Rebecca Nicholson

Come to a documentary about Ed Sheeran for the pop; stay for an intimate look at marriage, loss and mental health.

By the end, as the wheels turn on this ongoing tribal war, and the chimps’ strengths and weaknesses dictate their positions in the hierarchy, it is impossible not to be in thrall to the Ngogo and its mighty inhabitants.

It is a stunning portrait of breeding orcas, golden eagles, foxes and dormice; woodlands, meadows and rivers. Just beautiful. ... From its majestic score to its pioneering cinematography and its clever narratives, this is education by way of awe.

This is perfectly watchable and entertaining, if mildly exhausting, and its heart is in the right place.

Sunny and Jessie have a lot to work through; I don’t doubt they will find some common ground in doing the job properly, whether leading by head (Jessie) or heart (Sunny).

At best this is a serviceable espionage potboiler, and, with a cast this good, you would not be blamed for expecting it to be a bit better than so-so.

It has another go at reinvention by turning itself into a Cluedo-esque Agatha Christie whodunnit, although it is arch enough to feature a discussion about whether or not the whodunnit is the lowest form of literature. It is fun, although it suffers a little under the weight of comparison. ... When it works, it works because Badgley is charismatic and the show is brash enough to drop a decent number of plot twists into every episode.

It is warm, thoughtful and gorgeous, and by the end of it, I was a little bit in love with Nolly myself.

Stormy Daniels may not be an immediate natural at delivering her lines, but she’s got a great rapport with both daddies and himbos, and unlike a lot of reality shows, it does actually look as if they’re all having fun. Plus, there’s a bit of depth from their personal stories, though not too much.

I loved its balance of horror and heart. It burrows under the skin and refuses to leave.

This is unvarnished history that attempts to scratch away the surface myths – and it is well worth your time.

The tone is spot-on, tongue-in-cheek and cheeky.

When I read The Lying Life of Adults, I thought of it as a very internal and inward-looking story, but this version breathes new life into it, turns it outwards, and adds a touch of rocket fuel.

It is confident, escapist fun, and it looks set to be an indulgent and addictive treat.

It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it is so relentlessly chirpy it doesn’t really need to. The clothes are bright and hypnotically garish, to the extent that, like its ancestor Sex and the City, you just want a new episode to start so you can see what everyone is wearing.

As much as this is about Morgan’s performance, it’s also about the quality of the writing. Brooker and his writing team do the faux-naivety shtick brilliantly. They do highbrow and lowbrow indiscriminately.

Perhaps it suffers from an unfortunate comparison with another recent series adapted from a Macintyre book, SAS Rogue Heroes, which channels its fascinating history lesson into something far more vivacious and entertaining. This is all very fine and elegant, but it’s lacking in charisma.

The period details are gorgeous, gaudy, kitsch and vivid, but most of the screen time is used to linger on Chastain and Shannon’s faces in closeup. The show is more concerned with the intimate details of love and despair than the lure of the spotlight, and it is stronger for it.

This is broad and warm and welcoming, with enough of a sharp side to make it worth sticking with.

It feels as if it has taken the timid approach, rather than be bold. ... It feels like a sitcom from long ago, where gentle quips and mild slapstick were enough to fill half an hour of pre-watershed television.

I thoroughly enjoyed SAS: Rogue Heroes. It is funnier than Peaky Blinders, which dragged itself into the doldrums for its final series, though this still has plenty of its predecessor’s vim. It is a bracing way to spend a Sunday evening, and, to borrow the parlance of one of its leads, a lot of fun, old boy. Indeed.

It knows how to put together a gripping scene and the prison escape is suitably tense. But barely any of the characters feel authentic. They all seem to exist simply for Dale’s enrichment. It starts to seem ungenerous and demanding. In the end, it loses confidence with even its own voice.

This opening episode sets a strong precedent, but the whole of the second series is on iPlayer, and the show only gets better as everyone’s behaviour, deliciously, gets worse and worse.

It is well-trodden territory, sure, but it is funny and dry, and more gripping than it initially seems.

It is highly theatrical, and it has, oddly, the feel of early lockdown TV, when as much was done with as little as possible. ... I found the theatrics so heightened – Christina regularly appears to her father as a sort of shimmering clue from the afterlife – that by episode seven, it had lost me completely.

There is no doubt that this macabre tale is fascinating. But often it addresses only the how of it, and not the why. I couldn’t help wondering if it should have waited until its two chief suspects had stood trial – and a verdict been reached – to tell the story more completely.

The overall mood is glum, particularly in the present day, but it digs deep for its ending. Don’t expect a rousing end-of-series spectacle, but in its own messy way, it finds a satisfying resolution.

The pace, too, is a little all-or-nothing. It either races through astonishing action scenes, or lingers on a single conversation or meaningful look. But these are quibbles and, in the end, the spectacle wins. This is enormously enjoyable TV, a cinematic feast.