It had more the vibe of a period potboiler made in the 1980s with accompanying mood music, where the baddies sneered and cackled and the women were hysterical, being shagged by cads or naked on a pathologist's slab. It was hammier than a butcher's knife, but it wasn't unenjoyable for it, providing you took it with a fistful of salt.

I'm a seasoned griper over excessive background music, but this was on another level. ... Eardrum offences aside, this promises to be another truly great series.

Weird, weird, weird, but definitely not boring.

There is an artfulness to this drama -- the split screen, the surprise shift to cartoon animation -- that promises it won't be just another international crime tale. For its sake I hope Sharpe will be centre-stage.

It relaunched with all cylinders firing and spitting. There was no quality drop.

The two weak spots for me were that they seemed incompatible as a couple and he wasn't recriminatory enough. ... Maybe that will come later. Thus far, though, Hornby has created a cleverly structured two-handed play in ten segments, lush with domestic humdrummery, in which we will never see them in that therapist's room.

As a portrait of a person trying to slap a convincing smile on depression it is nuanced, rich, touching and occasionally funny. Not all the time, for that is not the way with the modern "sad-com"; a couple of times it was really quite bleak and flat. ... Bea, who two years ago wrote a beautiful article about her father's suicide when she was three years old, is a talent. To star alongside Horgan, who tends to steal most scenes in comedy, and shine isn't a mean feat.

No second series slump here. Actually, sometimes it was too fast, going for short, staccato scenes, which can be frustrating because often the conversations begged to evolve much more. But this is a small niggle. This stellar cast of women is a buffet of flavours.

It needs a bit of grit, though there is a new MI6 posh boy to bounce off and she did have that great line about "murder on the dancefloor". Anyway it ended with the best use of a bog brush in drama that I have seen. Bravo.

The comedy, starring an effervescent Don Cheadle, Andrew Rannells and Regina Hall, is an outrageous reimagining of what caused the Wall Street crash of 1987 and is packed to its coke-crusted gills with rapid-fire one-liners, not all of which work, but it doesn't matter because the one that comes three seconds later probably will.

On its second series, it is still drenched in yachts, helicopters and beautiful people being filthy rich and looking furious about it, and has at its heart a mystery -- that no one in the show has said: "But these characters are all dreadful. Who would care if they had all been blown up on that yacht, preferably painfully?" Indeed, to call some of them two-dimensional might offend cardboard cutouts.

It is growing on me largely because it is well written and multi-layered, managing to be sweet, tragic and a little bit sick. Oh, and quietly funny, which is not easily done in these circs.

It had an intriguing, if mad, plot, huge ambitions spanning three countries and complex strands including Congolese child soldiers. Unfortunately, the dialogue hadn't quite got the memo. For such a vaulting project, some of it was comically corny.

It is at times a touch whistlestop and it lacks the precise focus we saw in say Dynasties or Blue Planet II: one moment we're on the Peruvian coast, then we're whisked to the Serengeti then to the boreal forest of North America and polar bears in the Arctic with their underweight cubs until it feels at times like a compilation album.

Anyone who has followed Victoria knows that it puts history through a soap opera wash with exotic floral fabric conditioner. Yet what comes out at the end is usually entertaining, if often perfumed and melodramatic. This opener brought the same lip-glossed, high-production values, but was a bit samey-samey and would have felt flat without the shot in the arm that was cocksure (literally) Lord Palmerston, played by Laurence Fox.

Reed did not over-egg the material. ... This is a strange, dark and complex story, but I believed them [Wade Robson and James Safechuck].

Waller-Bridge hasn't rested on her laurels and, like all the best writers, is offering something familiar yet intriguingly different.

Endeavour is cardigan-comfy and uplifting, even when it is wading through bleakness. ... This is down to the gentle but weighty Shaun Evans as Morse and, most of all, to the brilliant Roger Allam as Fred Thursday. No one holds the screen and turns a phrase like Fred.

It sustained the pace right from the traumatic opening scene when a U-boat was destroyed, the water filling the submarine and one man choosing to shoot himself rather than await a slow drowning. Grim but gripping.

Tin Star's problem at the end of the previous series was that you couldn't care less about the characters and its problem now is exactly the same. It is trying hard for a surreal Twin Peaks/ Fargo vibe and could be quite funny. ... Sometimes less is more. A riot, yes, but I don't have the energy for this.

This is often a one-man show for Ali, sometimes wearing prosthetics to make him old, grey and suffering from dementia, and he is terrific in all three timelines. Great performances too from the missing children's dysfunctional, barneying parents. ... It's not yet as good as series one but there are rich, tragic seams here.

Clunes felt right, clutching his flask of coffee and delivering an authentic, contained performance of a decent, unflashy grafter. ... It takes a very good actor to make a real, do-it-by-the-book detective, who isn't a hard drinker and doesn't shoot from the hip, come alive on screen. I still think it's too soon, but it is in responsible hands.