Niv M. Sultan

The series deftly tackles timely issues with breezy reckonings, interrogating them—and laughing at them—but avoiding ham-fisted didacticism.

The dazzling depiction of the event ["conjunction of the spheres"] conveys its unfathomable scale and implications, its profound reorientation of space and time. But both the upheaval and Blood Origin itself end shortly after they begin. Having, at last, built up a head of steam, the series ends in a fizzle.

The connections between its diffuse narrative strands remain murky for much of its running time, making the proceedings feel scattered, unfocused, and incoherent. Few things, however, are clearer than love and revenge—and the relationship between Cornelia and Eli achieves far greater acuity than the developments that surround it.

Cabinet of Curiosities feels like a haunted funhouse, as its eight shorts, each one helmed by a different director, reflect an eclectic range of tones and sensibilities.

The Midnight Club smartly uses the trappings of horror, and other modes of genre fiction, to explore the power of storytelling as a means of reckoning with the unfathomable.

As Jeb discovers his anger, he gives shape to Under the Banner of Heaven’s central concern: the struggle to attain personal agency in the crushing course of history.

What meaning does anything hold next to the nothing of oblivion? The question courses through Outer Range, an alluring exploration of lives and lands that have been all but annihilated.

Steven’s and Marc’s dialogue encapsulates the divide between the allure of the two characters: Where the former is as unpredictable as the bonkers British accent that Isaac has concocted for him, the latter speaks in flairless American. But their interactions grow tiresome due to Marc’s overwhelming blandness, as he’s confined to the familiar mold of the tough, emotionally withholding alpha.

What attempts The Gilded Age does make to investigate the psyches of its working-class characters prove reductive, like when it reveals horrific elements from Bridget’s past. Far more compelling is the gradual illumination of Bertha’s profound rage.

The Witcher still suffers from the tendency of many fantasy tales to casually mention myriad names of cities, characters, and phenomena to the point of bewilderment, but the proceedings feel far clearer this time around thanks to the season’s tighter focus and the steady drip of context afforded by Yen’s journey.

At times, the images evoke found footage, and at others they’re infused with the inkiness and sense of depth of a comic book panel, but their inconsistent aesthetics feel haphazard rather than considered. ... In contrast to the strained physicality of the fight scenes, [the blow-up between Tyson and Shanika] bottles not just Tyson’s grace, but the acuity with which Firebite explores the dangers of monsters real and imagined.

If the show’s writing falls short, its cinematography, including manipulations of foreground and background, proves defter in its conveyance of character.

The series is Star Wars projected through a kaleidoscope, a vivid re-imagining reflecting the colors of new galaxies.

Ted Lasso occasionally exhibits a self-awareness about its tendency to resolve conflicts with breezy neatness. ... When the season eventually delves more deeply into the messier idiosyncrasies of its characters, however, it clicks into a comedic groove.

A handful of already archaic gags, including a comedy bit about the dab, are groan-inducing, and the What We Do in the Shadows series casts a sizable shadow over Wellington Paranormal, as that series more sharply incorporates confessionals and the cameraperson as a character to generate both intimacy and humor. But the waggish, winking zaniness of Wellington Paranormal allows it to transcend its outdated elements.

The series feels like it’s simply going through the motions, biding its time until the Jedi and other big names show up. Like countless clone troopers, The Bad Batch fails to distinguish itself.

For all its gore, Yasuke is, at its core, a comforting fairy tale about good versus evil. Though unconcerned with the motivations of megalomaniacs, it conveys the true function of institutional power: to engorge and exert itself.

The series regularly introduces suspects and leads—from the short-tempered dad to the shady priest to secret journals—indulging the allure of armchair crime-solving while resisting neat resolutions. But the detective work is merely scaffolding for the show’s beguiling dive into Easttown’s psyche.

At its best, Dragon’s Blood lives up to that [opening] shot, concocting vibrant visuals that evoke the game’s rich history, but, for the most part, the show loses itself in inaccessible esoterica. Like war, exile, and scaly metamorphosis, it’s all quite messy.

Invincible recaptures what our current glut of superhero fiction largely loses sight of: the pleasure that superheroes must feel when wielding their powers. Not the sacred satisfaction of helping the downtrodden, but the id-centered thrills of soaring through the sky and inflicting hurt on those deemed deserving. The series consistently makes smart use of music and sound to sweep you up in the bodily sensations of its heroes.

As it explores the idiosyncrasies of the Tobins and their environment, however, the series starts to display its own distinct charm.

Resident Alien proves capacious in its depiction of Harry’s assimilation, too, as his callousness gradually gives way to empathy, resulting in poignant moments that ground his odyssey in deeply human experience.

It’s admirable how sharply WandaVision deviates from what most viewers might expect from the first Marvel series to hit a streaming service. The fine line that it toes, between the sitcom sendup’s near-cloying cuteness and the unnerving jolts of its interruptions, is eccentric enough to almost make viewers forget that they’re watching a flagship series inheriting the billion-dollar legacy of the Marvel IP.

This season rivals its predecessors in its intoxicating blend of bleak cynicism and irreverent comedy, but embraces a more exaggerated, madcap sensibility.

Alternately riotous and poignant.

Mrs. America, the creation of writer-producer Dahvi Waller, deftly reckons with decades of squandered political potential, both in its depiction of the ‘70s and in the parallels it draws with the present.

Real-world context renders these resolutions reassuring rather than trite: No difficulty in the series is impossible to overcome, so long as the Alvarezes stick together. The promise of unconditional unity that permeates One Day at a Time comes through not only in grand apologies and lessons, but also in subtler interactions.

Haggard and Freeman’s lightning-strike chemistry fuels their supersonic banter and warm, softer exchanges.