No one does a dark and grisly murder like the Scandinavians. The steadily rising popularity of Nordic noir is a testament to that fact, as viewers continue to embrace the twisty, chilly subgenre, known for flawed protagonists, moody visuals, bleak subject matter, and its slow-burn approach to storytelling. Usually darker than the average crime thriller, these stories often feature familiar plot beats dressed in unflinching violence and complex supporting characters. Netflix’s The Chestnut Man is one of the stronger recent examples of the form, a Danish thriller from 2021 that follows the investigation into a string of serial murders, each marked by the inclusion of a disturbing chestnut figurine beside mutilated bodies.
Now, five years later, Netflix returns to the Nordic noir well with The Chestnut Man: Hide and Seek. A standalone sequel based on another book by Søren Sveistrup, best known as the creator of The Killing, it follows many of the same narrative patterns that made its predecessor so successful, while also borrowing its title for added brand recognition. Technically, viewers do not need to have seen the original to follow this installment, though the emotional weight is richer if they have.
The six-episode sequel reunites the unorthodox pair of Copenhagen detective Naia Thulin and Europol interloper Mark Hess for a new investigation. Their pre-existing emotional connection is the show’s only real link to the earlier season, but Hide and Seek adds context by confirming that the two attempted a romantic relationship in the gap between the stories, and that their breakup left unresolved tension between them. That tension matters, because in stories like this, the past is never really past; it is the hidden force shaping every decision in the present. That is part of the power of a story: it reveals how unfinished emotions continue to drive the plot long after the event that caused them.
The story begins in 1992, with a brief prologue in which a busload of schoolchildren on a nature trip discovers a dead body in the marshlands. The series is not subtle about the fact that this moment will matter later, and it plants one of several familiar genre mechanisms right away. In present-day Copenhagen, Thulin and Hess are pulled back together to investigate a case involving a woman named Zara Solack, who is found murdered after being stalked and harassed by a mysterious figure sending creepy texts containing lyrics from a nursery-rhyme-like counting song, complete with grossly misogynistic language. When it becomes clear that Zara is not the only recipient of these messages, the two detectives must work together again to stop a killer.
Elsewhere, grieving mother Marie Holst is still struggling with the loss of her daughter Emma, more than two years after her disappearance and death. Determined to uncover justice, she digs into the past by searching Emma’s laptop, reconnecting with her friends, and questioning an ex for any detail her daughter may have hidden. This storyline adds a different emotional texture to the series, because it is not only about solving a crime, but about refusing to let a life disappear without meaning. That is where the series quietly connects with the deeper logic of storytelling: grief seeks form, and form is often what turns pain into purpose.
No one who saw the original The Chestnut Man—or any comparable show in this genre—will be surprised when evidence eventually suggests the cold case and the present-day murders are connected. But the creators manage to weave the two strands together in a surprisingly satisfying way, even if some of the later callbacks to the opening murder feel a bit clunkier than they should. As a framing device, the counting rhyme is not quite as creepy or compelling as the chestnut figurines from the first season. It is more functional than haunting, and while it serves the plot, it lacks the same immediate symbolic charge.
That said, the central mystery is still gripping, even if it does not feel especially groundbreaking. At times, the slow-burn approach becomes a little ponderous, and the show leans heavily on familiar genre rhythms. But that familiarity is also part of the appeal. The series understands how to use the audience’s expectations, then tighten them with atmosphere, timing, and unease. It is a reminder that a story does not have to be radically new to be effective; it only has to be told with conviction, emotional intelligence, and enough pressure beneath the surface.
The series is also impressively atmospheric. Its moody visuals, muted colors, and claustrophobic tone create a world that feels cold, enclosed, and morally uneasy. It is not a drama for the faint of heart: there is plenty of violence, death, and some very grisly kills. But the show is tense and tastefully shot, and it handles difficult subject matter without sensationalizing the worst of it. That restraint matters. The darkness lands more strongly because the series does not overplay it.
One of the strongest elements is the partnership between Thulin and Hess. Despite their personal complications, they remain compelling together, and the chemistry between Danica Curcic and Mikkel Boe Følsgaard powers much of the early season. Their unresolved issues hover over the investigation, giving the procedural material an emotional undercurrent. In story terms, their relationship functions like a second mystery: not just what happened in the case, but what happened between them, and why that gap still matters. The best stories often work this way, with the outer plot reflecting the inner fracture.
Curcic is smart and capable as Thulin, while Følsgaard is given the more awkward task of making Hess’s commitment problems seem meaningful. He does not always succeed, and the character’s behavior can be frustrating enough to test patience. Still, the dynamic works overall because it feels incomplete in a human way, and incompleteness is often what makes relationships believable. Among the supporting cast, Gråbøl stands out as Marie, caught between the need for justice and the need to remain present for her surviving children. Ester Birch is also excellent as Thulin’s older daughter, Le, whose resentment toward Hess adds another layer of emotional cost.
In the end, The Chestnut Man: Hide and Seek does not reinvent crime drama, and it does not need to. Its formulaic nature is part of the appeal, and its execution is solid enough to make the ride worthwhile. The series delivers the familiar pleasures of Nordic noir—dread, atmosphere, moral unease, and shocking violence—while also reminding us that stories endure because they give shape to what would otherwise remain chaotic. That is the quiet strength here: beneath the grisly murders and bleak visuals, the series understands how people search for meaning in damage, and how a story, even a familiar one, can still pull us in when it knows what emotional wound it is really following.