Man on Fire

In 1987, we met him in Italy. In 2004, he turned up in Mexico City. Now it's Rio de Janeiro's turn. A.J. Quinnell's series of novels about John Creasy has been adapted for the screen twice before, but now it's Netflix's turn to take on the character, this time in the form of a TV series. Changing the setting and the cast is often an effective way to breathe new life into a familiar story, but in this case, the end result is a mixed bag.

In this adaptation of Man on Fire, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II takes on the role of John Creasy, a former elite soldier whose greatest skill was surviving the impossible. However, this heroic aura is now a thing of the past; we meet a man struggling with severe PTSD following a traumatic and costly mission in Mexico City. As Creasy stands on the brink of ruin, his old friend Paul Rayburn extends a helping hand in an attempt to get him back on his feet. Despite Creasy's own protests that he is not ready for the field, he is persuaded to take on a bodyguard assignment. But despite his reluctance, he is inexorably drawn back into the spiral of violence when Rayburn's daughter finds herself in the line of fire and needs his protection.

The decision to shift the setting from the book's Italy to the heart of Rio de Janeiro in Brazil feels logical, particularly as series creator Kyle Killen seems to have aimed to create a geopolitical thriller rather than a pure revenge story. The series raises interesting questions about the consequences of US interference in other countries' domestic politics and how this affects the individual. The problem is that the equation never quite adds up. Creasy's personal demons are reduced to a side note that is never allowed to be explored in depth. By attempting to link Brazil's top political leadership with Creasy's more intimate drama, there is a risk of both diminishing the bigger picture and overcomplicating what is essentially a stripped-back narrative.

Yahya Abdul-Mateen II does his best with a disjointed script in which the characters' motivations often remain unclear. He and the rest of the cast deliver solid performances, but they are let down by a plot that feels contrived in its quest for political weight. The thread linking the corridors of the presidential palace with the favelas of Rio de Janeiro is far from clear-cut. Creasy's mental health also tends to be treated more as a dramatic gimmick than a genuine character trait - a tool to ramp up the tension in individual scenes rather than lending weight to his trauma. Among the other performances, British actress Billie Boullet and Brazilian actress Alice Braga shine brightest.

In Tony Scott's acclaimed 2004 film adaptation, both the atmosphere and the main character felt raw and authentic. In 2026, Creasy comes across more as a caricature, shaped by contemporary expectations of a modern action hero: where there was once alcohol, there is now PTSD, and where the driving force was revenge, it is now about grief, loss and the road to recovery. The TV series stumbles in the clash between the small-scale and large-scale conflicts. It is precisely this split that causes the series to lose focus and prevents the audience's engagement with the characters from ever truly deepening. What we get is a solid action production which, with a tighter script and a clearer identity, would have had the potential to actually surpass its predecessors.