The Cleaner (2024)

You can't clean the ugly side of humanity, nor wash away it's pain

The Cleaner feels less like a show and more like a glimpse into the raw, unfiltered side of life we rarely want to confront. It’s about a team of people who clean up after death, and it never sugarcoats that premise. It’s not comedy, not poetic, not horror either, it’s exactly what it is: human lives ending, and other humans quietly dealing with the aftermath.

The experience of watching it is heavy. Not disgusting, but suffocating in its honesty. Death here isn’t stylized, it just is. The blood isn’t meant for horror fans to gawk at, it’s a reminder of life’s fragility, of the silence left behind. That’s why binge-watching it was a mistake; the bitterness builds, leaving you with a kind of emotional hangover, a heaviness in the chest that lingers.

The acting is incredible. Every performance feels raw and stripped-down, no glossy makeup, no artificial beauty, just vulnerability and pain portrayed with sincerity. The color grading matches the tone: muted, neither bright nor monochrome, but somewhere in between, like life itself when stripped of pretense.

I didn’t cry watching it, but I felt like I could, and maybe that’s more powerful. The show traps you in that liminal space between wanting to weep and being too afraid to let go, because maybe breaking down would mean admitting just how much it hurts.

Some episodes reminded me how resilient humans can be in their darkest times. Others made me recoil at how ugly we can become. In the end, The Cleaner is a slice of life—bitter, relentless, and deeply human.

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