The Penguin Review: Psychology, Power, and Oz Cobb’s Dark Ambition

The Penguin Synopsis | Spoiler Warning

Oswald is the son of a single mother and has spent his entire life being mocked, underestimated, and treated as an outsider. He becomes a father figure to Victor Aguilar (Rhenzy Feliz), a young immigrant from one of Gotham’s poorest neighborhoods, devastated by the flooding at the end of The Batman.

Sophia, rejected and pushed out of the criminal world because she is a woman, is just as ruthless toward her own family as she is toward her rivals. Oswald fights to rise through Gotham’s criminal hierarchy and make a name for himself, Sophia seeks recognition and legitimacy, while Victor dreams of the American Dream as he struggles to hold on to his innocence.

The Penguin Awards and Nominations

• Golden Globe Award for Best Actor in a Limited Series, Anthology Series, or Motion Picture Made for Television
• Saturn Award for Best Actor in a Television Series
• Saturn Award for Best Supporting Actress in a Television Series
• Golden Globe nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Limited Series, Anthology Series, or Motion Picture Made for Television
• Golden Globe nomination for Best Limited Series, Anthology Series, or Motion Picture Made for Television
• Saturn Award nomination for Best Superhero Television Series
• Saturn Award nomination for Best Performance by a Younger Actor in a Television Series

The Penguin Review: A Stunning Descent into Gotham’s Underworld

In the first episode of The Penguin, Colin Farrell immediately stands out. He does more than simply reproduce Penguin’s familiar walk; his aggressive, sliding limp—reminiscent of the peg-legged sailors of old Hollywood—becomes part of a restrained, deeply committed, and meticulously crafted performance. Yet this is not simply Colin Farrell playing himself. With an abrasive New York accent, he carefully echoes the iconic gangster performances of actors such as Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and James Gandolfini. Then comes the makeup, which is striking in its own right, transforming Farrell with scarred skin, a pale complexion, and an unsettlingly grotesque appearance.

Actors are often praised for making themselves look unrecognizable, even though physical transformation alone is hardly a virtue. While watching The Penguin, I kept wondering how the character’s dialogue might have sounded if it had emerged from the face of the real, charismatic, and widely recognizable Colin Farrell. Would it have carried the same mixture of menace, humor, occasional tenderness, sadness, or genuine suspense? Farrell proves that he can push himself into unfamiliar territory as an actor—even at the cost of concealing some of his most recognizable qualities.

The Penguin Review: A Bleak Story Told Through Striking Visuals

The Penguin is beautifully shot, and Zoë Kravitz remains one of the most memorable Catwomen of recent years. One of the series’ more unusual pleasures is watching a major movie star like Colin Farrell disappear beneath nearly 50 pounds of latex and prosthetics to portray a damaged, grotesque, yet deeply human version of a classic villain.

Rather than presenting itself as a conventional superhero series, The Penguin deliberately embraces the form of a gangster saga. Oswald Cobb (Colin Farrell) is a mid-level gangster who sees an opportunity after the death of his boss. Determined to take control of Gotham’s drug trade, he sets out to introduce a new drug to the city. Meanwhile, the boss’s daughter, Sofia Falcone (Cristin Milioti), has recently been released from Arkham and is pursuing ambitions of her own, repeatedly shifting between rival and ally as she crosses paths with Oswald.

The Penguin invites comparisons with some of the most influential gangster stories in cinema and television, from The Godfather and Scarface to The Sopranos. At times, it reaches even further back into cinematic history: Oswald briefly recalls the larger-than-life performances of James Cagney, while Lauren LeFranc carefully constructs the series’ psychological and familial landscape.

The Penguin Review: The Art of Character Development

Oswald “Oz” Cobb, played by Colin Farrell, is a particularly revealing study in the psychology of power. Lauren LeFranc’s series presents its central Gotham gangster as a character deeply shaped by an Oedipal fixation, one that influences many of his actions as he rises through the criminal underworld.

For readers unfamiliar with the Oedipus complex, it can be broadly described as a psychoanalytic concept involving a son’s unconscious attachment to his mother and a desire for exclusive possession of her affection. In this reading, the dynamic is not limited to sexual behavior; it can manifest throughout development and into adulthood through a range of emotional and interpersonal behaviors.

Nearly everything Oswald does is driven either by self-interest or by uncontrolled anger, as seen in his murder of Alberto Falcone. We may enjoy watching his elaborate schemes unfold, but he is not a hero—and he is not even a conventional antihero. Oswald is a deeply antisocial character, something the series makes clear by revealing aspects of his childhood and the origins of his behavior.

