can’t save this script from drowning in déjà vu. For a show that’s supposed to subvert expectations, Sirens loves clinging to them. Everyone is damaged in ways we’ve seen before. Every twist feels like it came from a checklist. There’s the mysterious alleged death of Peter’s first wife. The power-hungry matriarch. The emotionally unstable younger woman who may or may not be manipulating everyone. And of course – the cliffs.

Dear Sirens writers: Can we please talk about the cliffs?

At this point, they deserve their own IMDb credit. Characters storm out to the cliffs. They cry on the cliffs. They threaten to jump, push, or disappear near the cliffs. They yell cryptic things like, “You don’t know what she’s capable of!” while silhouetted against a dramatic sky and the ocean’s ominous roar. It’s giving emotional instability with a view, and honestly? The cliffs have the show’s most consistent character arc.

Which brings me to the core issue with Sirens: it has all the ingredients for something bold – dark feminine power, class commentary, mental health, even a whisper of mythology – but chooses instead to tread the same tired waters. Imagine if the sirens were Afro-Caribbean curanderas or queer Latinx witches, reclaiming ancestral magic to burn down the white patriarchy from the inside. Now that would be a show. Instead, we get another limited series where the brown and Black characters are set dressing and the real drama is whether the billionaire wife is losing her mind or just bored with Pilates.

And yet – and this is the frustrating part – it still kind of works.

Sirens isn’t an awards contender. It doesn’t break new ground. But it’s pretty. It’s glossy. It’s got enough tension to make you put your phone down between doomscrolls. The performances are solid (Julianne Moore chews every scene like it’s aged manchego), the pacing is decent, and the aesthetic is coastal-core with a splash of wine-fueled paranoia.

It’s the kind of show you hate-watch until you don’t. You start for the “murder,” stay for the mess, and before you know it, you’re three episodes deep yelling at the screen, “Mija, don’t trust her – she poisoned the last one with a gluten-free muffin!”

So if you’re in the mood for rich white chaos with just enough drama to keep your inner chismosa entertained, Sirens might be your next weekend binge. Just don’t go in expecting groundbreaking social commentary or groundbreaking anything, really.

But do expect cliffs. So many damn cliffs.