Mr Inbetween is the unpolished gem of Australian television, a show that wades through the murky waters of crime, morality, and the mundane with a wink, a fist, and a bag of groceries. If television is a mirror to society, then Mr Inbetween is the cracked, dusty shard you find in the corner of your grandmother’s attic—a reflection both familiar and unnerving, casting a distorted image of the Aussie psyche back at us with dark humor and brutal honesty.
The show's DNA traces back to The Magician, the 2005 indie mockumentary that gave birth to Ray Shoesmith—our antihero, our everyman, our nightmare and our daydream. Ryan’s film, shot over the course of a year, feels like the misfit cousin to Man Bites Dog, that early '90s Belgian cult classic that made moral quandaries feel like punchlines. But while Man Bites Dog was like a circus with all the lights on, The Magician lurked in the shadows of Melbourne’s backstreets, where hitmen crack jokes as easily as they break bones.
Fast forward to Mr Inbetween, and the rough-around-the-edges Ray has undergone a transformation. He's less abrasive but no less dangerous, a bloke who could just as easily help you change a tire as put a bullet in your skull, depending on the day. In Ray’s world, the line between good and evil is not so much blurred as it is completely erased. This is a guy who might pick his daughter up from school, swing by Woolies to grab a loaf of bread, and cap off his day with a contract killing—life’s errands, all in a day's work.
This show is a masterclass in understatement, much like Ray himself, a man who speaks softly and carries a big stick. Think of him as a butcher who slices through the fat of life with surgical precision—cutting straight to the point without ever dwelling on the moral gristle.
The violence in Mr Inbetween isn’t stylized or glorified; it’s quick, dirty, and often as unremarkable as changing a lightbulb. A punch here, a chokehold there—it’s all part of Ray’s rhythm, like a dark waltz through the underbelly of Australian life.
And here’s the thing: Ray doesn’t dwell on his actions. In a world where crime shows seem to revel in their own moral complexity, Mr Inbetween has the audacity to be refreshingly simple. Ray isn’t a philosopher, he’s a doer. He has a code, a set of rules he lives by, and while we’re often left wondering what shaped him, we’re never forced to swim through an ocean of backstory. He’s not Tony Soprano, endlessly chewing over his place in the universe. Ray is a guy who, when asked if he enjoys hitting people, responds, “If I hit someone, I generally have a pretty good reason.” That’s Ray: straightforward, unapologetic, and just a little bit terrifying.
Watching Mr Inbetween is like biting into a perfectly made meat pie—crispy on the outside, messy and complex on the inside, with layers of flavor that catch you off guard. One moment you’re chuckling at a conversation between Ray and his daughter about unicorns, and the next, you’re jolted by a sudden burst of violence that reminds you who Ray really is. He’s not a monster, but he’s not a hero either. He’s that uncomfortable truth lurking in the back of our minds, the quiet rage that bubbles beneath the surface of everyday life.
In a country that has always been fascinated by its criminal underworld—whether it’s the real-life exploits of Mark ‘Chopper’ Read or the fictional brutality of Animal Kingdom—Mr Inbetween stands apart. It doesn’t revel in the bloodshed, nor does it agonize over the morality of it. It simply shows us the life of a man who happens to kill people for money, without making a song and dance about it. There’s no grand narrative arc, no deep psychological dissection. It’s a series of moments, like life itself—sometimes absurd, sometimes violent, sometimes touching in ways that sneak up on you.
If Mr Inbetween were a painting, it would be one of those hyper-realistic portraits where the subject is captured in a moment of pause—caught between action and reflection, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open, as if they’re about to speak but haven’t quite figured out what to say yet. It’s in this liminal space that the show thrives, never fully committing to being one thing or another, much like Ray himself.
Perhaps one of the reasons the show wasn’t picked up in Australia initially is because it doesn’t fit neatly into any box. It’s not obsessed with the criminality, nor does it moralize or glamorize it. Unlike so many Australian crime shows that relish the gritty, bloody details of the criminal life, Mr Inbetween treats violence as just another part of the day, much like doing the dishes or picking up the dry cleaning. Ray is not a tortured soul seeking redemption, nor is he a sociopath devoid of empathy. He’s just a man trying to get by in a world that doesn’t make sense half the time.
And that, perhaps, is why Mr Inbetween is so quintessentially Australian. It’s a show that captures the dry, dark humor that runs through the national psyche—the ability to laugh at the absurdity of life, even as it beats you down. It’s the perfect embodiment of a country where criminals are often seen as folk heroes, where the line between good and bad is as fuzzy as a late-night pub conversation, and where a hitman can be just another bloke trying to make ends meet.
Ryan’s portrayal of Ray is nothing short of genius. With his angular face and calm demeanor, Ray is a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. His power lies in his restraint, in the quiet menace that simmers beneath his surface. He’s like a coiled snake, waiting for the right moment to strike, and when he does, it’s with precision and purpose. You never know when Ray is going to flip the switch, but when he does, it’s as inevitable as the setting sun.
So, why is Mr Inbetween the best Australian show ever?
Because it refuses to conform, it doesn’t try to explain itself, and it leaves you feeling like you’ve seen something raw, real, and deeply unsettling. It’s a show that sneaks up on you, much like Ray’s grin before things take a violent turn. Mr Inbetween is Australia in its truest form—sharp, dark, and tinged with a humor that makes you laugh when you probably shouldn’t.
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Words by AW.
Photo courtesy of FX.
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