Dogs of Berlin is a Netflix crime drama series (10 episodes) that premiered on December 7, 2018. As Netflix's second German original (following Dark), it plunges viewers into the gritty underbelly of modern Berlin. The show centers on two very different police detectives forced to partner after a famous Turkish-German football star is murdered on the eve of a critical match. What unfolds is a high-stakes investigation that entangles neo-Nazi gangs, Turkish crime clans, and Berlin's bureaucratic elite. Dogs of Berlin blends thriller tension with socio-political drama, all while maintaining a breakneck pace and darkly comic edge. Despite being in German, it's thoroughly engaging with subtitles (or dubbing), proving that a great story transcends language barriers.
Woke Rating: 5/5 – Dogs of Berlin proudly contains no woke nonsense. The series is refreshingly free of tokenistic casting or preachy identity politics. It sticks to authentic storytelling – depicting criminals and cops as they are, without inserting forced social justice messages. In an era of quota-driven entertainment, this crime thriller feels defiantly old-school, earning a perfect 5/5 on our anti-woke scale.
Unapologetically traditional – story first, politics last.
"Is any of it really a choice and can we ever escape the life we are born into?" — Kurt Grimmer, Dogs of Berlin
From its opening episodes, Dogs of Berlin establishes fate versus free will as a central theme. The show explores how characters are shaped by the worlds they are born into – whether it's the crime-infested streets or the halls of law enforcement. It's a story of a city at war with itself, and the series does not shy away from uncomfortable social truths. In fact, the list of suspects in the central murder spans Berlin's fractured society: Neo-Nazi hooligans, Turkish nationalist gangsters, Arab mafia kingpins, and even high-level politicians. This broad spectrum of factions underscores the ethnic and cultural fault lines running through modern Berlin.
All these themes play out in a hyper-realistic fashion. Rather than delivering a sanitized, politically correct vision of Berlin, the series dives headlong into gritty realism. The modern power structure – from government officials to crime bosses – is shown as either corrupt or ineffectual, leaving mavericks like Grimmer as the last line of defense. It's a sobering portrayal of a society where idealism has faded and survival is the name of the game. Yet amid the seriousness, the narrative finds dark humor and irony, preventing the social commentary from ever feeling like a lecture.
Felix Kramer delivers a commanding performance as Kurt Grimmer, a detective who could have stepped out of a 1970s crime noir. Grimmer is a hard-drinking, foul-mouthed throwback – a man with a severe gambling addiction and a murky past (including former neo-Nazi ties). He bends laws to his will and isn’t above taking an illicit cut, yet despite his corruption, Kurt is brutally effective at getting the job done. Kramer imbues him with a rough charisma; you might despise his ethics, but you can’t deny his cunning or strange sense of honor.
Opposite him, Erol Birkan (played by Fahri Yardım) is the picture of a principled cop – disciplined, honest, and initially unwilling to compromise. As a Turkish-German in the Berlin police, Erol faces pressures both from his superiors (who tokenistically need an “ethnic” face on the case) and from his own community. Yardım’s portrayal is understated yet powerful: Erol serves as the show’s moral compass, but he’s no saint either. Over the season, even this straight-arrow detective finds himself tempted into Grimmer’s grey zone, forced to consider bending rules to navigate the ugliness they uncover.
The evolution of their partnership is a highlight. Initially, Kurt and Erol are hostile and mistrustful – an oil-and-water pairing of old-school cynicism and idealistic professionalism. But as they wade deeper into Berlin’s underworld, a begrudging respect develops. The series smartly avoids a clichéd buddy-cop turnaround; instead, it shows how extreme circumstances forge an uneasy alliance. Both men are fundamentally changed by the other.
Stylistically, Dogs of Berlin is as aggressive and dark as its subject matter. Director Christian Alvart paints a cinematic portrait of Berlin's underbelly with a keen eye for detail. The cinematography often uses handheld cameras and stark lighting to heighten the sense of realism. The color palette is cold and washed-out for bureaucratic offices and housing projects, contrasted with lurid reds and neon glow in nightclub and gang hideout scenes.
Sound design and music further reinforce the atmosphere. The show incorporates German hip-hop and electronic beats that give it an authentic urban pulse. When violence erupts, the action is fast, chaotic, and unglamorized – shootouts and brawls feel scrappy and brutal, not choreographed superhero fare.
Notably, Berlin itself becomes a character through the lens, from the high-rises of Märkisches Viertel to hidden gambling dens in Kreuzberg, building a gritty realism that's immersive without being dreary.
Physical intensity — Kramer gives Kurt a swagger and a bulk that dominate every scene; you sense this man’s barely restrained aggression in his lumbering gait and sharp glares.
Nuanced vulnerability — Amid the bluster, Kramer lets flickers of Kurt’s inner pain show through, whether it’s a desperate look when his gambling debts come due or a rare moment of guilt with his family.
Magnetic screen presence — Even when Kurt makes abhorrent choices, Kramer’s charisma holds our attention. He ensures that this antihero is never one-note, but a volatile mix of charm and menace.
Fahri Yardım provides the perfect counterweight. As Erol Birkan, Yardım’s performance is quieter but no less compelling. He conveys Erol’s integrity and frustration with subtle facial expressions and a calm, steady voice that only cracks when pushed to the brink. The chemistry between the two leads evolves from icy distrust to a complex mutual dependence.
Dogs of Berlin walks a tonal tightrope, balancing grim crime drama with streaks of dark humor. The writing injects sly wit into what could have been an oppressively bleak tale. Much like Breaking Bad or Fargo, this series finds absurd comedy in human folly.
The tone remains serious but not solemn — confident, sharp, and unfiltered.
Crucially, the dialogue is sharp and unfiltered. Characters speak like real people from their respective milieus: gang members spit street slang, politicians talk in veiled threats, and Kurt unleashes profane tirades at bureaucrats who hinder him. It's willing to risk offending to tell the truth of its world.
When Dogs of Berlin hit Netflix, it generated buzz for its unvarnished depiction of Germany's capital. Traditional critics were mixed, but viewers tired of formulaic TV gave it a cult following. Despite audience enthusiasm, Netflix did not renew the series; fans speculate its gritty approach and lack of corporate-friendly posturing didn't align with broader strategy. Within Germany, it sparked conversations about how crime fiction portrays social realities — praised by some, criticized by others — proof it hit close to home.
Who should watch: Fans of smart, character-driven crime dramas in the vein of Breaking Bad or The Wire. If you're fed up with cookie-cutter, "safe" TV, this will hit the spot.
Fair warning: This is not for the easily offended. It pulls no punches in showing the ugly side of society and refuses to kowtow to the zeitgeist.
Final verdict: Dogs of Berlin is a thrilling gut-punch that is ranked #30 out of 224. Raw, daring, and engrossing — a one-season wonder that stands tall as an example of uncompromising storytelling.
A dark, daring howl against timid television.