There’s a bit of irony in the fact that the first stretch of the fifth and final season of Netflix’s brand-defining hit “Stranger Things” is at least partially about the power of youth. People like to point out fun facts about how long it’s taken The Duffer Brothers to tell this story—my favorites are that “The X-Files” produced over 200 episodes in less time and the simple fact that the first season premiered during Obama—but the truth is that millions of people around the world are going to quickly get over the fact that a show about children now stars obvious adults. It’s startling at first how much older some of the cast looks, but it’s easy enough to quickly dismiss. People just want to see how the people of Hawkins survive what has now been a multi-year assault on their wellbeing. While these four episodes stumble a bit in terms of pacing and urgency, especially early on, they end on such a satisfying, long-awaited note that fans who have literally grown up watching this show are unlikely to care. They’ll just be counting the days until the next drop. (Spoiler: It’s 29.)

At the end of season four, Vecna (Jamie Campbell Bower) essentially completed his mission, opening the rift between the Upside Down and the tormented city of Hawkins. The new season opens with a heightened military presence, led by an officer played by Linda Hamilton (only one of several nods from this season that feel to The Book of Cameron), both above and below ground. They’re trying to find Eleven (Millie Bobby Brown), who they think is the key to stopping all of this chaos. She’s finally been reunited with her surrogate father Hopper (David Harbour) as the two seek the show’s Big Bad, who disappeared after being nearly vanquished at the end of the last chapter. Vecna is out there, somewhere, rebuilding his power while the rest of the familiar faces try to find him first. When one of their own goes missing, they’re forced to act even more quickly than they first planned.

As made clear by the leaked prologue to the first episode—one that reveals that Vecna was a part of Will’s (Noah Schnapp) disappearance, the inciting incident for the entire series—this final run is going to be about young Mr. Byers’ connection to the leader of the Upside Down. Schnapp gets his toughest material to date, and, somewhat to the surprise of this critic who never thought much of his acting chops when it comes to the emotional material, nails some crucial scenes. Without spoiling anything, “Stranger Things” has long been a show about the forces of evil messing with the wrong kid. At first, it was because Will had a fearless mother (Winona Ryder) and loyal friends to save the day; it only makes sense that the closing arc would be about the role that Will himself will play in the final battles.

As Will leads the efforts to find Vecna, other subplots circle his driving narrative. Max (Sadie Sink) remains in a coma as Lucas (Caleb McLaughlin) loyally plays Kate Bush in her hospital room in efforts to bring her back. Dustin (Gaten Matarazzo) carries the trauma of Eddie’s sacrifice last season, even wearing his Hellfire Club shirt like a tribute. Steve (Joe Keery), Nancy (Natalia Dyer), and Jonathan (Charlie Heaton) continue to form some sort of weird love triangle. Brett Gelman is back as Murray, Priah Ferguson pops up as Erica Sinclair, and Maya Hawke gets some great scenes to remind you that she’s probably the show’s most promising future star.

Of course, as with all shows setting up their final chapters, the focus here is going to be on the writing. And, to start the season, it’s admittedly clunkier than normal. In particular, the premiere is messy and unfocused in ways that none of the other seasons were to start. It’s a product of being such a direct continuation of season four. Past outings allowed for a little more of a fresh restart, but this one presumes you not only remember everything that happened 2.5 years ago but are still emotionally invested in how it plays out.

For one of the few times in the show’s history, there are stretches in the first two episodes that lack confidence and direction, evident in how often the characters ramble about what they have to do next. There are so many “heated planning” scenes in just four episodes, which also adds to the sense that this is about 100 minutes of true plot in 4.5 hours of high-budget television. (On that note, the special effects, especially in the fourth chapter, are truly spectacular.) It’s worth noting that just as the show felt like it was about to get lost in its own Upside Down, the legendary Frank Darabont‘s name popped up on the third episode, centering everything again before the Duffers reclaimed the director’s seat for the fourth, and easily best, episode.

While everyone will talk about these chapters over the holiday weekend, they’ll be just a memory by the turn of the calendar. There won’t be a single criticism that will matter if they stick the landing. And there’s reason enough to believe they will. Again, we’re not allowed to say much of anything about the fourth and final episode, so I’ll only attest that it works. It takes themes that have been bubbling under the surface for years and gives them a shape that will satisfy fans who have literally turned into adults watching “Stranger Things.”

In the end, maybe this really isn’t a season about the power of youth but the strength that comes from leaving childish things behind.

All of Season 5, Volume 1 screened for review. Now on Netflix.

As temperatures drop, the promise of a guilty-pleasure thriller about a mysterious man who infiltrates a family with the intention of destroying its patriarch is an enticing invitation. With two episodes set on the shores of a Grecian vacation home, a beautiful cast, and a twisted mystery at its center, Prime Video’s “Malice” should draw the attention of viewers who have made streaming series like “The Hunting Wives” on Netflix and “All Her Fault” on Peacock into hits.

