When Miley Cyrus officially closed the chapter on her Disney Channel phenomenon Hannah Montana, Hollywood watched with bated breath to see how the young star would navigate the treacherous waters of adult stardom. While her music career underwent dramatic transformations—from clean pop to provocative hip-hop influences—her acting choices proved equally bold and occasionally perilous. One such venture, now a decade in the rearview mirror, represents perhaps her most contentious professional decision: starring in Woody Allen's 2016 Amazon Prime Video miniseries Crisis in Six Scenes.
The six-episode production arrived at a pivotal moment for both its creator and lead actress. For Allen, it marked his first foray into serialized streaming content, a medium that promised creative freedom but delivered uncertain results. For Cyrus, it represented a deliberate, almost defiant departure from her family-friendly persona into politically charged, adult-oriented material that would test her acting range and audience loyalty. The collaboration would ultimately generate more discussion for its controversial elements than its artistic merits, becoming a footnote in both careers rather than a highlight.
Set against the turbulent backdrop of 1960s social upheaval, the narrative centers on Sidney Munsinger, a conservative, anxiety-ridden retiree portrayed by Allen himself, and his wife Kay, played by the legendary Elaine May in a rare screen performance. Their placid suburban existence shatters when Kay impulsively invites Lennie, a notorious radical activist, into their home as a temporary refuge. Cyrus embodies this character—a young revolutionary whose anti-establishment ideology manifests through marijuana use, anti-war rhetoric, and plotting acts of civil disobedience that blur the line between protest and criminality.
Lennie's arrival functions as more than a simple plot device; she operates as an ideological catalyst, using the Munsinger residence as a safe haven while evading federal authorities. Her presence forces uncomfortable conversations about generational divides, political activism, and personal responsibility. The series frames these conflicts through Allen's signature neurotic humor, though the comedic elements often clash jarringly with the serious political undertones. Episodes meander through extended dialogue sequences where characters debate Vietnam War politics, feminism, and the ethics of revolutionary violence, often feeling more like filmed stage plays than dynamic television.
The supporting cast includes John Magaro as the couple's son, whose own life becomes entangled with Lennie's revolutionary circle, and notably, Rachel Brosnahan in a role that preceded her breakthrough as The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel by mere months. This casting choice adds retrospective interest, as viewers can spot early hints of the dramatic prowess that would later earn her widespread acclaim and multiple awards. Her character, though secondary, provides a grounded counterpoint to Lennie's extremism.
Allen served as the project's sole writer and director, maintaining complete creative control—a fact that becomes evident in the work's idiosyncratic pacing and dialogue-heavy scenes. The miniseries format allowed him to stretch his typical 90-minute film structure across six installments, though critics noted this freedom resulted in a meandering narrative that struggled to justify its length. The production values remained modest, reflecting Allen's preference for intimate, character-driven storytelling over visual spectacle.
Critical reception proved devastating and swift. The series currently holds an 18% approval rating from critics on Rotten Tomatoes, with reviews consistently citing outdated humor, tonal inconsistencies, and a lack of narrative focus. Professional reviewers particularly criticized the script's reliance on Allen's familiar tropes without the sharpness of his earlier work. The political commentary felt superficial to many, reducing complex 1960s activism to caricature and failing to engage meaningfully with the era's historical context. Several prominent critics questioned whether Allen's perspective could authentically capture the revolutionary spirit of the time.
Audience reception told a slightly different story, with a 65% viewer approval rating suggesting the material resonated better with general viewers than professional critics. This divide often characterizes Allen's later work, where his established fan base finds value in his philosophical musings and character observations that elude contemporary critical consensus. However, even among supporters, few argued the series represented his best work.
The project's controversies extended far beyond artistic merit. By 2016, Allen's personal life had become increasingly problematic in the public consciousness, making any collaboration a potential liability for performers seeking to maintain progressive public images. Cyrus's participation drew scrutiny from fans and media commentators who questioned her judgment in working with the filmmaker, especially given her own evolving advocacy for social causes. Additionally, her character's radical politics and drug use represented such an extreme departure from her Disney image that it alienated portions of her core audience, who struggled to reconcile this new persona with the teenager they had grown up watching.
The miniseries also suffered from unfortunate timing. Released during peak streaming competition, when Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon were flooding the market with high-profile content, it lacked the promotional muscle of larger platforms and failed to generate sustained conversation. Within weeks, it faded into obscurity, becoming a footnote rather than a milestone in the streaming wars. Its six-episode structure made it too long for a casual watch but too short for substantial character development, leaving it in an awkward middle ground.
In retrospect, Crisis in Six Scenes illustrates the risks artists take when pursuing radical reinvention without sufficient grounding. For Cyrus, the project demonstrated her willingness to tackle challenging material, even if the execution faltered. She would later find more successful acting vehicles in projects like "Black Mirror," but this particular gamble remains a cautionary tale about the intersection of controversial creators, political content, and audience expectations. It showed that transformation requires not just courage but also strategic material selection.
For Allen, the series represented an unsuccessful attempt to adapt his filmmaking style to the streaming era's demands. Its poor reception likely reinforced his preference for traditional theatrical releases in subsequent projects, making it his sole streaming experiment. The collaboration stands as a curious artifact of mid-2010s streaming experimentation, when platforms greenlit ambitious projects from legendary filmmakers without the constraints of box office performance, sometimes with mixed results.
The legacy of this miniseries ultimately resides not in its artistic achievement but in what it represents: a moment when two cultural figures at crossroads attempted something daring and fell short. It serves as a reminder that separating art from artist becomes increasingly difficult when both the creator and content generate controversy, and that reinvention requires not just courage but also the right material to support the transformation. For students of celebrity branding and streaming history, it remains a fascinating case study in how quickly ambitious projects can vanish into the digital void.