Candy hints at the more sure-footed series—or perhaps, made-for-TV movie—that might have been. ... I found myself consistently wishing that the show had allowed itself just one more inch of latitude—just a little more humor here, a bit more idiosyncratic energy there. In the absence of real tension, Candy has a tendency to spin its wheels—a slightly sour note on an otherwise sweet formula.

A tiresome compendium of half-formed characters, weak social commentary and so many groan-worthy penis and poop jokes that it’s difficult to believe the headliner was once Hollywood’s top funnyman. ... You’ve got a slog that, no matter its brief runtime, wildly overstays its welcome.

We don’t need the boy version of Lord of the Flies! It already exists. It’s called Lord of the Flies. ... Overall, the result is less time with the characters we already know and love, and half-baked backstories for the new guys, who never get the chance to evolve beyond their crude caricatures the way their female counterparts did.

There’s a richness to The Staircase that’s partly due to Michael’s multifaceted and winding odyssey—before and after trial—and partly the result of Campos’ expert approach, which incorporates virtually every important aspect of this story, evokes dread, ambiguity and topsy-turviness via meticulous long-take tracking shots, and sharply delineates every one of its numerous principals and their hopelessly fraught dynamics.

Showrunner Chris Mundy has managed to land on a conclusion for their saga that’s at once surprising and fitting, not to mention underscores the series’ bedrock truths about greed, ambition, and amorality in 21st-century America. ... Ozark stays true to its focus on ruthlessly enterprising women, with Linney and Garner as formidable as ever, and Falcón a welcome addition to what has long been the best female cast on television. Yet it’s Bateman who does perhaps his finest work of the series in these chapters.

The villain is both vaguely written and bizarrely benign. It’s not just him, either; the circuitous, tiresomely-stretched-out series fails to establish any real characters beyond its protagonist.

There’s at once too much packed into the series’ installments and yet not enough, with Black and company expending unwarranted attention on a cornucopia of detours and diversions that are only sometimes fleshed out, go nowhere illuminating, and muddle this affair’s primary censure of the Mormon church as a violent 19th-century-style cult-y outfit.

Any fan of demonic-kid horror will obviously be a natural mark for this series, as might fans of British horror comedies. That said, it’s hard not to feel as though a lot has been left on the table. Given the premise—again, let me repeat, a demon baby!—one would not expect this series to feel so repetitive and, at times, even restrained, from the costume choices to the disaster scenes. There’s an excellent satire in here and also a blood-curdling horror story, but it seems neither has quite learned how to walk.

[Gaslit] would like to reconfigure this notorious historical saga as a case study in sexist marginalization. Too bad, then, that it lacks the focus, and perspective, necessary to make such a case, which might have been better achieved had the eight-installment affair been conceived as a two-hour movie, minus all the diversions that turn it into an aimless slog.

It’s nice when a masterpiece returns and is still a masterpiece. This is still the best show on TV.

Guided by recurring snapshots of Jenkins’ police logs and buoyed by a sterling cast that includes a number of The Wire alums, the series deftly tackles its saga from a variety of captivating angles. Best of all, We Own This City boasts the sort of comprehensive detail that’s the hallmark of truly great storytelling. From the minutia of BPD protocol and the strategic tactics of Jenkins and his criminal minions, to the competing priorities of different government factions, Simon energizes every incident, argument and skirmish with a depth of knowledge about how, from top to bottom, the system works.

This is, again, a fun mystery show, and it’s sexy and hilarious and does those elements—the le Carré-esque mystery filtered through the batty millennial lens—really, really well. But to have the confidence to tread into those human waters, and not somehow feel pandering or patronizing, is so impressive.

The Offer knows its lore and packs tons of details, anecdotes and analysis into its 10 installments. However, it does so in an absurdly blunt and cheesy manner, such that it resembles a parody of prestige awards bait.

