Ed Sheeran’s One Shot with Ed Sheeran: A Music Experience arrives on Netflix on November 21, 2025, wrapped in the promise of revolution: one singer, one city, one uninterrupted take. Directed by Philip Barantini, the mind behind the nerve-shredding Boiling Point, the special follows Sheeran as he drifts through New York City for a single afternoon, strumming his greatest hits on sidewalks, subway platforms, and rain-slicked alleys, all without the luxury of cuts or retakes. The trailer sold chaos and magic—fans erupting in song, taxis screeching to a halt, Sheeran’s loop pedal layering harmonies amid urban pandemonium. What actually lands is a glossy gimmick that mistakes technical flexing for artistic depth, leaving viewers with an hour that feels less like a breakthrough and more like an overlong music video shot on a dare.The single-take conceit sounds daring, but it quickly reveals its own hollowness. Barantini’s camera glides with balletic precision, tracking Sheeran from Times Square neon to Central Park shadows, yet the unbroken flow exposes every lull. A five-minute stretch of Sheeran trudging across the Brooklyn Bridge, guitar case bumping against his hip, yields nothing but repetitive strums of “Castle on the Hill” and the dull thud of tourist sneakers. Where tension should build, monotony creeps in; the format demands constant motion but offers no narrative engine to justify it. Sheeran’s charisma—honed from pub gigs to stadiums—carries fleeting moments, like when he trades verses of “Galway Girl” with a cluster of tipsy college kids in the Village, but these sparks drown in the drag of endless forward momentum.Sheeran’s voice, that raspy, emotive instrument that turns ballads into anthems, fares worst in the open air. On a rattling F train, “Thinking Out Loud” dissolves into a soup of clattering rails and commuter chatter; his lower register vanishes beneath the din, lyrics reduced to muffled suggestion. No sound engineer lurks to salvage the mix, no overdubs to polish the pitch wobble that creeps in during “Photograph” on a Harlem stoop. Fans might romanticize the “rawness,” but this isn’t authenticity—it’s audio negligence dressed as bravery. Compare it to the crystalline clarity of his arena tours, where every note lands like a dart, and One Shot feels like a regression, a reminder that pop perfection often needs invisible scaffolding.New York City, hyped as a co-star, becomes little more than a backdrop of clichés. Sheeran’s route hits every postcard checkpoint—Times Square billboards, Central Park rowboats, Brooklyn Bridge cables glinting at dusk—yet never digs beneath the surface. Where is the grit of a Lower East Side dive bar, the pulse of a late-night bodega jam? Instead, we get sanitized spectacles: a subway car sing-along that feels suspiciously choreographed, a street-vendor high-five timed for the lens. The city’s chaos is curated, its dangers neutered; even the rain that slicks “Bad Habits” in SoHo looks art-directed. Barantini’s lens, so claustrophobic in Adolescence, here sprawls without purpose, turning urban energy into visual wallpaper.The hype machine churned overtime, flooding feeds with teaser clips of crowd-surfing euphoria and tear-streaked fan duets. Sheeran himself called it “the mad idea” in Instagram reels, Barantini’s Emmy cred dangled like prestige bait. Yet the full hour exposes the mirage: those electric 30-second bursts are islands in a sea of repetition. Viewer drop-off spikes after the 20-minute mark, per early streaming data whispers, as the novelty curdles into déjà vu. The “no redos” mantra crumbles under rumors of multiple practice runs; what’s sold as spontaneity reeks of rehearsal. Netflix positioned it as family-friendly event viewing, but it’s too erratic for kids, too shallow for adults—a marketing triumph that masks creative bankruptcy.Sheeran’s everyman charm clashes against the multimillion-dollar machinery trailing him. He ambles like a busker, loop pedal slung over his shoulder, yet security shadows lurk just off-frame, clearing paths through crowds. A “chance” encounter with a cancer survivor belting “Supermarket Flowers” tugs heartstrings, but it’s sandwiched between gimmicks—kids on unicycles, a barista duet—that scream staging. His quips about “bad hair days” aim for relatability, but from a guy fresh off a nine-figure deal, they land as performative modesty. The single take strips away artifice only to reveal privilege; real street performers dodge cops and hecklers, while Sheeran’s disruptions earn applause and viral clips.The setlist is a greatest-hits snoozefest, a comfort zone Sheeran refuses to leave. “Shape of You” opens, “Perfect” closes, and everything in between—“Don’t,” “Lego House,” “Sing”—loops through the same acoustic riffs we’ve heard a thousand times. The loop pedal layers tracks in subway echoes, but it can’t mask the predictability. Why no deep cuts like “Little Bird,” no improv off fan requests, no nods to his latest Play era? The hour drags because the songs do; upbeat bangers crash into ballads without transition, emotional whiplash unmoored by edits. Sheeran’s vocal tics charm once, grate by the fifth repetition, especially as fatigue slackens his grin around minute 40.Fan interactions, meant to be the emotional core, unravel into awkward theater. A teen joins “All of the Stars” mid-coffee pour; her off-key enthusiasm is sweet but drowns Sheeran’s falsetto. Crowd-surfs during “Sing” look thrilling in clips, cringe in context—strangers’ hands pawing a superstar under steadicam scrutiny. The camera lingers too long on forced smiles, turning potential magic into filler. Post-release X threads gush from superfans, but casual viewers clock the creep factor: is this connection or consumption? Sheeran gives, but it feels obligatory, a checklist of viral moments rather than genuine exchange.Technical glitches plague the unbroken shot, turning impressiveness into irritation. The steadicam battles wind and jostling crowds, inducing vertigo in long pans. Audio drops mid-“Bloodstream” in a tunnel; a mic pack slips during “Tenerife Sea,” pops punctuating the intimacy. Lighting swings from glaring sun to murky shadows, washing out faces or burying details. No cuts mean no fixes—crew reflections glint in shop windows, a skateboarder nearly collides with the rig. Sheeran powers through, sweat-slicked and smiling, but the rawness veers into amateur hour. Netflix’s 4K stream magnifies every flaw; smaller screens forgive the mess, but that’s no defense.Pacing is the silent killer. Sixty minutes should zip, yet Sheeran’s meanders—pausing for selfies, waiting at crosswalks—stretch transitions into tedium. A 10-minute Chelsea trudge yields one song and endless footfalls. The subway sequence stalls with “Galway Girl” echoing off tiled walls, momentum lost to stalled cars. Sheeran’s shoulders slump by “Lego House”; viewer ennui mirrors his. The finale rallies with “Afterglow” under fairy lights, but the preceding slog lingers. Compared to taut one-takes like 1917, this lacks stakes, devolving into an endurance test no one asked for.Netflix’s fingerprints smear the whole affair—a low-effort cash grab dressed in Sheeran sauce. With 300 million listeners, he’s retention gold; this “experience” is algorithm bait, short and stuffed with hits to pad watch time. Barantini lends unearned gravitas, but the budget screams modest: no cameos, just Sheeran and a camera. Early metrics suggest a quiet flop—no viral memes, modest social buzz. It’s filler in a slate of true-crime binges, recycled pop for passive scrolls. Sheeran needed a post-Play win; Netflix served schlock, betting on brand loyalty over vision.Ultimately, One Shot is a noble swing that whiffs spectacularly. Sheeran’s warmth flickers, Barantini’s skill glints, but the format chokes both. What could have been a masterstroke—rarities, improv, city-sourced beats—settles for safety. Skip the shot; cue the playlist. The gimmick wasn’t worth the miss.
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