Everyone loves a good piece of escapist nonsense—shows in which the plot threads and character motives don’t have to ring true as long as they entertain. And yet, even the guilty pleasure has its breaking point and can vary in quality. When done well, we don’t mind irrational behavior and inconsistent characters in the name of thrilling twists. When done poorly, we get “Malice.”

Creator James Wood’s six-part series opens in Greece at the gorgeous vacation property of the Tanner family, led by the charming Jamie (David Duchovny). From the beginning, the writers drop narrative crumbs about Jamie’s past and personality. He’s a bit abusive and bullying to his son, and asks people to stay off social media, implying that maybe there’s a scandal about to burst. Almost hysterically, numerous “clues” dropped in the first couple of episodes just disappear, as if the writers forgot to weave them into their incredibly inane final act. What’s the opposite of a Chekov’s Gun? What do you call it when a playwright puts six loaded guns on a table and then forgets they’re there?

Anyway, we also meet Jamie’s wife Nat (Carice van Houten of “Game of Thrones”) and watch as Nat’s BFF Jules (Christine Adams) arrives at the Grecian mansion with her husband Damien (Raza Jaffrey), their son, and the family tutor Adam (Jack Whitehall). From the beginning, Adam is clearly the villain of the piece, a sort of Tom Ripley figure who has worked his way into Jules and Damien’s family just to get closer to Nat and Jamie. How do we know this? He tells us. And not through narration. “Malice” is the kind of show wherein Adam drops off a passed-out, drunk Jamie one night and tells him that he could kill him, but has chosen to destroy him instead. We get it.

The most significant problem with this “Ripley”-inspired tale of a suave conman who tries to destroy the life of a wealthy businessman is that Tom Ripley needs to be charismatic and brilliant. We need to believe that smart people would let him into their inner circle in a way that would lead to their destruction. This simply never happens with Adam Healey, a character whom Whitehall plays like an obvious sociopath. He’s dead behind the eyes, which could be a choice to amplify how his quest for vengeance has destroyed him on the inside, but it also means that no one who has built a business from the ground up would leave him in their house alone, or around his children, or around his wife, etc.

And yet there are tiny little choices that will keep viewers with “Malice,” including a convincing performance from Duchovny as the kind of man who often ignores the harm done by his business choices. He’s casually selfish in a manner that can be convincing and could have made his Scrooge-esque downfall into thrilling television if Wood and company had the courage to really follow through on that idea.

Without spoiling, Adam’s plan to destroy Jamie’s life, and his motives for doing so, are so half-considered by the writers of “Malice” that they culminate in a finale that has no narrative or thematic conviction. It’s a show that never figured out where it wanted to end, and so picks one that could work as well as any other. The revelations and final choices feel so casually considered that they collapse under any sort of analysis. It doesn’t leave one marveling at the arc of a villain or even a victim, just feeling mistreated by bad TV.

Whole season screened for review. Now on Amazon Prime.

In the latest show from “Breaking Bad” creator Vince Gilligan, the crime genre gives way to a bewildering mix of science fiction and noir. Soaked in obvious inspirations from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” to less obvious expressions of James Ward Byrkit’s “Coherence,” Gilligan’s new Apple TV+ series begins with Best-Selling author Carol Sturka (Rhea Seehorn) reading the latest novel of her best-selling book series to a crowd of fans. She dutifully signs and takes photos, but after the signing is over, she tells her driver her work is “mindless crap.”

Away from fans and cloaked in the darkness of a car, she looks despondent, not as if she hated the fans she spent the night with, but as if she hated the facade she had to put on when reading passages of her own work. 

Somewhere else in the world, a scientist is bitten by a rat. As she begins disinfecting her hands, her body seizes violently, and a childlike yet uncanny smile takes over her face. When Carol and her partner Helen (Miriam Shor) stop at a bar for a drink on their way home from Carol’s book tour, the bodies of the other patrons seize up in the same way…except for Carol’s. As the city beyond them becomes set ablaze and a massive blackout occurs across the world, it becomes clear that an outbreak of some kind is affecting the earth’s inhabitants. But instead of a typical zombie virus or plague, Gilligan offers us a refreshingly different type of outbreak: a virus that makes everyone on earth happy. 

The problem is that Carol may be the unhappiest person in the world. Beyond her dissatisfaction with the world-renowned book series she’s created, there’s a deep-rooted discontent that lies within her, eyes squinting with suspicion and jabs falling out of her mouth before she can even think of stopping them. But it’s not all roses around the world either, and Carol may not be as alone as she thinks she is. As the days tick on, Carol is visited by Zosia (Karolina Wydra), who remains her guide and chaperone to Carol’s displeasure, and who reveals to Carol that she’s not the only one whose body wasn’t co-opted by this virus. 

