‘The Dead Girls’ (2025) Netflix Series Review - Crime and Punishment

Bookworms often compare their favorite novels to their cinematic adaptations by declaring, "The book is better than the film." More often than not, this statement proves to be right. Movies, constrained by time, usually compress the pages and events of a novel into a two- or three-hour runtime. At times, especially when watching a poor adaptation, it's easy to notice that significant details have been omitted from the source material to make the film more "digestible" or "entertaining." In such cases, one may feel tempted to rush to the nearest bookstore to discover what was missed on screen. The Dead Girls/Las Muertas, a six-hour Netflix series, also piqued my interest in its source material — I immediately wanted to obtain a copy of Jorge Ibargüengoitia's 1977 black comedy. But this desire didn't solely arise from the show's mediocrity. The Dead Girls is essentially a horror story about a horrific crime, told with such lightness, casualness, and sharp bite that I wanted to see how Ibargüengoitia wrote it. One of the things that stood out to me almost instantly was how primal feelings play a key role in destroying the characters' lives. Simón Corona (Alfonso Herrera), in Episode 1, wonders how different his situation would have been if, for instance, he had quietly walked out of the hotel after having sex with Serafina Baladro (Paulina Gaitan) or if his car hadn't been fixed by the mechanic. At least one of these things was in his hands — he could have exited the hotel quietly. So why didn't he? Simón's sex hormones prevented him from leaving Serafina; they pushed him towards that sultry, sensual body (and he paid the price).

Now let's come to Serafina. What primal feelings ruin her life? Anger — the sudden eruption of a demand for vengeance. With some men and a gun in her hand, she destroys a bakery, scratches her violent itch, and...pays a heavy price. A government officer, completely intoxicated, unleashes his homosexual impulses, and it starts a chain reaction of misfortune and bad luck for Serafina and Arcángela (Arcelia Ramírez), the brothel owners. A few prostitutes get consumed by rage and hit one of their colleagues, which leads to them facing harsh punishment. Capitán Bedoya (Joaquín Cosio) is blinded by money and Serafina's body to such an extent that he erases the boundary between good and bad actions. There's always something more to uncover while watching The Dead Girls, which seems appropriate considering this is a show where bodies are buried in secret graves. The series begins like a typical Netflix production, utilizing sex scenes to engage the audience. But even here, something feels different because the sex (between Simón and Serafina) becomes a source of humor. The Dead Girls is packed with morbid humor, but the biggest joke eventually turns out to be the society, the media, and the justice system. The story is inspired by the crimes of Las Poquianchis, a term referring to these four sisters: María Delfina González Valenzuela, María del Carmen González Valenzuela, María Luisa González Valenzuela, and María de Jesús González Valenzuela. Wikipedia talks about their biography and their crimes. The series, though, puts an amusing spin on their criminal shenanigans.

The Dead Girls doesn't exactly portray Serafina and Arcángela as innocent individuals. It does, however, provide them with enough complex shades to make them stand somewhere between maternal mothers and immoral predators. They almost starve the prostitutes and torture them, but they also take one of them to a hospital for treatment. What about the staff? Except for Bedoya, the other two boys — a driver and a gardener — are almost presented like mute spectators. There is another character (a cook) who, with good intentions, chooses traditional treatment, but it leads to a tragic incident. The real stuff, the "fun," comes from these tragic incidents. Sure, the Baladro sisters can be monsters. But can they be labeled as "murderers?" The men who get their pleasure from brothels, the nuns who consider prostitutes to be sinful creatures, and the people who allow corruption to flourish in exchange for cash are also dangerous monsters and sinful creatures. They aren't any better than the Baladro sisters. Yet, they all judge the people who work at brothels; they, instead of fixing themselves, take a shortcut and blame the sex workers for spreading corruption. Almost every character makes a cross with their hand and remembers Jesus — they try to clean their image with the support of their faith, their religion. What they forget is this statement from Jesus, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her" from John 8:7 in the Bible. This is why they throw the stone without examining their own hypocrisy and actions.

Despite having a wealth of narrative juice, subtext, and entertainment, The Dead Girls often appears impoverished and bland. A great adaptation expands the richness of its source through the means of the cinema. A terrific example of this is RaMell Ross's brilliant Nickel Boys, which imbues a sense of grand intimacy into its story by being a powerfully subjective piece of cinematic work. Luis Estrada, by comparison, films the material from a distance. He's neither subjective nor humorous. He comes across as a conventional director handed a compelling subject—one whose power he undermines with a flat, uninspired approach that reeks of "Netflix flavor." The visuals are colorful in that familiar, homogenized style where one show's frames could easily be mistaken for another Netflix Original. Estrada respects the book too much. With The Dead Girls, he seems to be honoring Ibargüengoitia's work. The director, however, is so enamored by the author that he fails to elevate the story through the cinematic medium. Rather, he, with a nearly sober visual style, lays down the narrative and depends on its capabilities to lift this show as well. Estrada tries to be a good boy, a well-behaved fan. What he needed to be was a wild, uninhibited filmmaker. The Dead Girls, as a result, ends up testing your patience. Each episode runs for almost an hour (the final one is around 1 hour and 19 minutes), and you feel the weight of every second. Much like that gardener burying the dead, Estrada traps us beneath a lifeless layer of cinematic dullness.

Final Score- [5/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
Follow @vikasonorous on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times