Benedict Cumberbatch searches for missing son in Netflix thriller

There are two different shows on Netflix Erik. One of them is a moving portrait of Vincent Anderson (Benedict Cumberbatch), who entered a self-destructive downward spiral following the disappearance of his nine-year-old son (Ivan Howe's Edgar). The other is an extended drama set around New York City's underclass, the poor, black and queer communities persecuted by greedy politicians and violent police officers.

The miniseries' attempt to merge them is a self-consciously noble one: Erik won't miss the forest of social injustice for the tree of a single missing white child, and has characters express their intentions accordingly. But in execution, these lines do not so much reinforce each other as they get in each other's way, until the whole feels less than the sum of its prestigious parts.

Vincent's story emerges first, and it is both unpleasant and devastating. As created by Abi Morgan (The hour), he is an alcoholic narcissist who spends his days arguing with his coworkers Good day Sunbeama Sesame Street-style children's show, and his nights of yelling at his wife Cassie (Gaby Hoffmann, heartbreaking in an underwritten part). He's so obnoxious that even the tragedy of Edgar's absence can't soften him: “How can you take everything that's going on in your life and still make people struggle to find basic human sympathy for you?” marvels his troubled creative partner (Dan Fogler).

The longer Edgar stays away, the more Vincent falls apart. His alcohol use increases and then turns into hard drug use. His behavior becomes more erratic. He begins to hallucinate Eric, a vaguely blue-and-orange monster that Edgar had drawn and talked about, and becomes increasingly convinced that getting an Eric doll on Good day Sunbeam Maybe this is the only way to bring Edgar back.

The role is heavy on the kind of showboating — screaming, sobbing, crawling around in the mud — that makes for splashy Emmy roles. But it's frustratingly light in terms of intimate character development. ErikVincent's explanation for Vincent's psychological damage is so vague that one might confuse it with one of the plot's other mysteries; the resolution, meanwhile, rings false in its sugar-coated simplicity.

Luckily for Edgar, Vincent's Eric-related strategy isn't the only one to restore him. Overseeing the case for the NYPD is Michael (McKinley Belcher III, quietly magnetic), a closeted black detective struggling to balance his caseload with his care for his AIDS-stricken partner (Mark Gillis). His patient investigation meanders into the expensive offices of the wealthy elite, and into the sewers where unhoused, addicted and otherwise beleaguered souls seek shelter. He begins digging for links between Edgar and Marlon, a 14-year-old black boy who disappeared from the same neighborhood a few months earlier – and then between both boys and The Lux, a shady nightclub that Erik treats it like the only bar in all of New York City.

Marlon's mother Cecile (a criminally underused Adepero Oduye) serves as the grieving angel on Erik's shoulder, pointing out again and again that her son never received a fraction of the attention that Edgar has. She puts pressure on anyone who will listen to do better, and to her credit, she does Erik does everything he can. The storylines form a veritable checklist of social ills: racism, classism, homophobia, misogyny, police brutality, government corruption. They are brought to life on sets that look vast and expensive, carefully covered in appropriate grime and captured with a soft '80s grain by director Lucy Forbes (This is going to hurt). Even the most dubious flourish, Eric himself, speaks of a work determined to avoid the easy and obvious route.

But amid these lofty ideals, Erik loses sight of the fundamentals. It stretches the plot of a feature film over six languorous hours, removing the tension; The repetition of Vincent's spiral becomes especially annoying. With all this time, it still pushes its characters around like game pieces collecting points on a board, rather than individuals worth exploring in their psychological complexity.

At times, the city-in-crisis material plays like a failed attempt to add gravitas to the salacious mystery of a lost boy and his unhinged, possibly abusive father. Elsewhere, Victor's theatrical spiral resembles the Trojan Horse for a drier excavation of systemic institutional rot. Rarely do the two halves seem to be in conversation, even when Cassie is literally talking to Cecile. There are worse crimes a series can commit than an abundance of ambition. But a disappointing show is a disappointing show. Even if you get two for the price of one.