This is part of what makes The Penguin so compelling. The series creates a situation in which Sofia Falcone comes closest to occupying the role of an antihero. Betrayed and ultimately committed to Arkham by her own family, Sofia emerges from the institution consumed by the desire for revenge. She turns against her relatives, killing those who have wronged her—and, despite the brutality of her actions, the series encourages us to understand and even sympathize with her.

The creative storytelling of these characters is built around recurring themes of psychological trauma, mental illness, and abuse, each manifested in different ways. These include Oz’s desire to possess and maintain an exclusive relationship with his mother; Sofia’s traumatic experiences in the psychiatric hospital, which functions as a form of punishment for her; and, even more painfully, her father’s betrayal and revenge against her—a father who once saw her as his successor and whose trust she believed she had earned. These themes have also appeared more recently in Iranian television dramas. In The Penguin, however, they are brought to the forefront and woven more deeply into the character of Oz Cobb than in many other adaptations of the character. This is most clearly reflected in Oz’s deeply unhealthy relationship with his mother, Francis.

We first meet Francis Cobb in the opening episode of the series. Played by Deirdre O’Connell, Francis suffers from Lewy body dementia, a progressive neurological condition that severely affects her memory and cognitive abilities. Oz keeps her in a small house on the outskirts of the city, a secluded place intended to protect her from the prying eyes of people who might want to harm her. He asks his assistant, Victor, to watch over his mother while she remains there. Oz lives in a dangerous world where personal relationships can easily be exploited. For that reason, he goes to great lengths to make the outside world believe that his mother is dead. His determination to conceal her existence reveals just how much he is willing to do to protect her.

Almost all of Oz’s actions and betrayals initially appear purely selfish, leading many people—including the audience—to assume that he cares about nothing beyond his own rapid ascent to the top. Yet some of the moments that reveal his vulnerability come when he dances with his mother in their living room to her favorite songs, promising her a life of luxury. These scenes suggest that his motivations extend far beyond money and status.

Francis holds Rex Calabrese in high regard and hopes that her sons will achieve similar success in the criminal world. There are even hints that Rex and Francis may have had an intimate sexual relationship. Oz, however, never seems to care deeply about any other male figure. He is not searching for a father; he is seeking his mother’s love. If reaching the top of a criminal organization can be understood as assuming the role of the patriarch—and, symbolically, the position of his mother’s partner—then a Freudian reading of Oz’s relationship with Francis helps explain his hostility toward powerful men.

A psychological reading of The Penguin can therefore be approached through Freud’s theory of psychoanalysis. The Oedipus complex takes its name from Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, the Greek tragedy in which Oedipus unknowingly kills his father and marries his mother. Freud proposed that the Oedipal conflict could emerge unconsciously in human development, particularly in the relationship between sons, mothers, and fathers. In this framework, a son develops an unconscious desire for his mother and experiences rivalry or resentment toward his father.

Oz assumes the role of his mother’s protector and caretaker—a role that, had his father been present, might traditionally have been associated with the father. Through this position, he develops increasingly negative attitudes toward powerful men who occupy paternal roles. His relationship with Francis can therefore be read as reinforcing a pattern that is consistent with a Freudian interpretation of Oedipal conflict.

When Francis needed something delivered to Rex, Jack was the person entrusted with the task. Benny, Oz’s younger brother, reveals another, more maternal side of Francis. As a child, Oz became jealous of his brothers’ relationships with their mother and wanted to possess the same exclusive bond with her. He ultimately caused his brothers to drown. These events are explored in detail in the seventh episode of The Penguin. Oz shows little remorse as he abandons his brothers to drown and then returns to the couch to watch a movie with his mother.

He is intensely eager to occupy a caring and protective role. On the surface, this relationship could be interpreted as a son’s devoted care for his sick mother. Yet the dialogue, staging, and body language can also be read as suggesting an unconscious erotic dimension. In the flashback in Episode 8, when the younger Francis emerges from her room dressed formally, young Oz looks at her in a way that evokes the gaze one might direct toward a romantic or sexual partner. He repeatedly describes the periods they spent alone together during his childhood as “dates” and quickly becomes jealous at the possibility of losing that private time with his mother.

When Oz succeeds, Francis is quick to validate him; when he fails, she is equally quick to criticize or insult him. Francis frequently plays on Oz’s guilt to push him further. His unhealthy dependence on her approval keeps him moving throughout the series, while he remains largely unaware of how deeply her humiliation and disappointment affect him. Her cold and cutting disapproval drives him even harder toward his goals. Oz does not simply build his ambitions around creating a safe and luxurious life with his mother in order to make her proud; he also becomes preoccupied with finding the means to achieve it.

