Netflix's 'The Decameron' Review: A Surprisingly Sharp Take on Plague-Era Comedy

When I first heard that Netflix was adapting Giovanni Boccaccio's 14th-century collection of plague-era stories into a comedy series, I laughed out loud. Not because the idea was funny—but because it seemed so absurdly ambitious. Turning a 700-year-old book about people fleeing the Black Death into a bingeable TV show? Good luck.

But here we are. 'The Decameron' premiered on Netflix on May 16, 2026, and I've watched all eight episodes. And I have to say: I was wrong to doubt it. This show is genuinely good. It's funny, it's sharp, and in a strange way, it's exactly the kind of story we need right now.

Creator Kathleen Jordan, who previously worked on 'American Vandal' and 'The Last Man on Earth,' has done something remarkable. She's taken Boccaccio's framework—a group of nobles and servants fleeing the plague to a countryside villa, where they tell each other stories to pass the time—and turned it into a darkly comedic exploration of class, mortality, and the stories we tell ourselves to cope with fear.

The Premise: Plague, But Make It Funny

The show opens in Florence, 1348. The Black Death is ravaging Europe, and a group of wealthy nobles decides to escape to a country villa. They bring their servants, their secrets, and their simmering resentments. The villa, it turns out, is owned by an elderly count who's already dead from the plague. The body is still in the bed.

That's the setup for eight episodes of scheming, seduction, and occasional slapstick. There's a love triangle between two nobles and a servant. There's a power struggle over who gets to take charge of the villa. And there's a running joke about a cook who keeps trying to make elaborate feasts with the increasingly limited supplies available.

What makes it work is that Jordan never forgets the stakes. The plague is real. People are dying. The threat of infection hangs over every scene. Even as characters make jokes and pursue their petty dramas, you're always aware that death is just outside the villa walls. That tension—between the absurdity of human behavior and the gravity of the situation—is what gives the show its edge.

The Cast: Every Performance Is Spot-On

I have to give credit to the casting team. The ensemble is perfect. Zosia Mamet plays Filomena, a haughty noblewoman who thinks she's smarter than everyone else but keeps making disastrous decisions. Mamet brings a brittle energy to the role that makes you cringe and laugh in equal measure.

T'Nia Miller, who was incredible in 'The Haunting of Bly Manor,' plays the villa's steward, a woman caught between the nobles' demands and the practical realities of a plague-stricken world. Her deadpan reactions to the nobles' ridiculousness are some of the show's best moments.

Then there's Rish Shah as Licisca, a servant who's far more capable than the nobles realize. Shah plays the role with a knowing smirk that lets you in on the joke: these wealthy idiots think they're in charge, but they'd be dead in a day without the people they treat as invisible.

The standout for me is Jharrel Jerome, who plays Panfilo, a young nobleman trying to maintain his idealism in a world falling apart. Jerome brings a warmth and sincerity that balances the cynicism around him. His scenes with Mamet are electric—two actors going head-to-head, neither willing to cede the spotlight.

The Stories Within the Story

In Boccaccio's original, the characters tell each other tales—hundreds of them, ranging from farce to tragedy to romance. The Netflix adaptation weaves these stories into the main plot in clever ways. Sometimes a character tells a story that reflects their own situation. Sometimes a story foreshadows something about to happen. Sometimes they're just funny diversions.

Episode 4, which features a retelling of the famous "patient Griselda" story, is the best example. In the original, it's a story about a woman who endures endless cruelty from her husband to prove her loyalty. In the show, it's told by a character who's in an abusive relationship herself, and the story becomes a commentary on how we use narratives to justify our suffering.

It's smart without being pretentious. The show never hits you over the head with its themes. It trusts you to make the connections. And when you do, it's satisfying in a way that a simpler comedy wouldn't be.

Why Now? The Unexpected Resonance

I didn't expect a plague comedy to feel relevant in 2026. We're four years past the COVID-19 pandemic, and most of us are trying not to think about it. But 'The Decameron' taps into something that's still very present: the feeling of being trapped in a crisis you can't control, and the strange ways people cope with that.

The characters in the show deal with the plague by pretending it's not happening. They throw parties. They scheme about inheritances. They worry about social status while people are dying in the streets. Sound familiar? It's exactly what we did during lockdowns—zoomed into meetings about quarterly earnings while hospitals were overflowing.

Jordan has said in interviews that she didn't intend the show to be a commentary on COVID, but she's not surprised that it resonates that way. "The thing about plague stories is they're never really about the plague," she told Vulture. "They're about how people behave when the normal rules are suspended. And that's always relevant."

Is It Worth Watching?

Yes. Absolutely. But I'll be honest about who this show is for. If you want a light, escapist comedy, this isn't it. There are moments of genuine horror—a character dying in agony, a child separated from its parents—that might be too much for some viewers. The show earns its TV-MA rating.

But if you're in the mood for something that's smart, funny, and a little bit dark, 'The Decameron' is one of the best things Netflix has released this year. It's the kind of show that rewards attention, that makes you think, that stays with you after the credits roll.

I've already started rewatching it. The second time through, you catch all the foreshadowing you missed the first time. The jokes land differently when you know where the characters end up. It's a rich, layered piece of television that deserves to be seen.

Boccaccio's original book was called the "Decameron" meaning "ten days." The show gives us eight episodes, each covering a day. I could have used two more, honestly. But that's a sign of a good show: you want more. And the ending leaves the door open for a second season. I hope Netflix orders it.