Here is where the noir inspirations begin. Desperate to understand what makes her and a select few different from the rest of the world, Carol starts scouring the city for clues about anything outside the new normal in which she’s found herself. She spends her nights barking at the sounds of wolves in the distance, breaking into various buildings, and drinking her sorrows away. These moments, though they come towards the back half of the series, are cloaked in harsh neon lights, unlike the sunny backdrop present when Carol’s moves are being surveilled in the daytime. It’s a welcome change from the sterile environment she’s been forced to inhabit, where the hue of the sky appears too blue and the houses in her neighbourhood blend to create a mimicry of each other. 

In her search for answers, Carol wears herself to the bone in an attempt to find a way to put the world back the way it was, before she inevitably becomes an unwilling participant in this new version. While there are a handful of other characters in “Pluribus,” it is a majorly one-woman show, run by a phenomenally sharp Seehorn. As Carol buckles under the new information she receives each day, her eyes strain under an invisible yet present weight. With each day, her resolve wavers even further, breaths harshly, heaving her chest like she’s trying to keep a wild animal buried inside her.

Carol’s unhappiness began long before the outbreak, and we get small hints that she’s been plagued by darkness for decades, which has since spawned into a harsh outlook on the world and the people that inhabit it. Each time she leaves the house, a resounding “Hi Carol!” is cheered from the mouths of each person she encounters. Yet Carol takes this greeting as a threat, jumping away from the people who seem as if they want to help her, and sneering whenever their sickly sweet voices offer her help.

While Seehorn undeniably commands the screen on her own, Carol’s relationship with her chaperone is one of the series’ many highlights. The former’s hard shell is impossible to crack, yet Zosia is persistent, as are all of the newly infected people on earth. Her smile never wavers, and her soft voice never grows cold despite Carol’s increasing paranoia and verbal abuse. There’s a push-and-pull present between them that is fascinating to watch, and slowly, it becomes clear that although Zosia represents everything Carol is supposed to hate, there’s something about the woman that feels familiar, as if a piece of the old world can still exist within this new one.

With all conflict gone from the world, it becomes clear that Carol’s hatred for her work, its consumers, and even for herself was fueling her to go on in life, and with all of that gone, she no longer has a purpose. At the end of the world, with the desolate Albuquerque desert staring back at her, Carol must come to terms with her new reality. Instead, she creates a new one—one steeped in conspiracy and filled with villains out to get her. For some time, it feels like all is well, but as she dives deeper into the outbreak and its origins, perhaps her paranoia isn’t so misguided after all.

As the story unfolds, “Pluribus” quickly shapes up to be one of this year’s most complicated and thrilling television series, which, with a second season already in the works, has the potential to define this decade like Gilligan’s previous series defined the beginning of the century. 

Seven episodes were screened for review. “Pluribus” premieres on Apple TV+ on November 7th.

As of 2025, it feels like there is no story that has been adapted as frequently as that of folklore legend Robin Hood. Adaptations of popular fables and literature have been playing fast and loose with their source material as of late, no doubt in an attempt to satisfy audiences that have grown tired of traditional stories. Yet, MGM+’s “Robin Hood” dismantles this notion, peeling back all excess and delivering an adaptation of the famed story that feels as if it belongs to a different time of TV, for better or for worse.

Set in 1186, the series showcases a time in which the Normans have long since invaded England, and Christianity has been forced upon the Saxon people and their lands. We watch as a young boy is told stories of gods from the past, and educated about how his family’s home and titles were stripped away from them.

This boy grows up to be called Robin “Rob” Locksley (Jack Patten)–later called Robin Hood by his allies and foes alike–a man desperate to carve out his place in a world that seems adamant to cast him and his loved ones down. After a devastating loss, Rob is forced to take matters into his own hands to challenge the politics of the current time, bringing forth a new age of rebellion that threatens to shake the foundations of England. 

Unlike many adaptations that follow the titular hero that have been released in the last couple of decades, MGM+’s version of this story is surprisingly interested in engaging with ideas of sovereignty and ownership. If nothing else, this version of the story displays the politics of its hero outright, proving him to be radical not only in the fabled time period he existed, but even in the current era we watch his story unfold from. It’s a refreshing theme that is tangled in the very foundation of “Robin Hood,” one that cannot be stifled even under the weight of the series’ many faults, some of which are so grating they threaten to stall the show’s goodwill all together. 

In a post-”Game of Thrones” world, shows set in the medieval period are inevitably going to be compared to the iconic series. But where “Thrones” knew how to juggle interpersonal relationships with dazzling action sequences, almost no other show has come close. The same is unfortunately said for “Robin Hood,” which struggles to hook you with its lackluster romances and at times shallow political intrigue. It feels like the story has finally reached its peak when Rob’s group of Merry Men come together, featuring Drew (Matija Gredić), Henry (Mihailo Lazić,) and Ralph Miller (Erica Ford), Little John (Marcus Fraser), Friar Tuck (Angus Castle-Doughty), and Spragart (Ryan Gage).

