Rebecca Marder
Cash Queens
5.6
2026
1 Season • 8 Episodes
ComedyAction & AdventureDrama
Director: Olivier Rosemberg
Overview
When life pushes them to the brink, five desperate friends decide the only way out is to form a gang, swipe some guns and start holding up banks.
Cast
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
The Drag of Capital
The heist film, by its very nature, is a genre of competence. From *Rififi* to *Ocean’s Eleven*, the pleasure usually lies in the precision of the watch, the snap of the wire cutters, and the cool detachment of professionals who know exactly what they are doing. Olivier Rosemberg’s *Cash Queens* (released in its native France as *Les Lionnes*) dares to ask a far messier, more interesting question: What happens when the bank robbers are not cool professionals, but five women hyperventilating under prosthetic beards, driven not by greed, but by the suffocating crush of modern economic survival?
Arriving on Netflix this February, *Cash Queens* initially presents itself as a farcical comedy, a sort of *The Full Monty* with firearms. Yet, to view it solely as light entertainment is to miss the jagged edge Rosemberg has hidden beneath the silicone masks. The series fits uncomfortably—and intentionally—between the social realism of French cinema and the glossy, binge-ready pacing of American streaming television. It is a show about the performance of masculinity, weaponized by women who have realized that in a world designed by men, sometimes you have to wear the enemy’s face to get paid.
Visually, Rosemberg creates a stark dichotomy that serves the narrative beautifully. The domestic scenes—cramped apartments, stacks of unpaid bills, the gray lighting of suburban fatigue—are shot with a suffocating intimacy. These moments stand in sharp contrast to the heist sequences, which are filmed with a frenetic, shaky-cam anxiety that mirrors the characters' internal panic.
The directors, Rosemberg and Carine Prévôt, understand that the "disguise" is the central visual metaphor of the series. When the women—led by a frantic, compelling Rebecca Marder and a stoic Naidra Ayadi—don their male drag to rob their first bank, the camera lingers on the uncanniness of their transformation. They don't look like "cool" movie robbers; they look like distorted, terrifying caricatures of men. The prosthetics are intentionally imperfect, creating a grotesque valley that highlights the absurdity of violence. We are watching women forced to become "monsters" (read: men) to reclaim agency over their lives.
The series is at its strongest when it navigates the friction between these two worlds. There is a specific, agonizing scene in the third episode where the adrenaline of the crime bleeds into their home lives. The "high" of the heist isn't just about money; it’s about power. For a brief moment, holding the gun, they are not mothers, wives, or employees on the brink of ruin; they are the ones giving orders. However, the show is careful not to glorify this. The violence is clumsy, loud, and terrifying. When the guns go off, it isn't cinematic; it’s deafening.
If the series stumbles, it is perhaps in its tonal whiplash. The shift from slapstick humor (the physical comedy of walking and talking "like a man") to genuine peril involving gangsters and police can sometimes feel disjointed. Yet, the ensemble cast anchors the chaos. They play the desperation with such sincerity that we forgive the occasional plot contrivance. They sell the idea that this insane plan is, in fact, their only rational option.
Ultimately, *Cash Queens* is a tragedy in a clown costume. It suggests that the current economic structure is so broken that five ordinary women becoming a notorious gang of bank robbers feels less like a choice and more like a necessary adaptation. It is a chaotic, loud, and unexpectedly poignant addition to the genre, proving that sometimes, the most effective mask is the one that reveals exactly what society forces you to become.
The heist film, by its very nature, is a genre of competence. From *Rififi* to *Ocean’s Eleven*, the pleasure usually lies in the precision of the watch, the snap of the wire cutters, and the cool detachment of professionals who know exactly what they are doing. Olivier Rosemberg’s *Cash Queens* (released in its native France as *Les Lionnes*) dares to ask a far messier, more interesting question: What happens when the bank robbers are not cool professionals, but five women hyperventilating under prosthetic beards, driven not by greed, but by the suffocating crush of modern economic survival?
Arriving on Netflix this February, *Cash Queens* initially presents itself as a farcical comedy, a sort of *The Full Monty* with firearms. Yet, to view it solely as light entertainment is to miss the jagged edge Rosemberg has hidden beneath the silicone masks. The series fits uncomfortably—and intentionally—between the social realism of French cinema and the glossy, binge-ready pacing of American streaming television. It is a show about the performance of masculinity, weaponized by women who have realized that in a world designed by men, sometimes you have to wear the enemy’s face to get paid.
Visually, Rosemberg creates a stark dichotomy that serves the narrative beautifully. The domestic scenes—cramped apartments, stacks of unpaid bills, the gray lighting of suburban fatigue—are shot with a suffocating intimacy. These moments stand in sharp contrast to the heist sequences, which are filmed with a frenetic, shaky-cam anxiety that mirrors the characters' internal panic.
The directors, Rosemberg and Carine Prévôt, understand that the "disguise" is the central visual metaphor of the series. When the women—led by a frantic, compelling Rebecca Marder and a stoic Naidra Ayadi—don their male drag to rob their first bank, the camera lingers on the uncanniness of their transformation. They don't look like "cool" movie robbers; they look like distorted, terrifying caricatures of men. The prosthetics are intentionally imperfect, creating a grotesque valley that highlights the absurdity of violence. We are watching women forced to become "monsters" (read: men) to reclaim agency over their lives.
The series is at its strongest when it navigates the friction between these two worlds. There is a specific, agonizing scene in the third episode where the adrenaline of the crime bleeds into their home lives. The "high" of the heist isn't just about money; it’s about power. For a brief moment, holding the gun, they are not mothers, wives, or employees on the brink of ruin; they are the ones giving orders. However, the show is careful not to glorify this. The violence is clumsy, loud, and terrifying. When the guns go off, it isn't cinematic; it’s deafening.
If the series stumbles, it is perhaps in its tonal whiplash. The shift from slapstick humor (the physical comedy of walking and talking "like a man") to genuine peril involving gangsters and police can sometimes feel disjointed. Yet, the ensemble cast anchors the chaos. They play the desperation with such sincerity that we forgive the occasional plot contrivance. They sell the idea that this insane plan is, in fact, their only rational option.
Ultimately, *Cash Queens* is a tragedy in a clown costume. It suggests that the current economic structure is so broken that five ordinary women becoming a notorious gang of bank robbers feels less like a choice and more like a necessary adaptation. It is a chaotic, loud, and unexpectedly poignant addition to the genre, proving that sometimes, the most effective mask is the one that reveals exactly what society forces you to become.