Keith Uhlich

Doyle isn't interested in exploring the B.D.S.M. world or Pete and Tiff's knotty friendship (of course they have an abortive hookup in their past) with any complexity. He instead privileges his own point of view, via Pete, as the sassy outsider who's above it all. Though Scannell is talented enough, at least, to make the character's bug-eyed tsk-tsk-iness tolerable.

A splendid tribute ... The Apollo goes a long way to ensuring that the memories created in this one-of-a-kind space will be neither fleeting nor forgotten.

Nason and Furst's Fyre Fraud is a valuable companion piece for how it widens the scope, examining the ways in which Fyre Fest was born from the muck of lives lived virtually.

Groff is immediately persuasive as a person whose raw talent is as much a hindrance as an advantage, and Fincher's surgically precise touch is evident in even tiny details like the police bullhorn that distorts a cop's voice to just the right unnerving degree. ... It's never less than engrossing. Fincher's proven time and again that he can make even the most mundane activities and actions riveting.

There's always another bon mot, and the occasional dud humor in Jerry Before Seinfeld in no way detracts from the larger pleasures of watching this peerless comedian pay tribute to his roots.

This series is so disposable it would barely fill up a tall kitchen trash bag. Yet there's still pleasure in watching a seasoned comedienne like Stockard Channing and an old pro like Holmes Osborne try to spin gold out of a creaky tale about devout religious parents attempting to convert their son's atheist girlfriend (Mary Lynn Rajskub).

With the exception of Renée Elise Goldsberry--who gives a half-saintly, half-corporeal dignity to Henrietta herself in a few brief flashback scenes--director and cowriter George C. Wolfe, a terrific theater artist, seems to have instructed Winfrey, Byrne and the rest of the cast to play to some nonexistent rafters. And this only pays off twice.

[Rebel's] a nonsensical character. So the serious issues that Singleton and the show's producers attempt to address (racial, familial and community tensions very keyed in to our current moment) come off like cheap window dressing-- contemporary relevance used to tart up a most generic work of art.

Realistic it's not, though it's most certainly compelling (and sometimes more) thanks to a game cast and some propulsive, pointed storytelling.

The show finds a nice groove about halfway through, after husband and wife settle in Roaring '20s Manhattan and proceed to tear the town apart.

A propulsive, gleefully gory six-episode adventure series.

The former Doogie Howser knows how to expertly milk a laugh from a mugging glower, a sarcasm-tinged line reading, or an extended bit of physical comedy (there's some especially funny work with O'Hara in this regard). And none of that counteracts the slight twinges of pathos he allows to break through the cartoonish veneer whenever the series tantalizingly references Olaf and the Baudelaires's backstory.

None of the characters deepen as the show goes on. They're shallow vessels freighted down by contrived plot complications that include everything from unrequited love to kidney disease. And there's more than a bit of that vainglorious YouTubers' entitlement in where Haters ultimately ends up, the satire finally curdling into smugness.

The series looks astoundingly cheap. ... The anachronistic electronic score by Eduardo Noya Schreus, aka NOIA, gives a galvanizing jolt to what is otherwise an irritatingly unoriginal production.

You'd think this would lead to all manner of generic story beats. But LaBute and his writers (as well as stalwart TV director Michael Nankin, who does some truly terrific, atmospheric work in these first three installments) manage to give the material a distinctive tweak or two.

There are some genuine glimmers of human insight and deep-felt emotion amid the pigskin-tossing carnival. John David Washington continues to impress as Ricky Jerret.

Nicole Munoz's Bella Parker (who's so green she can't even correctly pronounce "pas de deux"), is the star of this Lifetime-produced second sequel, which somehow manages to further diminish the already meager returns despite the presence of almost every Center Stage alumnus.

A bracingly nasty blast, even doubling-down on the gloom and doom in intriguing ways.

The two installments made available for review are a mishmash overall, swinging frequently between the inspired and the inept, especially in terms of writing and performance.

These situations are, of course, the bare-bones means to a lot of mischievous and seemingly improvised ends, much of it very funny.

Is it right to so harshly prosecute someone's intent to do harm? Or is Sadequee a whole-on victim of the anti-Middle Eastern sentiment (directed even at U.S. citizens) that has been stirred up in the wake of 9/11 and is still stoked to this day? No easy answers, here.... There are other complicated stories here as well; the most moving explores the friendship that blossomed between lawyer Nader Hasan and actress Kerry Cahill in the wake of the 2009 shooting at Fort Hood, Texas.

What makes her new Netflix documentary series, Chelsea Does, so invigorating [is] she knows she's severely out of her depth, and realizes that's all the more reason to try and wade deeper.

Contemplation and condemnation, all wrapped up into one, with no easy answers at the end of it all. The fact that Dark Net never allows you to entirely pin down its perspective keeps the proceedings riveting.

Holloway and Callies also take some time growing into their roles, so what keeps you watching early on are the stellar guest turns.... By episode four, titled "Blind Spot," the show finds a nice groove all around.

What remains is origin-story drudgery (much talk of lost magical objects and Clary's "destiny") that's occasionally leavened by bursts of unintentional humor.

The three central characters are all blandly pretty faces who give continuously stilted line readings and never convincingly embody their respective mythic archetypes, so it's up to the old pros to pick up the slack.

Though it's true this isn't some whitewashed, grade-school version of history, the mini never comes fully alive, feeling more often like a dutiful soapbox lecture occasionally interrupted by a few shoddily staged action scenes.

[Bruce Davison's] climactic, drunken interrogation of William and Leonard is an especially mean-spirited sequence that nonetheless gives this featherweight farce a much-needed kick in the pants. For a few minutes, a work of art that seemed utterly and completely pointless, in the best Project Greenlight tradition, suddenly feels vital and alive--even if it's still across-the-board rancid.