Each member of this group of misfits builds between them not only a believable bond, but one that makes the show wholly more intriguing than it is when they’re not on screen. At its core, the story of Robin Hood is one that is about finding love and strength in community. This is often slashed from Hollywood versions of this story, which instead have prioritized action scenes over any thorough engagement with ideas of the found family trope. Here, the most interesting part of the series is this ragtag group who find solace in each other, and are much more engaging than the politicking of nobles the series attempts to stretch over its 10 episodes. Luckily, even when the plot falters, “Robin Hood” is a rare series that emulates its time period with ease with its visual and musical feats. 

While the show’s daytime sequences have nothing much to offer, with desolate dirt landscapes exposing what can be assumed to be a low budget, when night comes, the series truly shines. Unlike other medieval-set shows that have dominated our screens over the last few years, cinematographer Ivan Kostić has an innate understanding of how to light and frame a scene that should be sweeping in nature. What he achieves are images in which the halls of nobles and the faces of our characters are basked in the glowing light of candles and bush fires, illuminating gorgeously crafted dresses, jewels, and gold and silver adornments. 

Paired with an astounding score from composer Federico Jusid where the strings croon and ebb through each scene, “Robin Hood” easily enchants you with its craft even when its plot begins to slip through your fingers. But, while the nighttime visuals and the show’s music are undeniable high points, everything else in the series feels as if it is being held at an uncomfortable distance from the audience. An unintentional barrier separates the viewer from the story they’re expected to be engaged with throughout this first season, leaving in its wake a stilted narrative that never reaches the heights that a show this gorgeously crafted should. 

For a series that will inevitably be described as “‘Game of Thrones’ without the magic,” the romantic—and even some of the show’s platonic—pairings in this series lack the substantial chemistry needed to make these relationships feel lived in. The small moments between the core group are abandoned for attempts at world-building that simply don’t work for a story that at its core should be smaller in scale. As Rob’s cause grows in ranks, the show loses sight of what once made it so engaging, becoming bloated almost beyond repair. By attempting to expand the series beyond its quaint beginnings to transform it into the next great medieval-set show, “Robin Hood,” quickly stretches itself so thin that by the end of this first season’s 10 episodes, it becomes hard to justify its existence.

It’s fitting that Ruth Wilson’s Sarah Trafford is an art restorer in the stylish and involving Apple TV series “Down Cemetery Road,” the new drama from the creators of “Slow Horses.” Just as Sarah searches for tiny tears and flaking and other flaws in mostly pristine and engrossing paintings, if we look too closely at the plot machinations in this conspiracy thriller, we’ll find a host of convenient coincidences, plausibility-stretching developments, and familiar tropes of the genre. But if we’re willing to take a step back and just go with it and not get bogged down in the details, this is powerfully entertaining stuff, filled with satisfying twists and turns.

Also great: we have Emma Thompson as the detective Zoë Boehm, who has spiky hair and an even spikier personality, and carries herself as if she had fronted a killer punk-rock band in the 1980s and is still looking for a fight at every turn. What superb and natural work, as if we’d expect anything less. Whether Thompson as Zoë is cracking wise, butting heads with people who think they’re a step ahead of her (they’re not), or letting her guard down for just a moment, it’s a performance to be marveled at and treasured.

Wilson does lovely and nuanced work as Trafford, who pedals her bicycle around Oxford and the surrounding suburbs, including her daily commute back and forth to that job as an art restorer (cue “Every Time the Sun Comes Up” by Sharon Van Etten on the soundtrack as she zips around). Sarah enjoys a comfortable life with her husband, Mark (Tom Riley), a hedge-fund manager who clearly puts his career ahead of Sarah, but we can see the restlessness and anxiety in Sarah even before the shite hits the fan and all hell breaks loose in her life.

The Traffords are hosting a small dinner party attended by a snooty and wealthy potential client of Mark’s named Gerard Inchon (Tom Goodman-Hill); Gerard’s wife Paula (Aiysha Hart); and Sarah’s bohemian friends Denise aka Wigwam (Sinead Matthews) and her partner Rufus (Ken Nwosu), when an explosion literally down (the fictional) Cemetery Road leaves a 5-year-old girl named Dinah (Ivy Malaika Quoi) injured and orphaned. When Sarah tries to deliver a handmade “Get Well” card from one of Wigwam’s children to Dinah in the hospital, she’s quickly ushered out and bumps into Gerard, the wealthy investor, who seems an odd coincidence.

After Dinah goes missing, Sarah becomes obsessed with finding her, even though she’s never met the little girl, enlisting the services of the downscale, husband-and-wife private eye team of the sardonic Zoë Boehm (Emma Thompson) and her affable if slightly daffy husband, Joe (Adam Godley). They usually take on low-profile and slightly seedy cases, e.g., tailing husbands who are cheating on their wives, but soon find themselves embroiled in a high-stakes mystery. (“Maybe this case could go all the way to the top,” says Zoë. She’s being sarcastic, but she might not be wrong.)