An aesthetically assured and inescapably chilling look at a hopeless tangle of fact and fantasy, and the horrors, and unanswerable questions, it begat. ... Easy answers aren’t Captive Audience’s main concern, though; instead, director Dimmock introduces a host of thorny ideas without attempting to devise a pat conclusion that will neatly tie everything together.

The swings are bigger this time around. The results might be less consistent in Season 2, but the finished product is even more stunning than its predecessor.

Better Call Saul has arguably the finest cast on television, as well as the sharpest writing and direction. Gilligan and company are experts at orchestrating exhilarating centerpieces (such as a second-episode shootout), but their real brilliance is evident in extended sequences that communicate plot developments and twists through dramatic staging and visual framing.

The Kardashians have transcended the need for the show, and there’s nothing in the two episodes of the new series made available for review that convinces me otherwise. ... But while it may not offer anything new or especially revelatory, the new series will satisfy fans of the original show who are perfectly content watching the sisters sit in each other’s pristine kitchens in full glam, picking at comically large salads and gossiping about Scott Disick’s latest 21-year-old girlfriend.

While Mann’s formal artistry is the initial lure of Tokyo Vice, its lasting appeal is its portrait of crime-plagued Tokyo circa 1999, and the efforts of Missouri native Jake (Ansel Elgort) to make his mark as a fledgling reporter for the nation’s leading newspaper.

It’s a style that Burns has employed for decades, and while it prevents the material from ever exploding with energetic life, it exudes a measure of gravity, precision and comprehensiveness that’s well-suited to the scholastic task at hand. Benjamin Franklin convincingly suggests that, when it comes to the United States, Franklin was the GOAT, and not just because of his primary role in the colonies’ fight for independence.

On the whole, Moon Knight is another in a long line of well-oiled Marvel machines, delivering the mixture of winning personality-driven humor, functional combat, and hit-or-miss CGI—Moon Knight looks fantastic; multiple generic creatures, on the other hand, are habitually hidden from view in murky darkness—that fans have come to expect.

There’s heat between Ashley and Bailey, but the delicious, simmering tension of Season 1 never comes. Rather than a slow boil, Anthony and Kate’s relationship sputters through all the familiar beats without much rhythm. The crackling arguments, gasping emotional beats, and some admittedly hot glove play are all there, but the spark is not.

While Pachinko isn’t as idiosyncratically lyrical as his recent film After Yang—thanks to its more conventional episodic TV format—Kogonada’s stewardship remains light, graceful and empathetic, and fellow director Chon likewise imbues the action with a deep reverence for the hardships braved by these protagonists.

Life & Beth isn’t as funny as previous Schumer projects (nor is it trying to be), but I found the adolescent flashbacks particularly enriching to this narrative.

Halo’s adaptation accuracy is mildly undercut by the moderately creaky narrative wheels it’s set in motion. ... [However] with top-notch CGI and a lead performance from Schreiber that lends new depths to his famously one-dimensional hero, Halo appears to have the firepower to become its own uniquely formidable sci-fi titan.

Compelling endeavor. ... What emerges, then, is a concept of Melngailis as a woman who wasn’t just painfully gullible, and therefore susceptible to Strangis’ cult guru-like charms, but a self-interested huckster and dreamer who was constantly angling to keep herself afloat by any means necessary.

Minx benefits from getting to the good stuff from the get-go; by the midway point of its premiere, it’s already knee-deep in Joyce and Doug’s collaboration, and that swiftness is characteristic of its confidence, not to mention its disinterest in sermonizing.

It is more with awe and maybe even admiration than derision that we say that we have no idea what to make of this series. ... We’re not sure whether we’re supposed to laugh, to cringe, to dissect, or to be disgusted.

So awful is Winning Time: The Rise of the Lakers Dynasty that this is the conclusion of my review, and I’ve barely mentioned that its gameplay action is monotonous and phony (it’s all alley-oops and fancy passes), its inter-squad squabbling is pedestrian, and its season-long narrative is distended to such a laughable degree that, after eight episodes, it finishes without even getting to the 1980 NBA Playoffs!