The Decameron puts a dishy, hilarious twist on classical lit

Jordan’s dialogue is by turns belly-laugh hilarious (Dioneo diagnoses Tindaro with “a case of chest vexation combined with acute fool’s face”) and devastatingly real, as the bodies pile up and the boundaries between master and servant crumble. (One character’s description of the agony of love hit me right in the chest.) Stylistically, The Decameron blends medieval and modern aesthetics in a way that feels wholly unique. Lavish, period-specific costumes and interiors go cheek and jowl with an ’80s soundtrack that includes tracks from the Pixies, Sparks, Depeche Mode, and Enya. 

But it’s the cast that makes The Decameron sing. Mamet is the perfect choice to play the mistress of ceremonies; her Pampinea is a riff on Shoshanna from Girls, driving home the idea that the modern class divide isn’t all that different from the 1340s. As Misia, Jackson evokes the slapstick physicality and exaggerated expressions of a silent-film comedian. And she’s also heartbreaking when Misia comes to realize just how toxic her relationship with Pampinea is.

Meanwhile, Hale is having the time of his life as Sirisco, whose manic optimism slowly disintegrates under the weight of despair and unrequited lust. (If he gets an Emmy nom for this role, I certainly hope he shows up with a white goose tucked under his arm.) Gill brings a surprising soulfulness to the proceedings as Panfilo comes to realize that no amount of scheming will hold mortality at bay. McMeekin manages to make us root for Tindaro despite the fact that he’s a sniveling little worm boy (no easy feat). And in Farzad’s capable hands, Stratilia is both the straight woman in a house full of buffoons and a giddy maniac in her own right. 

But the story lives and dies on the shoulders of Reynolds in (what should be) her breakout role. Licisca moves through life like a living Gumby, all big eyes and gangly limbs. She speaks volumes without saying a word, whether she’s nervously chewing on her hair or struggling into a silk gown. As played by Reynolds, Licisca is an incredibly complex character; though she has a tendency toward careless sadism, you understand where she’s coming from. (Let’s face it: Being a medieval peasant blows chunks.)

Though The Decameron is consistently unpredictable and full of dramatic twists, the story never feels manufactured or manipulative. It’s also surprisingly human, allowing even the most odious characters to grow and the most upstanding ones to degrade. These people may be over the top—and not just because they wear hats the size of a small dog—but when all is said and done, they’re just that: people.

We know from our own 21st-century plague that when you’re going mad from boredom while ambulance sirens wail past on the street below, there’s no divide between hilarity and horror, grief and elation. And when the storm has passed, no one makes it out without having been utterly transformed (if they make it out at all). The Decameron evokes the euphoric insanity of living through “interesting times,” when annihilation stalks around every corner. Hell may be other people, but they’re also the only thing keeping us from burning alive. 

The Decameron premieres July 25 on Netflix