Off we go. Was it really a gas main explosion in that house, or something more sinister? Who was the mysterious man Sarah spotted lurking near the site? Why are the police stonewalling Sarah’s attempts to get answers? With crisp editing that moves the multi-faceted story along at a brisk pace, and a striking use of locales including the cathedral city of Bristol, the county of Somerset, and the fishing village of Polperro, “Down Cemetery Road” becomes a two-hander, with Zoë reluctantly teaming up with Sarah to find Dinah. Then it expands into a much larger conspiracy mystery, as the body count begins to pile up. At times, the almost comedic misadventures of Zoë and Sarah don’t mesh seamlessly with a storyline reminiscent of series such as “The Terminal List” and “Special Ops: Lioness,” and it’s a bit of a task to keep up with the various storylines.

Nathan Stewart-Jarrett is a formidable presence as Michael Downey, a former soldier struggling with the aftereffects of his service. Darren Boyd is a darkly funny yet chilling presence as the dapper, utterly soulless “C,” who runs a shadowy government department. In perhaps the most electric performance outside of the leads, Fehinti Balogun plays Amos Crane, one of the most terrifying guns-for-hire this side of Anton Chigurh; this man ends lives as casually as if he’s tying his shoes, and has the cold relentlessness of a shark in bloody waters. (In a misstep of script, the outstanding actor Adeel Akhtar is saddled with playing a comic-relief middle-management government operative who is mostly irritating and gets too much screen time.)

“Down Cemetery Road” is chock full of sharp one-liners, but also some impressively staged action scenes, highlighted by an extended sequence on a train where Zoë engages in some clever and at times desperate measures to elude a dogged pursuer. I also liked how Wilson’s Sarah doesn’t suddenly become an action hero capable of scaling barbed wire fences and handling a gun with the ease of a professional. She is a lost and troubled soul who will do anything to find a little girl, and while she’s in over her head and constantly placing herself in harm’s way, there’s a sense of freedom she feels in finally finding a sense of purpose in her life.

All eight episodes were screened for review. Episodes run Wednesdays on Apple TV.

If you’re looking forward to spending more time with the characters in “Nobody Wants This” without worrying whether Joanne (Kristen Bell) will convert or whether Noah (Adam Brody) will love her regardless, I have bad news for you. The will-she-or-won’t-she become Jewish question powers season two, and as in the first season, it’s a stagnant problem that’s not particularly engrossing.

And if you’re hoping for more of that electric connection the two shared in their pre-get-together episodes, I have more bad news for you. There’s nothing quite like that first dinner party or their first kiss in season two of “Nobody Wants This” (the closest we get is a flashback montage). There’s a reason so many love stories are about the initial courtship—it makes for good drama in a way the work of making relationships function just doesn’t.

But the show can carry on without that initial heat, giving us a look into the (mostly) grown-up lives of two beautiful people, while tweaking its formula for the better. This season, there’s less of Joanne asking inane questions about Judaism, like she’s never so much as heard of it before (even though she grew up in Los Angeles, and as we learn this season, had Jewish girls in her circle as a kid). Instead, she’s more immersed in the culture, so we get a more in-depth look at Jewish holidays and rituals like Purim, with less explanation around them.

In the first season, it was clear why Joanne wants to be with Noah—she’s not just tired of dating, but also of having no guiding moral force. He invites her into a more purposeful existence, and she eats it up. Now in season two, we finally get to see some of why he values their relationship so much. Part of it is certainly her freedom; opposites do attract after all. But it’s more than that.

Noah is stuck performing goodness—good manors, adherence to customs, and respectability. In season two, we see how that’s not serving him, how his act misled his past romantic partners, and how it’s now keeping him from dealing with the problems at hand. Joanne, with her lack of shame and lack of the ensuing need to hide or bury emotions, offers Noah a meaningful alternative. And this window into how she helps him grow is a very satisfying aspect of season two.

The show also gives us plenty of Justine Lupe’s Morgan, who continues to crackle on screen, a bolt of chaos and humor. This season, she’s tired of being jealous of Joanne’s relationship, so the taller sister goes and starts her own (with a slyly funny Arian Moayed as Dr. Andy). Their arc is both hilarious and insightful, reminding us that “Nobody Wants This” is at its best when it’s using humor to nudge its wonderfully flawed characters towards growth.

Fans of loser siblings should also rejoice because season two gives Sasha (Timothy Sans giving us heartfelt goof) plenty to do, opposite wife Esther (Jackie Thon, saddled with bangs). He’s just as charming as ever, while Esther moves beyond simply being an impediment to Joanne and Noah’s happiness. She becomes a full person, wrestling with her own problems even as she stays true to the prickly if fiercely loyal woman we met in season one.

