A late-night debate over Netflix Originals spiraled, as these things do, into the dismal abyss of A Series of Unfortunate Events. Before we proceed, I am contractually obligated by the universe—and perhaps Lemony Snicket himself—to issue a warning:
If you prefer happy endings, moral clarity, or stories where adults behave with a shred of competence, stop reading. Close the tab. Find a lifestyle blog. Forget the Baudelaire orphans ever crossed your path.
Still here? Good. You were warned.
The Ground Rules
This comparison is a knife fight between two specific iterations: the 2004 motion picture and Season One of the 2017 Netflix series. No books. No nostalgia goggles. No “well, actually” footnotes.
Why only Season One? Simple: parity. The movie adapted the first three novels—The Bad Beginning, The Reptile Room, and The Wide Window—which map perfectly onto the first six Netflix episodes. Same material. Same Count. Same crimes.
The Question
Who is the worse Count Olaf?
By “worse,” I don’t mean less entertaining. I mean worse in the literal, moral sense. Olaf is an arsonist, a fugitive, a kidnapper, and a serial abuser. And, most unforgivably, he is a playwright.
This isn’t slander; it’s canon. He is so proud of his resume of atrocities that the franchise literally gave him a theme song. Let the lyrics testify for the prosecution:
“When you see Count Olaf, you’re suddenly full of
Disgust and despair and dismay!
In the whole of the soul of Count Olaf
There’s no love,
When you see Count Olaf, count to zero…
Then scream and run away.”
For the uninitiated: the franchise follows the fractured psyche of Lemony Snicket, an investigative reporter spending “many years, months, and sleepless nights” piecing together the tragedy of the Baudelaire orphans.
Why the obsession? Snicket was once engaged to the orphans’ late mother—but that’s a tragedy for another time.
Let’s get to the meat of the matter: who actually inhabits the skin of the Count?
Jim Carrey plays it with a jagged, deranged edge. While I’ll be the first to admit that Mr. Poe—the banker tasked with managing the Baudelaire estate—is significantly less than the sharpest knife in the drawer, Carrey’s Olaf is genuinely threatening. He carries a weight of seriousness that makes his malice feel real.
On the other hand, Neil Patrick Harris leans into a bloated, theatrical ego. His Olaf radiates a sense of fundamental incompetence; he feels less like a mastermind and more like a petulant teenager who washed out of the secretive V.F.D. and never got over it.
Carrey is a predator. Harris is a theater-kid failure.
Does a more threatening presence make Carrey the winner? Yes and no.
Look at the ink. Beyond the unibrow, Olaf’s defining trait is the eye tattooed on his left ankle—the insignia of the secretive V.F.D.
I’d argue that Harris’s version is actually the more terrifying of the two. Why? Because while Carrey is chasing a fortune, Harris is chasing a ghost. He has a pathological need to prove himself to someone—a figure hidden in the shadows of the narrative that we won’t meet within the scope of these first three books.
It’s not just about the money; it’s about the grudge. Greed is predictable. A deep-seated inferiority complex is a wildfire.
The introductions reveal everything.
In the 2004 film, Carrey’s Olaf is framed as a gothic mastermind. He meets the orphans from the top of the stairs—a literal high ground that implies he’s spent weeks, maybe years, sharpening his schemes. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
The Netflix version is far more unsettling. We first see Harris in a state of pathetic desuetude, literally rehearsing his “Hello” in a mirror. He is a man who cannot stop acting. When the Banker Mr. Poe mention the state of his house, he snarls that “it’s not as fancy as the Baudelaire Mansion.” This isn’t just greed; it’s a deep, corrosive resentment.
Carrey’s Olaf is a plotter who succeeds. Harris’s Olaf is a failure who refuses to quit.
There is something uniquely terrifying about a villain whose plan has completely derailed but who keeps pushing forward anyway. Carrey’s Olaf is a threat because he’s smart; Harris’s Olaf is a threat because he has nothing left to lose but his ego.
We’re ignoring the troupe. They’re background noise—human props for an ego that consumes every bit of oxygen in the room. To judge the man, we have to look at the performance.
Carrey treats his disguises—Stephano, Captain Sham—like a comedian at an SNL audition. He wants the orphans (and the audience) to see how “good” he is at being “bad.” It’s a showcase of range. He’s a shark playing a human.
Harris, however, treats the disguises like a life-or-death opening night. When he puts on the wooden leg of Captain Sham, he isn’t just trying to fool a banker; he’s trying to rewrite reality to fit his script.
It’s the difference between a prank and a delusion. One is a gag; the other is a psychosis. Carrey wants to be the center of attention, but Harris wants to be the director of the world.
The climax of The Bad Beginning is where the 2004 movie truly loses the plot. In a stroke of baffling structural choices, the film uses the first book’s ending as its grand finale, despite already speed-running through the other two novels. It’s a narrative blender.
The scheme remains the same: a legal marriage loophole disguised as a stage play. Olaf casts himself as the groom and Violet as the bride, hoping to secure the Baudelaire fortune through a piece of fraudulent theater. It’s a clever hack of the legal system—if you ignore the horrific moral implications.
The film tries to sell us closure. Olaf is caught, the authorities intervene, and justice is briefly served. But this is Lemony Snicket’s world; justice is a fairy tale for people who aren’t paying attention.
The Netflix version understands the assignment. When the plan fails, NPH doesn’t wait for the credits to roll. He cuts the power. In the pitch black, he snarls:
“I’ll get my hands on your fortune if it’s the last thing I do! And when I have it… I will tear you and your siblings from limb to limb.”
The lights come back on, and the monster is gone.
This is why Harris wins. Carrey is a villain you can catch; Harris is a nightmare you can’t wake up from. He isn’t just a bad actor; he’s a persistent, sociopathic force of nature. He is the far “worse” Count—and by far the more compelling adaptation.
If you have the stomach for it, give the series a shot. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.