Lupin Part 4: Netflix Has Given Its Gentleman Thief a Superhero Complex
Lupin Part 4 has apparently decided that being the cleverest thief in France is no longer impressive enough. The heists are bigger, the escapes are increasingly outrageous, and Omar Sy remains charming enough to convince you that a man could rob the Louvre with a paperclip and a particularly convincing moustache. Unfortunately, Netflix has started confusing criminal genius with supernatural abilities. The result appears spectacular, entertaining and occasionally so ridiculous that the laws of physics should consider legal representation.
The emerging verdict is fairly straightforward: Part 4 is worth watching for its spectacle and Omar Sy, but anyone expecting the meticulous criminal ingenuity of the earlier seasons has reason to lower their expectations. Some viewers loved all eight episodes. Others seem ready to report Netflix to the authorities for crimes against common sense. The disagreement is interesting because it exposes something fundamental about what made Lupin work in the first place.
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The world's greatest thief has had his identity stolen. How embarrassing.
Four years after surrendering to the authorities, Assane Diop remains in prison, supposedly ready to serve his sentence, reunite with his family and take his son Raoul to Senegal. He's planning to leave the Lupin identity behind, which seems a sensible career decision when your previous occupation involved repeatedly humiliating the French police and stealing objects worth more than the annual budget of Luxembourg.
Unfortunately, somebody else has started committing crimes under his name. A mysterious copycat announces simultaneous museum robberies, the thefts succeed despite heightened security, and evidence points directly towards Assane. Captain Belkacem is seriously injured during one of the crimes, leaving our gentleman thief facing a rather uncomfortable accusation.
The irony is magnificent. Assane has spent years proving that no prison, security system or government employee is capable of containing him. Now he must convince everyone that he couldn't possibly have committed these robberies because he was safely locked inside a prison. A prison which, based on his professional history, offers roughly the same level of containment as a garden fence around an escaped rhinoceros.
It's an excellent criminal predicament. Assane has effectively created a brand so successful that somebody has stolen it. Imagine spending years perfecting your reputation as an internationally recognised thief, only to discover that another criminal is committing robberies under your name. You can't even complain without explaining that you are the original criminal whose intellectual property has been infringed. Somewhere in Paris, there ought to be a solicitor specialising in trademark disputes between professional burglars. The paperwork alone would be worth a television series.
More importantly, the premise asks a fascinating question: what happens when your greatest criminal achievement becomes the evidence used against you? Assane's reputation for impossible escapes is now his greatest liability. Unfortunately, the early response suggests Netflix may be more enthusiastic about spectacular escapes than exploring that contradiction.
Apparently, robbing museums now requires superpowers
The original attraction of Lupin wasn't simply that Assane stole expensive things. Give almost anyone a brick and sufficiently flexible morals, and they'll eventually acquire something that doesn't belong to them. What made Assane special was his understanding of people. His disguises, social engineering and carefully constructed deceptions transformed theft into a psychological game. We were invited to appreciate how the deception worked.
That distinction appears to be where Part 4 encounters its biggest problem. Early Reddit discussions repeatedly criticise increasingly implausible technology, miraculous escapes and schemes that seemingly succeed because the plot has decided they must. Viewers describe extravagant physical stunts, questionable hacking and technological solutions that appear to replace the elaborate human manipulation that originally defined Assane.
One particularly memorable audience complaint compares the gentleman thief to Spider-Man, which is quite an achievement for a series that began with an unusually intelligent man using elaborate disguises.
Now, I have absolutely no objection to ridiculous fiction. This is a television series about a charming criminal who regularly convinces the authorities that the man they're desperately searching for is actually somebody else wearing a slightly different coat. Strict realism was never particularly welcome at this party.
But there is a crucial distinction between improbable and arbitrary. A brilliant thief makes the impossible look easy. A badly written thief makes the impossible look compulsory.
When Assane succeeds through meticulous planning, we can admire his intelligence. When technology apparently solves whatever problem happens to be standing between him and freedom, the ingenuity starts feeling suspiciously like magic.
Give him another season and he'll be able to steal the Mona Lisa by sending the Louvre a Bluetooth pairing request. The painting will presumably accept, disconnect from its security system and climb into a delivery van.
The technology itself isn't the problem. A modern criminal thriller should absolutely understand surveillance, digital systems and the enormous opportunities they create for somebody with sufficiently criminal intentions. The problem arises when technology becomes an all-purpose escape hatch instead of an obstacle that requires intelligence to overcome.
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Bigger heists aren't necessarily better heists
Professional criticism has been considerably kinder than some early audience discussions. The Guardian praises Omar Sy's magnetic presence and the enormous spectacle while questioning the growing blockbuster ambitions. Other favourable assessments celebrate precisely that extravagance, suggesting the series remains hugely enjoyable when approached as unapologetic escapist entertainment.
That's a reasonable position. Sometimes you want a sophisticated crime thriller in which every detail matters. Sometimes you simply want to watch a charming Frenchman make the entire police force look as though they've been recruited from a regional competition for people who struggle with revolving doors.
Both have entertainment value.
