‘Girl Taken’ Review: A Bleak British Crime Series About Trauma and Survival

What makes Girl Taken most interesting is its structure, which is relatively unusual for a crime series that opens with the abduction of a teenage girl. This is not a show about an investigation or the step-by-step pursuit of suspects, but about the ripple effects that a disappearance like this has on everyone involved and connected to it. The narrative shows little interest in clues, procedural details, or chase scenes—there are a few, but they are minimal—and instead focuses on the emotional fallout of such an event, experienced differently by each character. That said, a series built this way comes with an obvious problem: it is difficult to discuss without venturing into spoiler territory, especially since the show’s own official synopsis already gives away some key developments.

For now, it is enough to say that this six-episode British series centers on 17-year-old twins Lily and Abby (played by sisters Tallulah and Delphi Evans), who are finishing school in a small rural English town. They live with their mother, Eve (Jill Halfpenny), and have a somewhat strained relationship. Abby is focused on studying, while Lily is more interested in having fun with her friends and her boyfriend, Wes (Levi Brown). After an argument at a party, Lily storms off into the woods and accepts a ride from Rick Hansen (Alfie Allen), a seemingly kind schoolteacher with whom Abby had developed a particular bond. That apparently affable teacher abducts her, locking her in the basement of a remote cabin in the woods and keeping her there in chains.

As the ineffective local police make little progress, the series alternates between what happens inside and outside the captivity. Time passes: Lily’s mother and sister gradually lose hope, while Lily herself is subjected to increasingly disturbing and violent situations. Spoiler alert for those who want to go in completely blind. Ultimately, Girl Taken is less interested in the period of captivity than in what happens after Lily escapes—at the end of the second episode. The series moves quickly through time, revealing that after five years in captivity Lily manages to flee. From there, a new set of complications emerges, involving both a family that has changed dramatically and the arrest and trial of Rick, who, in the absence of witnesses, insists that everything Lily claims is a fabrication.

At first glance, the series seems to promise very little. This adaptation of Hollie Overton’s novel Baby Doll initially looks indistinguishable from the dozens of similar titles platforms release every year. It is so prototypical that, were it not for the accents and a few local details, it could easily be mistaken for a story set in small-town America, with its vast forests, isolated houses, and car-dependent routines. But once the show chooses to move quickly past the abduction and investigation and focus instead on the contrasting experiences of the two sisters—one inside, one outside—it becomes clear that creator David Turpin is far more interested in the emotional consequences of the crime than in spending episode after episode chasing red herrings.

Still, perhaps because of the demands of serialized television, Girl Taken does play with misdirection, dramatic feints, and a level of suspense absent from the novel, which states upfront how the kidnapping ends. Here, the tension lies in whether Rick will be caught and, above all, whether he will be convicted. This is where the series occasionally leans on familiar genre devices—last-minute escapes, not entirely credible action scenes—but it does so sparingly. The focus remains on interpersonal relationships: the guilt, anger, and tension between the sisters; Lily’s fraught relationship with her mother; and the growing strain between Rick and his “devoted wife” as she begins to suspect that his trips to the cabin may not have been solely for working on a novel. End of spoilers.

Girl Taken is a bleak series, one that underlines how frequently these cases occur, how often they remain unresolved, how ill-equipped the police can be, and how unclear justice often is. Alfie Allen, best known for Game of Thrones, revisits some of the mannerisms of his most notorious character to create a chilling villain whose polished public image makes him all the more unsettling. Among the Evans sisters, it is Delphi—who plays Abby, not the abducted twin—who stands out, tasked with navigating a web of complex emotions tied to guilt, survival, and choices. Formally, the series adheres to the now-standard “dark crime” aesthetic perfected by streaming platforms years ago (its opening titles echo True Detective), leaving little to analyze on that front. What ultimately matters is what remains offscreen: what is not said, not shown, but nevertheless shapes and scars everyone involved.