In television’s heyday, we got antiheroes like Tony Soprano, Walter White, Don Draper, and Saul Goodman. Now, you can add Ray Shoesmith to the list.

Each of those characters follows a familiar trajectory: a slow descent into ego-driven destruction, often culminating in a tragic downfall. The antihero story is an Ozymandias tale—ambition, hubris, and ultimately, ruin.

But Mr Inbetween subverts this in a way few shows have. Ray Shoesmith, its protagonist, is the greatest antihero you’ve never heard of because he doesn’t change.

Played by the show’s creator, Scott Ryan, Ray is a hitman, a father, and an ex-husband who operates with a level of self-awareness that most antiheroes lack.

He knows who he is and never fights it. He doesn’t justify or excuse his choices. He handles business when it needs handling and then goes home to read bedtime stories to his daughter.

Unlike Walter White, whose transformation from desperate teacher to ruthless kingpin was fueled by ego, or Tony Soprano, who spent years in therapy dancing around his own toxicity, Ray is refreshingly simple.

Ray does bad things, but he isn’t conflicted about them. He’ll just as easily beat a man half to death as he will crack a joke about it later. And sometimes, he’ll admit that violence is the answer.

That level of detachment makes Mr Inbetween a rare find. The show never indulges in the melodrama that defines most crime sagas. It doesn’t rely on elaborate plot twists or high-stakes betrayals.

The series simply presents a man who is very good at what he does, living his life in a way that feels almost mundane. The show’s humor, often delivered in the most casual of moments, makes Ray all the more likable.

He’s a killer, but he’s funny. He’s dangerous, but he’s polite. He has an anger problem, but sometimes that works in his favor.

His relationships are what make him truly fascinating. He has a strict moral code, though it only applies to the people he cares about. His best friend, Gary, is a lovable screw-up who constantly gets himself into trouble. Ray protects him, even as he scolds him. His relationship with his brother, who suffers from a degenerative disease, reveals a softer side, but never in an over-the-top way.

His role as a father is perhaps his most defining trait—he loves his daughter unconditionally, but he also teaches her that the world is not kind. In one particularly telling moment, he instructs her to handle a bully not by reporting it, but by standing up for herself. He doesn’t believe in turning the other cheek.

Despite critical acclaim and a devoted cult following, Mr Inbetween never gained the mass recognition of Breaking Bad or The Sopranos. Maybe because it never asks for it.

The show ended on its own terms after three seasons, avoiding the mistake of dragging its story into unnecessary complexity. And just like Ray, it remained consistent.

No grand spectacle, no moral reckoning, no fall from grace. Just a man who knew who he was from the beginning and never pretended otherwise.

Twenty-five years ago, Memento arrived and immediately redefined what a psychological thriller could be.

Directed by Christopher Nolan and starring Guy Pearce as Leonard Shelby, the film took audiences inside the fragmented mind of a man who could no longer form new memories. What followed was a puzzle told in reverse, where facts blurred, trust was an illusion, and the only certainty was that nothing was certain.

A quarter of a century later, the film remains one of the most discussed, dissected, and debated movies of its time. Its influence can be seen across modern cinema, from Nolan’s later works like Inception and Tenet to television shows that embrace nonlinear storytelling and unreliable narrators.

Yet despite all the analysis, Memento still leaves audiences questioning what they’ve just watched.

The brilliance of the film isn’t just its structure, though that alone would be enough to make it a classic. It’s in how deeply it understands human nature. Leonard Shelby isn’t just a man searching for his wife’s killer.

That’s the story he tells himself, the framework he builds to give his life meaning. But as the film unfolds—or rewinds—it becomes clear that what he’s really searching for is himself.

Leonard is chasing a perfect narrative, one with no contradictions, no holes, no gaps that force him to confront the truth.

But reality doesn’t work that way, and neither does memory. We all tell ourselves stories, revising and omitting details to make sense of our past. Leonard’s condition just makes the process more extreme, more visible. His obsession with certainty blinds him to the fact that his quest has no real end.

In the end, Memento is about the stories we construct to give life meaning, and what happens when those stories break down. It’s why the film still resonates after 25 years.

The details may be different, but Leonard’s struggle is universal. He’s not just looking for a man. Or even a killer.

He’s looking for a version of reality that fits—a version of himself that makes sense. And just like the audience, he never quite finds it.

And film won’t be the same for the search.

Ray Shoesmith makes a living ending lives, but the real trick is keeping his own together.

Mr Inbetween wastes nothing—not time, not words, not bullets. Every scene serves a purpose, every exchange matters, and every action has weight.

Scott Ryan, who created and stars in the series, plays Ray with the kind of quiet control that makes him more dangerous than any loudmouth gangster. He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t show off. He just does what needs to be done.

The show doesn’t ask you to love Ray or hate him. It just presents him as he is—a father, a friend, a man with a code, and a contract killer who sees his work as nothing more than a job.

One moment, he’s putting a bullet in someone. The next, he’s making his daughter laugh. The contrast isn’t forced, and it isn’t romanticized. It’s life, and life doesn’t separate the good from the bad so cleanly.

The violence, when it happens, is fast, ugly, and real. No drawn-out fight scenes, no dramatic last words. Just action and consequence.

The world Ray moves through isn’t filled with masterminds or criminal empires. It’s small-time crooks, men who think they’re tougher than they are, guys who talk too much and don’t know when to shut up. Ray knows when to shut up. He knows when to act. That’s what keeps him alive.

There’s humor in Mr Inbetween, but it comes from the silences as much as the words. The dialogue is sharp, but it never feels scripted. The jokes land because they come from real people in real situations. Ray can be terrifying in one moment and deadpan hilarious in the next, and neither feels forced. The writing doesn’t waste lines.

The direction is as lean as the script. No flashy shots, no unnecessary cuts, no swelling music telling you what to feel. The camera stays close, letting the weight of a look or a pause do the work. It knows that sometimes the quiet is more dangerous than the noise.

But as much as Mr. Inbetween is about Ray, it doesn’t work without the people around him. Damon Herriman plays Freddy, Ray’s boss and middleman, a man who thinks he has more control than he does. He talks big, but he depends on Ray to keep things running. Then there’s Gary, played by Justin Rosniak, Ray’s best friend, a lovable screw-up who doesn’t always realize how close he is to disaster. Gary is the kind of friend Ray should probably cut loose, but he doesn’t, because even in his line of work, loyalty still matters.

More than anyone, though, Ray cares about his daughter, Brittany, played by Chika Yasumura. She’s the one thing in his life that’s pure. He never lets his world touch her. He picks her up from school, he jokes with her, he makes sure she knows she’s loved. In those moments, he’s not a hitman. He’s just a dad.

The weakness of the series is its brevity—a problem that could have been solved with a little more strategy. But maybe that was the point.

And that’s the heart of Mr. Inbetween—a man trying to keep his world from falling apart while doing the one job that makes it inevitable.