However, bigger heists don't automatically produce better heists. A carefully planned robbery can generate extraordinary tension through something as mundane as an unexpected witness, a mistimed distraction or an employee deciding to return from lunch five minutes early. Every detail has consequences, and the audience understands what could go wrong.
When the protagonist appears capable of overcoming absolutely anything, those consequences start evaporating. Why worry about whether Assane will escape when another miraculous solution could emerge from his coat pocket?
Perhaps he's arranged a helicopter. Perhaps he's forged seventeen identities. Perhaps there's a conveniently positioned maintenance tunnel that nobody previously mentioned. Perhaps a trained pigeon will arrive carrying the security code.
A heist should make you admire the criminal's intelligence, not wonder whether the screenwriters have temporarily disabled gravity.
That's the dividing line between clever spectacle and expensive nonsense. And judging by the early audience disagreement, Part 4 spends a considerable amount of time balancing on it.
The family drama is getting dangerously close to soap opera territory
Assane's criminal career has always been complicated by his attempts to protect his family. That personal conflict matters because it gives his decisions consequences beyond another expensive object disappearing from a museum. A man who steals for the thrill is entertaining. A man whose talent for deception continually threatens the people he loves is potentially fascinating.
Part 4 continues exploring that conflict, although early viewers have expressed frustration with developments involving Claire, Benjamin and Assane's family obligations. Some argue that established motivations are being contradicted, while others are dissatisfied with the final twist. Those complaints aren't universal, and even viewers who enjoyed all eight episodes have reservations about certain character decisions.
It's a familiar danger for long-running crime dramas. Eventually, the protagonist has survived so many extraordinary situations that the writers must invent increasingly elaborate reasons for him to abandon every sensible decision he's ever made.
He promises to change. Something terrible happens. He returns to crime. Everybody is disappointed. He promises to change again.
It's practically a rehabilitation programme operated by people whose continued employment depends on the patient never recovering.
There's a difference between a flawed protagonist struggling to escape his criminal identity and a character whose personal development gets reset whenever another season needs commissioning. The first is compelling drama. The second is a revolving door with a subscription fee.
Whether Part 4 ultimately earns those family developments remains a question for a proper viewing assessment. The concerns are worth taking seriously, though, because no amount of elaborate robbery choreography can compensate for characters who stop behaving like themselves.
Omar Sy remains Netflix's greatest getaway vehicle
One thing professional critics appear largely united on is Omar Sy's continued appeal. Even disappointed viewers have praised the performances, atmosphere, music and Parisian scenery, suggesting that the surrounding entertainment remains attractive despite arguments over the writing.
That's hardly surprising. Assane's charisma is part of his criminal toolkit. He doesn't simply overcome obstacles through aggression. He persuades people, understands their assumptions and convinces them to trust him at precisely the moment they ought to be checking whether their wallet is still in their trousers.
An actor capable of selling that combination of warmth and calculated deception is enormously valuable. Sy gives audiences somebody they want to follow even when the story surrounding him becomes increasingly difficult to defend.
Some actors couldn't make a perfectly written scene interesting if you handed them a flamethrower and released seventeen angry badgers onto the set. Sy has the opposite problem. He's sufficiently charismatic that the writers can apparently get away with considerably more nonsense than they otherwise deserve.
Paris helps, too. Few cities provide a more attractive backdrop for elaborate criminal activity, particularly when museums, monuments and absurdly expensive cultural treasures are involved.
But charisma has limits. A wonderful actor can make an implausible scene entertaining. He cannot retroactively make it intelligent.
If you've had enough of criminal masterminds developing supernatural abilities, explore CRIMENET's Crime Series reviews. More thieves, murderers and catastrophically questionable decisions, with the occasional detective desperately trying to justify their salary.
Is Lupin Part 4 worth watching?
Probably, provided you're prepared to trade some criminal ingenuity for enormous spectacle. The early evidence points towards an entertaining season with a magnetic central performance, ambitious heists and enough visual extravagance to satisfy viewers who enjoy Lupin as stylish escapism.
The warning signs are considerably stronger for anyone who fell in love with the series because Assane appeared capable of outthinking everyone around him. Repeated complaints about technological shortcuts, unlikely escapes and convenient storytelling suggest the criminal mastermind fantasy may be losing some of its original appeal.
The early audience response remains divided rather than conclusive. Some viewers are delighted, others deeply disappointed, and professional critics have generally been more forgiving. That's enough to support a cautious recommendation, but not a definitive verdict on every episode.
Still, the underlying criticism deserves attention.
Lupin's greatest trick was making the audience feel clever for being fooled. Its greatest danger now is making the audience feel foolish for believing it.
A gentleman thief should be cunning, audacious and occasionally outrageously fortunate. He should be capable of extraordinary things, provided those achievements feel like the product of extraordinary intelligence rather than the extraordinary generosity of a screenwriter.
Because when everyone around Assane must become progressively more incompetent to maintain the illusion of his brilliance, perhaps the greatest crime isn't happening inside the story.
Perhaps it's being committed against the audience's intelligence.
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