The parents also continue to delight. As Sasha and Noah’s mom, Bina (Tovah Feldshuh), is a force of traditional Jewish culture and values. Her costuming is particularly evocative this season, reminding us of her generation’s values. While Joanne and Morgan’s mother, Lynn (Stephanie Faracy), is hardly the family rock, she still delivers beats both comedic and sincere.

Further rounding out the show’s universe, Leighton Meester, Seth Rogen, and Kate Berlant all make strong guest appearances, playing to their strengths.

Such a stacked supporting cast gives Joanne and Noah perhaps a little too much leeway to be boring. Yes, the central couple does some work on their communication and themselves, but they remain largely stuck. The final episode does promise a reset, but so did the finale of season one. Still, I’m hopeful about season three finally delivering what fans of this show have been waiting for.

In terms of plot and purpose, this installment is essentially a placeholder. But hanging out with these two families is still mostly fun, if sometimes a bit frustrating. And as long as you’re tuning in just to be with these people, to perhaps laugh at their escapades, to maybe learn a bit about Judaism if you’re a goy, then you’ll be satisfied. In its second season, “Nobody Wants This” remains a pleasure, if a flawed one, much like the characters it follows. Maybe that’s what it’s going for.

Season two is currently streaming on Netflix.

It’s funny to think about how much television owes to Stephen King. High-profile adaptations of literary hits like “The Stand,” “The Outsider,” and “The Institute” are one thing, but the “Stephen King Expanded Universe” (SKEU) could be expanded to include shows inspired by the masterful storyteller as well. Hits like “From,” “Midnight Mass,” and especially the very IT-inspired “Stranger Things” have been doing their variations on the King Thing for years, casting a large shadow over the first stretch of “IT: Welcome to Derry,” a show whose atmosphere, pacing, and characters pale in comparison to those examples.

The team behind the massively successful theatrical adaptations of “IT”—Andy Muschietti, Barbara Muschietti, and Jason Fuchs—creatively drives “Welcome to Derry.” But it’s a show that’s too often stuck in first gear, only coming to life in its big, surreal set pieces and lacking almost everywhere else. It also suffers from that common plague of the streaming era: It takes forever to get where it’s obviously going, content to circle the same sewer grates while viewers wait to get to the good stuff.

“IT: Welcome to Derry” unfolds in 1962, primarily following two interconnecting narrative threads linked by the Hanlon family. If that name is familiar, it’s because Mike Hanlon is a key member of the Losers Club, the protagonists of the book and hit movie, played by Chosen Jacobs and Isaiah Mustafa in the films. Hanlon’s father Will (Blake Cameron James) was a child in 1962, having just moved to Derry with his mother Charlotte (Taylour Paige) and father Leroy (Jovan Adepo). Dad has taken a job as a military pilot for a secret operation on the outskirts of Derry led by General Shaw (James Remar). That thread includes another familiar name in Dick Hallorann (Chris Chalk), the character most known from “The Shining” as the guy who teaches Danny how to use his very special powers. The powers that be are employing those abilities in a way that relates to the interdimensional being who most often manifests itself as a murderous clown.

Meanwhile, across town, a new version of the Losers Club is forming, led chiefly by Lilly (an effective Clara Stack). Reeling from the traumatic death of her father, she’s empathetic in ways that her often bullying and obnoxious classmates are frequently not, which makes her more curious about the unusual disappearance of a local kid. When that incident is followed by actual child deaths, the whole town starts to take note—but it’s Millie and her buddies, including Will Hanlon, who put the pieces together, following the horrific breadcrumbs to Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård).

Other characters play on the periphery, including those played effectively by Madeleine Stowe, Kimberly Guerrero, and Peter Outerbridge. The core of the show tracks how a military operation and a group of outsiders are connected by a force that’s been ripping the planet apart every generation for centuries.

“IT: Welcome to Derry” clearly wants to be a show about the darkness under the pristine surface of beautiful ‘60s suburbia. Whether it’s the supernatural force in the woods or the racism that the Hanlons face both in town and on the base, things are not what they seem in Derry. It recalls the driving aesthetic of “Twin Peaks,” a show that also imagined powerful, impossible forces at play under naturally beautiful landscapes.

Still, Muschietti and his team seem almost resolutely unwilling to play with dread, tension, or atmosphere. Too much of “Welcome to Derry” exists on the surface with characters saying what they need, what they feel, and what they’re going to do next at every turn. The characters are almost defiantly shallow, pawns moved across a chess board as they are forced toward the grip of the Crimson King. There are glimpses of strong character work from Paige, Adepo, and Stack, but they’re too often victims of the shallow writing. The most interesting performance by far comes from Chalk, who imbues Hallorann with a sense of doomed responsibility. His work here, especially in the fifth episode, is easily the best thing about the show.

