What We Do in the Shadows

Adapting a cult comedy film into a television series is usually a recipe for disappointment. The original What We Do in the Shadows, a 2014 New Zealand mockumentary about vampire flatmates, had the kind of specific, handmade charm that doesn’t typically survive the transition to episodic television. Jemaine Clement, who co-directed the film with Taika Waititi, took the concept to FX in 2019 with a new cast, a new setting, and a willingness to let the show become its own thing entirely. Set on Staten Island, the series follows a household of vampires who’ve lived together for centuries, documenting their attempts to navigate modern American life with the help of a long-suffering human familiar.

The show ran for six seasons, wrapping up in December 2024, and earned 35 Emmy nominations along the way. Community reception was consistently enthusiastic, with fans praising the ensemble chemistry, the show’s fearless commitment to absurdity, and its ability to find fresh comedy in a premise that could have gone stale quickly. The final season divided some viewers on whether the show stuck the landing, but the overall consensus places it among the best comedies of its era.

The Vampire Ensemble That Never Gets Old

The cast chemistry is the show’s greatest achievement. Kayvan Novak as Nandor the Relentless, Matt Berry as Laszlo Cravensworth, Natasia Demetriou as Nadja, and Harvey Guillen as Guillermo de la Cruz form one of the strongest comedy ensembles on television. Each actor brings a completely distinct energy. Nandor’s dim-witted warrior nobility, Laszlo’s pompous Victorian excess, Nadja’s fierce romanticism, and Guillermo’s desperate loyalty create a dynamic that generates comedy through collision rather than setup.

Matt Berry deserves special mention for turning Laszlo into something approaching a comedic icon. His line delivery alone elevates material that would be merely amusing with another performer into something transcendent. The way he says ordinary words with maximum theatrical weight is a running joke that somehow never stops being funny across sixty-plus episodes.

The show’s approach to vampire mythology is gleefully irreverent. Rather than treating vampirism as a metaphor for anything serious, it treats it as a logistical inconvenience. Vampires can’t enter homes without an invitation, which makes moving difficult. They can’t see their reflections, which makes getting dressed an ordeal. They live forever, which means they accumulate centuries of petty grudges and outdated social norms. By grounding supernatural abilities in domestic frustration, the show creates comedy that’s both fantastical and relatable.

The guest appearances and recurring characters expanded the show’s world in unexpected directions. From energy vampires who drain people through boring conversations to vampire councils and werewolf neighbors, the mythology grew in ways that always served comedy first and continuity second.

When Immortality Wears Thin

Six seasons is a long run for any comedy, and What We Do in the Shadows shows the strain in places. Later seasons pushed the absurdity dial further and further, and while the swings were often impressive, they occasionally came at the cost of the grounded character dynamics that made early seasons so effective. When everything is cranked to maximum weirdness, nothing feels surprising anymore.

The mockumentary format, inherited from the film, became increasingly difficult to justify as the show progressed. The question of why a camera crew would continue documenting these vampires for years on end was mostly waved away, and by later seasons the format felt more like a structural convenience than a creative framework. The talking-head segments still delivered good jokes, but they sometimes interrupted momentum rather than enhancing it.

Character arcs, particularly in the final seasons, didn’t always satisfy longtime viewers. Some relationships that had been carefully built over years resolved in ways that felt rushed or arbitrary, and a few character transformations seemed driven by the need for something new rather than organic development. The show’s comedy-first approach, a strength for most of its run, left some viewers wanting more emotional payoff from the finale.

The show’s reliance on a specific brand of absurdist humor also means it’s not for everyone. If you don’t find the basic premise of ancient vampires struggling with modern technology inherently funny, no amount of excellent performance or clever writing will bridge that gap.

Why Staten Island’s Vampires Matter

What We Do in the Shadows proved that supernatural comedy could sustain a long-running series without becoming repetitive. The key was treating the premise as a starting point rather than the entire joke. The best episodes used the vampire framework to explore loneliness, friendship, change, and the fear of losing the people you care about, all while keeping the comedy front and center.

The show also demonstrated that adapted properties can outgrow their source material. By the second season, the series had established its own identity so firmly that comparisons to the film felt beside the point.

Should You Watch What We Do in the Shadows?

Comedy fans who appreciate committed ensemble performances and absurdist humor will find this irresistible. If you enjoy shows that build their own mythology without taking it too seriously, or if you’ve ever wondered what centuries-old creatures would actually be like as roommates, this delivers on that premise with remarkable consistency. The short episode length makes it easy to sample.

If you need your comedies grounded in reality, or if vampire fatigue has set in permanently, this won’t be the show that changes your mind. The humor is specific and sometimes deliberately silly, and it asks you to meet it on its own terms.

The Verdict on What We Do in the Shadows

What We Do in the Shadows took a cult film premise and stretched it across six seasons of increasingly absurd vampire comedy without ever losing its bite. The ensemble cast found new ways to mine laughs from centuries-old undead roommates navigating modern Staten Island, and the show’s willingness to go bigger and weirder kept it from settling into a comfortable rut. Some later seasons pushed the absurdity past the point where emotional stakes could keep up, and the mockumentary format occasionally felt more like habit than intention. But at its best, this was one of the funniest shows on television, a comedy that made immortality feel hilariously mundane.