As Rex Calabrese’s former associate, Francis is no stranger to criminal dealings, and she actively encourages Oz to pursue that path as a means of attaining the luxury she desires. Nearly every aspect of Oz’s identity—from his motivations to the methods he uses to achieve them—is shaped by his need for his mother’s approval.

The Penguin offers considerable potential for deeper psychological analysis. If you are interested in psychological approaches to film and television, you can explore more analyses in From Cinema’s Psychology in Cinema section.

The Penguin Analysis: A Psychological Crime Drama

One of the series’ major revelations comes in Episode 7, when Sofia Falcone—now calling herself Sofia Gigante—takes Francis hostage and intends to use her against Oz. During their encounter, Francis not only reveals her desire to see Oz kill rivals such as Sofia, but also exposes some of the secrets she has kept hidden. A subsequent meeting with Sofia’s psychiatrist reveals to both Sofia and the audience that Francis knew Oz was responsible for her son’s death. When Oz was still a child, Francis initially intended to kill him during the dance she took him to, but changed her mind after Oz swore that he would protect her for the rest of his life. She therefore agreed to keep him alive and became complicit in the deaths of Jack and Benny, yet she never revealed to Oz that she knew the truth.

The revelation leaves Oz stunned. Sofia releases Francis, and before attacking her son with a knife, Oz’s mother declares how much she has always hated him. The attack ultimately leaves her with a stroke, and Oz flees the scene with his mother. Even after learning the truth about Francis’s hatred for him, Oz continues, in the series finale, to try to kill Sofia in an attempt to make his mother proud.

If we consider Oz’s unconscious Oedipal fixation, his search for a partner who reminds him of his mother becomes less surprising. Eve’s relationship with Oz not only parallels his relationship with his maternal ideal, but also gives her a nurturing role in their intimate relationship. She provides Oz with care and validation when he needs it and appears to accept even his most violent methods. The full significance of this relationship—as a substitute for Oz’s unresolved attachment to his mother—is revealed only in the final scene of the series.

After Oz leaves his emotionally detached mother in his new penthouse, he walks downstairs and finds Eve waiting for him on the lower floor. The room has been transformed to resemble the dance floor where his mother once danced with him. A song frequently heard in his mother’s home plays in the background. Eve stands waiting for Oz with her arms extended toward him, wearing the same dress Francis wore when she danced with him after the deaths of Jack and Benny.

As they dance slowly together, Oz asks Eve to tell him that she loves him and that she is proud of him. After Eve does so, Oz calls her “Mom” and begins speaking to her as though she were his mother. Eve then makes explicit that Oz needs not only his mother’s approval but also the sexual affection he associates with her, positioning herself as a substitute for that affection.

A psychological analysis of The Penguin can therefore explore its recurring themes of motivation, desire, repressed trauma, and profound psychological turmoil. Each major character struggles with a different form of dysfunction shaped by their psychological wounds. In the final episode, Francis is shown suffering from the contradiction between her love for Oz and her hatred of him for what he has done to her throughout her life. Sofia, Oz’s primary rival and antagonist, meanwhile struggles with the trauma of spending a decade in Arkham for a crime she did not commit.

The brutal treatment Sofia receives from her corrupt godfather, together with her family’s complicity in subjecting her to years of suffering, becomes a deep wound that both drives her forward and prevents her from moving beyond her trauma. Oz’s unresolved unconscious feelings toward his mother function in much the same way: they are both his greatest source of motivation and one of his greatest weaknesses. His desire to earn his mother’s love and approval pushes him toward power and success, while simultaneously preventing him from escaping the psychological patterns that control him.

All of these elements create a compelling yet disturbing combination of violence and psychological depth—one that can entertain its audience while simultaneously reopening old wounds.

The Penguin Review: Final Thoughts

In this review of The Penguin for From Cinema, we explored the series’ artistic and technical elements alongside its complex psychological themes. Although the series contains challenging and ambiguous elements that may leave viewers searching for answers, a few bright spots shine through the darkness.

Compared with other television adaptations, The Penguin stands out as a distinctive take on the character and Gotham’s criminal underworld. Colin Farrell effortlessly establishes his version of Oswald Cobb among the most memorable live-action portrayals of a comic-book villain. His layered performance makes it possible for viewers to sympathize with Oz in one moment, only to be confronted with a horrifying act of cruelty in the next.