At first, I thought Grotesquerie was just another detective show. It even starts pretty plainly: a cop, murders, a strange duo — a drunk detective and a journalist nun. Almost a parody of the genre. But from the first minutes, something slippery is in the air, like the room suddenly has a different kind of air.

Everything looks by the book, but it feels like someone quietly moved the furniture behind the familiar facade.

I catch myself on a familiar feeling. Not a story — a state of mind. When the world seems real only because everyone acts like they believe in the same set.

Grotesquerie hits that nerve: where’s the line between what’s really happening and what’s only inside you? When does inner chaos become the only true picture?

With every episode, that line blurs more. At first, it’s annoying — you want to know: am I seeing a hallucination or an event? Then I notice: the question itself loses meaning. Like dream and waking swapped places — you wake up not in a new day, but inside someone else’s head.

It stops mattering if it was the heroine’s fantasy or a real murder; what matters is the feeling of being stuck, when no version can be final.

I try to think of a show that so clearly refuses to be a story with a start and an end. Usually, everything rushes to a conclusion — the criminal is caught, the moral is drawn. Here it’s the opposite: the further it goes, the more the plot falls apart into pieces with no connection.

The habit of looking for answers starts to get in the way. It feels like an old reflex in a world where there’s no shared script anymore.

Here’s the thing — this very discomfort is what pulls you in the most. The chaos of the show is a lot like the media noise outside your window: news contradict themselves, truth doesn’t match facts, new rules every month.

Everything gets so shaky that any confident story about “how it really was” sounds suspiciously fake.

Grotesquerie doesn’t explain this chaos — it makes you feel it inside. Watching is unpleasant (almost physical), but that’s why you can’t look away: you see your own confusion about how today’s world works.

Seems like this kind of art is what we really need now — the kind that doesn’t give answers or even promise a catharsis; art to practice living inside a world full of holes.

Like honesty now means refusing to pretend you’re a finished work.

It all comes down to one question: if Grotesquerie’s main experience is living your own uncertainty instead of a story with a solution, does that make this art more honest?