‘Devil May Cry’ series review: Heavy metal mythmaking for the age of Netflix

With a shotgun blast of reverence and irreverence, Adi Shankar has distilled ‘Devil May Cry’ down to its essence: operatic overkill told with the volume turned all the way up

By now, it’s something of a running joke that Netflix is the Vatican of adult animation, where the faithful gather to pray to high-budget adaptations of edgy videogames. From Castlevania to Cyberpunk: Edgerunners to Arcane, the platform has cultivated a reputation for turning niche pixels into prestige pulp. The latest to rise from these infernal depths and onto the streaming altar is Devil May Cry, an adaptation of Capcom’s long-running action franchise.

By all accounts, Devil May Cry should be a mess. The original videogame series featured a white-haired demon-hunter dual-wielding pistols named Ebony and Ivory while wisecracking like a Looney Tune on crack; all set against a backdrop of a biblical apocalypse. Somehow, Adi Shankar and Studio Mir have made sense of the senseless — hell, they’ve made it roar .The series kicks off in a blaze of blood, thunder, and a crunching nu-metal soundtrack featuring the likes of Limp Biskit, Evanescence, Green Day and Papa Roach, setting the stage for a surprisingly thoughtful, evolving joyride that’s gloriously off its rocker.

The Dante we meet here is voiced with deadpan swagger by Johnny Yong Bosch — younger, broodier, and sporting a few more emotional bruises than his videogame counterpart. But he’s still the demon-slaying rockstar we know and worship, sort of like if Bugs Bunny survived a gothic family tragedy, burdened by a Chekhov’s longsword forged out of daddy issues. This somehow still seems to work because Dante has always been a punchline encased in lore, a walking contradiction of myth and meme. He is cool incarnate, and the show doesn’t try to temper that, but amplifies it to ridiculous extremes.

Shankar roots this hellish fever dream in a New York City that’s grimy, sprawling, and grounded enough to make the carnage feel plausible. Skyscrapers crumble and grotesque hellspawn claw through dimensions, but the real terror is alluded to (quite unsubtly) behind closed boardrooms. What Devil May Cry does most cleverly beneath the blood-soaked ballet is slide in digs at blind patriotism, late-stage capitalism, and weaponised zealotry. This is an America on the edge, tottering between literal damnation and metaphorical collapse. And frankly, the demons seem like the more sensible negotiators.

As for the animation, imagine a pyrotechnics accident choreographed by a metalhead with a grudge. It’s an excessive, disorienting sensory overload that’s impossible to tear your eyes away from. Fight compositions feel like jazz on fire: bullets ricochet to the rhythm of Evanescence, swords slice in time with Papa Roach, and demons scream in agony while Dante flips them the bird. Subtle it is not, but boy, is it stylish. This is not edgy for edgy-ness’s sake, but camp with conviction.

Perhaps this adaptation’s greatest success is its willingness to let its main villain breathe. Hoon Lee’s White Rabbit — a manga-only antagonist given new life here — is a revelation. He grieves, he rages, he muses on morality with a Cheshire grin. Part prophet, part provocateur, his presence is elevated from mere fan-service to something genuinely Shakespearean. The performance would feel over-the-top if it weren’t so deftly undercut by some real, bruising pathos. Other characters including Mary (Lady), Enzo, and the late Kevin Conroy’s V.P. Baines are given arcs that feel faithful, but also fresh. 

Not everything lands. Some episodes feel like hangovers from better ones, and the tonal whiplash between action, philosophy, and slapstick occasionally knocks the wind out of its pacing. Dante often feels more like a meme from 2005 come to life and the show leans a little too hard on Capcom easter eggs, as if trying to impress the DMC subreddit rather than build its own mythology. But these are minor bumps in an otherwise sincere effort, because even when Devil May Cry falters, it does so with such caffeinated, self-aware chutzpah, that you can’t help but admire the audacity.