Alan Sepinwall

There’s still a bounce to the scenes set outside comedy world, particularly in the visual flourishes deployed by both Palladinos when they direct. ... But just as Midge Maisel isn’t being her best self when she’s away from the stage, so is the show that’s named after her. She needs to get back behind the mic more regularly, and soon.

The Little Drummer Girl is best admired from a polite distance without trying to think too hard about whether it makes sense or is worth all the time and effort. But goodness, the show is lovely to look at.

The actors and Stiller’s direction keep Dannemora mostly interesting despite how thin the characters are, but you can’t help wishing their skills had been applied to a more fundamentally compelling story.

Throughout, we see the world the way the girls see it, knowing what they know. The world seems bigger to them, and thus their emotions always feel bigger, in ways that can make My Brilliant Friend acutely thrilling or devastating. ... This is a great show with a huge heart. Just be prepared for it to break yours every now and then.

At advanced ages (Douglas is 74, Arkin a decade older), they are delivering some of the best work of their long and distinguished careers, by leaning into the embarrassment and angst of still being around after all this time. It’s a show about old pros, made by old pros. Their bodies may not work like they used to, but their performances sure do.

The laughs Sally4Ever provides--and there are big ones--come precisely because Emma, David and the rest are so terrible in such exaggerated fashion. ... But I was already wearying of it by the third episode, because Emma is that unapologetically appalling. This problem is one of sensibility rather than execution, and Sally4Ever certainly commits to its goals. The next two Sunday nights on HBO will do a nice job of illustrating some of the core differences between comedy here versus over there.

Roberts and James have abundant chemistry, which is crucial for a thriller built so much on two people just talking. The plot is intentionally slow to start, so the early episodes lean heavily on atmosphere and on how likable Heidi and Walter are together. Roberts and James more than deliver the latter, while Esmail is all over the former.

The series’ narrative and sociological ambition is admirable, even if its ultimate goal is to be a fun and fast-paced yarn.

Life goes on, and a family comedy starring Goodman, Metcalf and Gilbert makes this the most promising “new” show in one of the worst broadcast network fall seasons ever.

As Danny, Dornan makes a fine and necessarily sweaty foil for Dinklage, though the paralleling of his own ruined work and home life to Villechaize’s never quite works. ... It’s a searing and vulnerable turn from Dinklage.

Thwaites doesn’t have anything near the gravitas required to pull off this self-righteously vicious approach. If you’re going to say “Fuck Batman,” that’s your right. But you’d better back it up with more than what Titans has to offer, or you just seem like a frustrated poseur who wants to seem much tougher and cooler than you can ever hope to be.

Camping is not an easy watch, even when things are relatively peaceful among the group. But the performances are all strong, and the writing tends to find more empathy for its characters--Kathryn included--than they often have for one another.

A delightful second season. ... The voice cast is overflowing with performances so sharp and indelible, it makes it hard to look at the actors in other roles without thinking of them being menaced by disembodied furry penises. As Jessi’s Hormone Monstress, Maya Rudolph remains first among equals, perfectly capturing the way that puberty descends upon girls differently than boys.

The first three suggest it can comfortably hold a wide range of stories and tones, albeit with flaws.

The revival, again run by Emmy-winning creator Diane English, is conscious that the world has changed in the 20 years since we last saw Murphy and friends. The problem is that Murphy Brown itself really hasn’t, and that does more to tarnish the real show’s legacy than anything else.

Indecisiveness puts Mr Inbetween a notch below Barry and Killing Eve, but it’s an entertaining--and mercifully concise--watch.

The audacity and eccentricity of the thing comes as a welcome jolt to a Peak TV universe where too many shows are capable but familiar, coherent but dull. Is it real? Hell if I know. Is it entertaining? Absolutely.

Sorry for Your Loss knows what kind of story it’s telling, how to tell it well and how to avoid many of the inherent pitfalls that would instantly repel audiences. It’s good--and an early feather in the cap of this young operation.

The First is under no burden to be as quippy or feel-good as The Martian, as awestruck as The Right Stuff, as gee-whiz as Apollo 13 or From the Earth to the Moon. But it needs to have some compelling reason to tell this story, in this way, and it never really finds one.

Emotionally and sociologically, it’s a much more complex story, with a lot of insightful and empathetic things to say about a generation of kids who have grown up with social media as part of their lives. And characters like Kevin, Chloe and school basketball star DeMarcus (Melvin Gregg) come to life in poignant and unexpected ways, even considering the emotional pivot Season One took by the end.

June and Oscar’s relationship toggles back and forth between elaborate banter and awkward small talk, just as Forever itself shifts between kitchen-sink realism and stranger detours. Rudolph’s much better at bridging those seemingly incompatible parts, whereas the Oscar that so easily makes his wife laugh bears very little resemblance to the boring dentist who makes her cry inside.

Carrey is wonderful, making Jeff feel like a fully-realized person, even as Holstein and the other writers can’t always decide where the naive children’s show host ends and the man playing him begins. ... The rest of the show is a mixed bag, much of it feeling like the Showtime quirky dramedy formula (see also: United States of Tara, SMILF) on full blast. ... Carrey’s worth the price of admission, though.

Mayans M.C. is basically Sons Season Eight with the names changed. If that notion excites you, enjoy.

It’s a show that knows exactly what it wants to be and is mostly quite successful at it.

The episodes work better when they focus on action and spectacle (like a slasher movie climax inside the gingerbread house from the story of Hansel and Gretel) than when they’re going directly for big laughs.

The first four episodes of Season Three (it premieres Sunday) are more relaxed and confident than anything it’s done to date, and it already felt like one of TV’s most self-assured hangouts.

Like its protagonist, the series keeps finding beauty and splendor in the mundane. And there’s tremendous warmth in the bond between Ernie and this kid, and among all the Lodge members. Again, it’s slow. It’s strange bordering on self-indulgent.

While this new batch of episodes isn’t exactly a laugh riot, it’s weirder than its predecessor, and not just because Henig has an unnerving, wide-eyed stillness that serves the early episodes well.