There’s something about the depiction of sweeping obliteration that resonates within my lizard brain. The moments that worlds, real or imagined, insular or universal turn toward the catastrophic, we locate, at least artistically, a real funk of emotion, sacrifice and thrill of human ruin. Netflix’s new anthology series “Love, Death & Robots,” which brings together animation teams from across the world, languishes in a pool of this twisted fascination.

Creator Tim Miller’s undertaking, a collection of shorts that are either animated or blend animation with live action, is a visual sprawl that plops us in broody, unique worlds for one-off tales ranging from the treacherous underworld economy based on battling kaiju-lite beasts to present-day Afghanistan, wherein American soldiers transform into werewolves. It seems facile from the get-go, but “Love, Death, & Robots” begs for the chance to surprise us even if each episode’s run time (10 to 15 minutes generally) constrains the opportunity. But while the verve of its many, many battle sequences across its season is admirable, the show falls into a well-trodden hum of oversexualization, misogyny and male-centered humor.

Over the course of its 18 episodes, “Love, Death, & Robots” grab-bags a bevy of violent encounters to appeal to the contemplative, gory, tragically funny and ethereal aspects of mass destruction. It’s not nearly as heady as it sounds, though. It only takes about half a season to recognize “Love, Death & Robots” for its conventional boys-club approach to catharsis. From the first episode on, there’s that all-too-tingling question of whether this show actually hates women.

The concern gathers currency as some of the broader ideas about isolation, invasions (of aliens, bugs and eviction officers) and human modification seem to devolve into allegories on mistrust, deceit and dismemberment. During its first episode, all of these notions swirl around each other as a championship beastie-fighter named Sonnie is bribed to take a fall. She doesn’t — too much integrity, too much pride, or so it seems — and what follows are two wild fights between Sonnie and her wealthy adversaries. The animation style here is bleak and realistic. Sonnie has facial scars that glisten in the light peeking through parts of the arena. Her opponents are elegant, draped in shadow and haughtiness. But their fights are disastrous with regards to female-centered violence. And although there are intense twists delivered with every measure of suspense, one wonders whether the payoff of seeing a number of women beaten and shredded was worth the emotional investment.

Later episodes are even more worrisome as women and girls are cursed for promiscuity, or dismembered and rendered sacrificial lambs in a vague demon-awakening ritual. Seldom does one of its many stories actually respect its characters. Part of it is functional: “Love, Death & Robots” conveys a sense that none of its characters are necessarily protected. It’s a big, bad world out there. But even the episodes led by women appear to be full of disdain.

A second-half episode wraps “Fortnite” graphics in a “Gravity”-esque plot that presents its space engineer Alex as a brilliant, if misfortunate, lead when a random piece of space debris leaves her stranded. She has to sacrifice a part of herself, breaking down her own body to make it home. In another, Samira Wiley plays Lieutenant Colby, a Space Force pilot of a seemingly unlucky rescue ship in allegory for the Romanticist notion that “all ships have a personality.” While the episode centers on Colby’s missions on the “Unlucky 13,” Colby’s growths are not only for the service of the country and men, but they’re also framed as the ship’s accomplishments and not her own. The stories are steeped in sexism and nationalism that stain otherwise gorgeous production and visuals.

I’m a big believer in the 15-minute short-story show that’s become more popular on streaming services in the U.S., but the format here exacerbates these issues. The audience must go into each episode with the belief that the “death” aspect of “Love, Death & Robots” is almost always a possibility. And that works. Characters’ shortened screen time and the flippancy with which they’re offed at the very least provides a metaphorical basis for maltreatment. But the other edge of the temporal sword is that the characters we’re interested in — like Colby, the artist Zima in a latter episode or the vengeful Demon Fox Yan in the eighth episode — are quickly deemed marginal either as plot devices within themselves or canvases for the writers to draw up their most prepubescent fantasies. The time limits work better in contained stories.

But “Love, Death & Robots” is most impactful when the setup is clear: “two dudes get lost in a desert that might be haunted by dead ocean creatures”; “three sardonic robots take a tour of a postapocalyptic city”; “the owner of a dump attempts to avoid eviction by telling a scary yarn about a monster who lives amid the garbage.” What separates these episodes is that they are, at the core, small peeks into relationships — both personal and structural — that have developed over time and that will continue after we’re done with them. And maybe that jibes against the finality of death, but these visions include both the craven nature of humankind and the ways our intimacies make the curse of modernity kind of worth it.

So, yes, the show houses some beauty. The “Zima Blue” episode, in particular, is a simplistic and quieter tale that allows its writers to explore interlocked curiosities — on automatons and nature, seeking our own beginnings and endings, and honoring the magic of art creation — while respecting its characters enough to give them a sense of depth and history.

Striking that balance of mystique, fun and reflection is difficult, but it proves to be significant in a project like “Love, Death & Robots,” which at times, feels like run-of-the-mill Gamergate fodder. How can all of these stories bleed together as they do? What lies at the center of this show is not just the glorious visions of war and death but a brutal paradox in its execution: No matter how futuristic or otherworldly the universe, women exist largely in subjugation. What results is a show that boasts of startling fantasy while meandering in archaic tropes that hardly push any envelope beyond shock and awe.

What’s a catharsis without investment but a boring, banal excuse for a massacre?

“Love, Death & Robots”: streaming on Netflix