Andrew Crump

It is discomfort viewing. It’s essential viewing, too. ... Art teaches us about who we are and who we used to be for the sake of reconciling the two. That’s “Station Eleven’s” power.

Hwang knows how much convincing he needs to do to bring his viewers on board with the premise; unlike the cop, the audience will buy into “Squid Game’s” world without a fuss, a credit to Hwang’s skills as a filmmaker and writer. Forget the negative connotations the phrase “bingeworthy” stirs up. In the binge era, this show is as good as they come.

There’s much to savor here, too, which makes the oversized sense of purpose and meaning frustrating. “Midnight Mass” has something to say. It just can’t help saying it too loudly—and without bothering to stop and spook us out.

The results stride with a sense of purpose, pomp, and grandeur; individual scenes are small enough to cut through the excess, but the excess is nearly stupefying.

The drama that springs between characters isn’t as earthshaking as the drama rising at Moordale, and this may be “Sex Education”s most important detail. ... Nunn makes the world rumble with her overarching plot instead, and so “Sex Education” lets us feel, put in a word, good. But it doesn’t ask us to look away from all that makes us feel bad, either, and that’s even better.

Hilarious, in-character, and so cleanly integrated that the gag doesn’t clang against the series’ new depth of sadness: That’s how “What We Do in the Shadows” makes us laugh.

Last season’s restricted scope gave the series intimacy and wonder even in its most plodding moments. That scope having been expanded, the intimacy is gone, and wonder is harder to find. Still, “See” makes for good viewing, especially for one “Game of Thrones” knockoff among many.

The series works best in quieter moments where Smart and Einbinder get to reflect.

“Cruel Summer” is smart, original, and just pulpy enough to give the story texture. It’s the overeager construction that holds it back from being something truly special.

It’s a demonstration of how individuals reckon with the past. “Exterminate All the Brutes” does its best work under these conditions, and the rest of the time remains watchable, even if it’s several weight classes higher than what the average viewer can go toe to toe with. Even above average viewers may find the series outmatches them. But watching it is a challenge worth meeting.

Hazel has power of her own, and “Made for Love” lets her slowly come into it across its first four episodes. Where that journey takes her is another story, but the amount of thought put into plot, theme, and performance makes the opening half of “Made for Love” absorbing viewing.

The show goes on too many tangents, as if attempting to justify its own name, and none of them are as good or as resonant as the ones held onto by Emma, Mary, and John. Tut-tutting “Tell Me Your Secrets” for its fundamental darkness would be silly; it’s perfectly fine that Warner is inclined toward nihilism more so than hope. But she leans so far over in her efforts as seeing that goal through that the whole damn show falls flat on its face.

“Allen v. Farrow” justifies itself when all anyone can look at is Dylan, but so frequently undercuts (and even debases) itself, and her, through overbearingly crummy technique.

[Steinfeld 's] performance, perhaps to the surprise of none, is quite good, and partial credit for that goes to how much more liberated Steinfeld is now that the series has wandered beyond what’s known about Dickinson as a person, poet, and genius; she’s better able now to make the role fully hers, vulnerable, sharp, self-assured yet utterly uncertain of herself at the same time, and of course absolutely side-splitting.

“Helstrom,” the series, is void of everything that defines “Helstrom,” the comic. This is an ongoing problem with comic book shows and movies: The endless search for respectability and gravity in stories about superpowered people fighting evil in spandex. Here, the search ends with pouting dourness and tedium.

Given a massive cast and considerably more time for building plot, Evans is able to extend that dynamic and see it through across multiple arcs without shortchanging any of them. ... Every fight scene here has clear movement, clear stakes, and a clear human element at play. ... It’s one of the best accomplishments of his career to date.

“Utopia” thinks big to erect its overarching structure, but thinks small to give that structure its support. And it’s loaded with great work from its cast, particularly Lane, a talented actress with a gift for slipping in and out of genres and easily fitting into each.

The pleasures of “Ratched” are dulled by the constraints of IP maintenance. ... Still, it’s a credit to Romansky that “Ratched” remains watchable in spite of the conflict between inspiration and obligation.

Amazing that “The Boys” juggles each of its storylines without fumbling most of them. Conceptually, the season’s a jumble. Practically, it works remarkably well, juvenile in the way everything producers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg touch should be but smart enough to know when not to be dumb as rocks (or, at least, to know when to take itself seriously and when to burst heads like grapes).

The results vary from entry to entry, as is the essence of “Room 104.” Season 4 doesn’t improve consistency in outcomes, but even a failed experiment is at least interesting courtesy of the limitations imposed on the Duplass’ collaborators.

The work here isn’t bad, not quite. It’s overdone and underdone all at once. Derive what delights you can from “The Twilight Zone,” but if you want a firm sense of what these authors are capable of, look to their filmographies instead.

Excess happens to be the least of the show’s problems. Frankly, the absence of a moral center, or even a driving ideology, turns an otherwise typical Murphy production into a spectacle of jaw-dropping tone-deaf nonsense.

The beauty of her work will captivate you; her portrait of the devastation wrought by sexual assault’s fallout may destroy you.

There’s joy in the music, aided by the bright elastic animation, and a sense of purpose, too: “Central Park” openly defies, with tongue in cheek and a skip in its step, billionaire culture, arguing that it’s the duty of the people to stand up against their culturally smothering cupidity.

There’s a compulsively watchable (if ultimately uninventive) gumshoe show baked into TNT’s interpretation of the material, but the extras—even at their most glamorous, vivid, and licentious—overwhelm the best that “Snowpiercer” has to offer.

“Trying” has an impish sense of humor, but it tops its comedy with a great heart.

It’s tin-eared and confident but totally inadequate as a portrait of Hollywood as it was outside of its production design, which is admittedly rich.