Some of the big scare set pieces work too in a way that feels almost manufactured for virality. Whether it’s a movie theater, grocery store, or, of course, the sewers, “Welcome to Derry” gets a lot of mileage out of turning mundane settings into pure nightmare fuel. But it’s hard not to imagine those bursts of horror greatness in a feature film or even two that doesn’t stretch out the material in between past its breaking point. As is so often the case lately, it feels like the writers crafted a movie script and then figured out where to stretch it to meet an episode order.

Of course, it’s critically unfair to compare a new show to a program like “Twin Peaks,” but the truth is, pop culture has been living in its own Derry for decades now, as creators have grown up on King’s work enough to make their own visions inspired by it. Sure, “IT: Welcome to Derry” may have names like Hallorann and Pennywise to draw in the King faithful. But this vision of Derry too often feels like one of those Hollywood backlots: all the facades look right, but there’s nothing behind them.

Five episodes screened for review. Premieres Sunday, October 26, on HBO and HBO Max.

The final episode of Cooper Raiff‘s eight-part series, “Hal & Harper,” opens with a dedication: “For parents and the parentified.” At its best, the show evokes that love and care for the struggles and anxieties of parenthood, and the arrested development that comes when children are forced to parent themselves. As a young filmmaker with two attention-grabbing features already under his belt—2020’s “Shithouse” and 2022’s “Cha Cha Real Smooth“—Raiff’s work has often dealt with the tensions of growing up and putting away childish things. But here it’s told with remarkable patience and self-assurance, even as Raiff often gets in his own way.

Told in elliptical, time-jumping fashion across decades, “Hal & Harper” holds its focus on a struggling family coping poorly with loss and trauma; we quickly clue in that the mother dies tragically when both kids are very young, freezing them emotionally in place. The titular kids are the jittery Hal (Raiff) and his older sister Harper (an incredible Lili Reinhart), first seen in their early twenties, still figuring their lives out. Hal feels like a manchild who’s coasting through college with a best friend who tells him that he’s “not, like, a person sometimes,” all raw nerves and people-pleasing eagerness.

Harper, meanwhile, is freshly out of college, toiling away at an entry-level desk job and in a six-year relationship with her first love, Jesse (Alyah Chanelle Scott), whom she can’t bring herself to leave, even though she’s already checked out. A fling with a coworker (Addison Timlin, also a producer) offers her the chance for something exciting and new. Still, she’s stuck: Stuck in the limbo of her existing connections with Jesse, Hal, and her guilt-ridden father (Mark Ruffalo). They’re all so dependent on each other in ways that can offer peace but also hold them back; Hal and Harper’s lack of boundaries, even in adulthood, quickly registers as unhealthy.

While the first two episodes cement the show’s montage-y, impressionistic nature—much of the show’s runtime plays out in airy intercuts set to weepy indie-folk needledrops from acts like Phoebe Bridgers and Waxahatchee—it’s at the end of ep 2 that we see one of Raiff’s more ambitious stylistic choices: We cut back to 2009, as Hal and Harper enter first and third grades. Instead of casting kids, the twentysomething Raiff and Reinhart play the roles instead; the former adjusts his physicality to play around with preteen clumsiness, while Reinhart’s Harper still smokes and makes jokes about drinking. “You really had to grow up way too fast,” Dad says to them and us, hammering home this conceit.

It’s a cloying, on-the-nose moment to sell the vibe, and “Hal & Harper” has a lot of these. When watched all at once, the show’s sleepy, waxy tone can sometimes grate, as the overwhelming gentleness of its presentation and the simplistic, fuzzy-wuzzy dramedy wear thin.

That attitude is all over Raiff’s work, especially “Cha Cha”; especially on screen, Raiff’s presence is somewhat of a weak point, as his wide-eyed enthusiasm can whittle away his more charming moments as an actor. His works feel singularly focused on the dissonance between childhood and adulthood, and the pull towards the simplicity of childhood to keep oneself safe.

“Hal & Harper” makes merry play with the divide between adults who can’t leave their childhoods behind and are a bit too grown-up to do childhood right. The beats that explore that frisson are some of the show’s most successful. The problem comes from the show’s awkward, stuttering structure. Because we flit back and forth so much in time, it’s hard to get a grasp on these characters or their conflicts, and they don’t get a chance to build organically.

Structuring a show achronologically should create purpose in those intercuts; alas, we’re left juggling two or three different conflicts at once that don’t resolve satisfactorily. Certain subplots, like Dad’s girlfriend (an underused Betty Gilpin) struggling against the possibility of their unborn child having Down’s Syndrome, feel tacked-on and perfunctory, and the broader question of “can they deal with selling their childhood home?” doesn’t ripple out boldly enough into their wider lives to feel important.

