Daredevil: Born Again - Episode 1 - Heaven’s Half Hour Review: The city that never sleeps, but always falls

Disclaimer: I’ve known Daredevil since I was eight years old. While this review reflects my perspective, it’s grounded in years of material and media about the character in print and audiovisual formats.

In the opening moments of Daredevil: Born Again, Hell’s Kitchen breathes like a living organism. The city is restless, shifting under the weight of something unseen. The camera moves deliberately, peeling back the layers of an urban maze suffocated by shadow. The soundscape is thick, distant sirens, the low murmur of late-night conversations, and a television left on in a dimly lit apartment. It’s noir in its purest form, drenched in the weight of what’s about to unfold.

When control turns to chaos

And then, it all snaps. What was supposed to be clean and precise, it all tumbles. The cinematography closes in, shadows stretching like the claws of a monster lurking just beneath the surface. Smoke fills the air, gunshots scream through it, and, bam, Foggy’s hit. There’s a long, suffocating moment where nothing moves. It’s not a fight; it’s the shattering of everything Daredevil tried to hold together.

Bullseye: Not your average villain

Bullseye doesn’t enter; he erupts. Gun in hand, a bullet with a name on it, aimed straight at Karen. And in that moment, there’s no buildup. The fight doesn’t ask for permission; it just starts. Bodies crash, fists collide, but there’s no elegance here. There’s no choreography. There’s survival. Foggy’s bleeding out, but Daredevil’s already moving.

This is beyond justice.

This is something darker.

The descent of the mask

Then comes the fall.

The mask.

The one thing that’s kept Matt grounded, that’s defined him, slips (or does he let it slip?) from his grasp.

Daredevil/Matt stands on a rooftop, surveying the destruction, the city sprawling out like a waiting predator. Bullseye breathes shallowly below, but it doesn’t matter. The intent, clear as day.

The mask tumbles slowly, a symbol of the world unraveling, landing somewhere deep in the shadows.

Surrender in silence

And then, silence.

Nick Cave’s Into My Arms fills the void, and it cuts deep. The camera pulls back, and Matt Murdock? He’s impossibly small now. The fog consumes him, and for a moment, the weight of it all is unbearable. This isn’t grief; it’s surrender. This is the moment where he lets go, not of the mask, but of the idea that he can ever pull himself from the abyss he’s slipped into.

Vanessa takes her seat

But the city doesn’t stop. Vanessa Fisk steps into the vacuum, her presence a chill that tightens the air. The lighting shifts, harder, colder. She’s been here all along, building an empire in Wilson’s absence, and now she owns it. The camera cuts like a scalpel, precise, sharp, and unforgiving. Fear doesn’t rule. Control does. And now, Hell’s Kitchen is hers to shape.

The void left behind

The streets feel it. The people feel it. Daredevil isn’t just gone; he’s erased, and with him, the fragile balance of power. Crime spreads. Fear lingers in every shadow. The city, once alive with its chaotic rhythm, now feels hollow. Something’s missing. And in its place, a new order.

The trial that decides nothing and everything

One year later, the trial begins. The city’s eyes are all on it, but for what? A sense of inevitability hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.

Matt’s words hit like a fist: "In the absence of justice, the court can punish this man, and I urge you to do so to the fullest extent that the law allows." There’s no pretense here. No hope of redemption. This isn’t justice; it’s the raw, unfiltered frustration of a man who’s come to terms with the fact that the system was never built to fix him or the city. And in that moment, you feel the ghost of the Punisher hovering over it all, because when the system lets you down, you take matters into your own hands.

Karen’s silent reminder

And then, Karen. She doesn’t need words. She just hands Matt the broken piece of his mask. No speech. No drama. Just that quiet, deliberate act. It’s a reminder. A confrontation. A silent "You can’t escape who you are" warning. Without a word, she forces him to face his demons.

And then?

The camera moves to Fisk.

His rise?

It’s only just begun.

Standing at the edge of everything

And so, Matt stands, alone at the edge of his choices, looking at the wreckage he’s created. A new hope appears on the horizon, but in this city? Hope’s just another thing to lose. In this world of shadows, love’s a luxury. The camera pulls back, the streets of Hell’s Kitchen sprawling beneath him. The city feels colder. Unforgiving. And Fisk? He’s no longer lurking. He’s risen, and with that rise, a declaration: The city belongs to him now. Daredevil is no longer the only symbol of justice. The scales have tipped. And with them, a new darkness settles in.

My verdict?

Daredevil: Born Again? Not only did it meet my (high) expectations, it blew them out of the water. What I thought would be good turned into something even darker and more nuanced than I imagined.

The series really dug into the layers of Matt Murdock and Hell’s Kitchen, capturing their essence in a way I didn’t expect.

Every punch, every moment of reflection, every choice feels heavier, more real. This show didn’t just pick up where the old one left off—it raised the stakes.

I’m all in. What about you?

Rate: 5 out of 5 stars

Rate with a touch of flair: 5 out of 5 Daredevil mask horns returned by a friend—on loop.