What elevates the show’s hazy presentation, though, is the performances of Reinhart and Ruffalo, each of whom finds remarkable grace notes in their thorny, complicated characters. Reinhart’s Harper feels like the adult of the family, for lack of a better term; she’s always had to take care of Hal and her father to some extent, and this moment in her life plays out like a deeply painful crossroads. She’s a fuckup, trapped in cycles of self-destructive behavior because she doesn’t know what she wants. Reinhart’s expressive face speaks volumes, whether it’s guilt, memory, or conflict, in ways the sparse, overly sentimental script doesn’t allow her.

Ruffalo, for his part, is often off in his own show, as the emotionally closed-off father who turns inward to deal with his trauma. It somewhat isolates his character from the rest of the show, but it gives him a beautiful showcase to mark his weathered, hangdog expression, filled with decades of grief and sorrow, in ways that resonate when he’s the focus.

When we deal with loss, time can seem to stand still. I know; as I type this, I am myself waiting to hear whether my maternal grandmother, the matriarch of our family, will pass today. It’s one of those terrifying prospects that no amount of emotional fortification can truly prepare you for. In its final hour, especially, “Hal & Harper” captures the bittersweet nature of change and how closing one chapter can help you open up another. But perhaps that’s evidence enough that there’s a solid three-star movie’s worth of concept here, rather than stretching it out to a loose, thin five-hour television series.

Whole season screened for review. Premieres on MUBI October 19.

AMC has slowly become a dominating force in genre television. From “Dark Winds” to “Interview with the Vampire,” they’ve crafted two series that have already become decade, if not century-defining television. There have been some duds along the way, but it’s undeniable that the writers who helm these series aren’t afraid to take risks, often transforming these shows for the better. Now comes their newest genre venture, “Talamasca: The Secret Order,” which exists within the Anne Rice universe that AMC continues to expand upon. 

First introduced in season two of “Interview with the Vampire,” the Talamasca is an organization made up of scholars and spies that watch over the supernatural. While surveilling witches, vampires, and demons, they do everything they can to remain unseen and observe these creatures without interfering with the natural order of things or dying in the process. At the Talamasca’s London headquarters, Helen (Elizabeth McGovern) is sent a severed eyeball in the mail. It belonged to one of her agents, who committed suicide via train while investigating a vampire with a volatile secret buried under the city’s sewers. In need of a replacement, Helen seeks out Guy (Nicholas Denton), a young man with a powerful gift for clairvoyance.

Since he was a child, Guy’s mind has been unable to fully channel his gift, filled with fractured whispers and phrases. To recruit him and to convince him of the Talamasca’s legitimacy, Helen introduces Guy to Burton (Jason Schwartzman), a flamboyant vampire who gives Guy an inkling that he may be more deeply connected to the Talamasca than he was led to believe. While reading a copy of Daniel Molloy’s (Eric Bogosian) novel recounting Louis de Pointe Du Lac’s (Jacob Anderson) story, Guy sees his mother’s name listed in one of the pages. When confronting Daniel later, the newly turned vampire tells Guy he didn’t write that page; the Talamasca did. 

With the Talamasca directly linked to the mother he long believed to be dead, Guy decides to join their ranks. What unfolds is a journey that wants to appear more thrilling than it actually is, missing the mark by disregarding ideas of agency and surveillance in the modern world, and how this would stifle the growth of an ancient secret society. Thankfully, halfway through the show’s six-episode run, Guy meets Jasper (William Fichtner), the show’s magnetic antagonist who breathes some much-needed life into the series. Guy goes looking to him for answers, but becomes enamored by the vampire, who, in turn, seems fascinated by the human. 

In the series’ best episode, titled “Wet Work,” Jasper takes Guy under his wing to show him how dark not only the world of the supernatural can be, but the world of the Talamasca. Each of them wants something from the institution Guy now works for, and they manipulate each other to get it, putting each other in harm’s way in the process. Yet there’s a mutual fascination shared between them, which Denton and Fichtner play up in scenes where the two share jabs, but also when they share disarmingly tender moments of understanding. 

Fichtner enters each scene with an unprecedented allure, waltzing through his gaudy apartment and the streets of London as if he were born to play a vampire. He gives the series not only the levity it needs but also infuses it with a campiness that should always be at the center of a series about supernatural creatures. Jasper is not only the most interesting character in the series but also one of the most fascinating characters in the three Anne Rice shows AMC has adapted thus far. 

When he and Guy share scenes, “Talamasca” becomes a fascinating examination of surveillance and manipulation. But when the series isn’t focusing on their bond, it fizzles out into a run-of-the-mill genre series. For a show that blends both the supernatural and the spy genre, the secrets that various Talamasca agents are attempting to uncover are not interesting enough for either of these genres to soar. Instead, the dynamics that truly fascinate emerge halfway through the series and fade away just as quickly, preventing the series from becoming something worthwhile. 

In an age where genre television has become the foundation for the modern TV landscape, “Talamasca” shows incredible promise, although stagnant characters and middling plotlines often hinder its potential. For now, the show exists in a limbo, positioned below AMC’s two knockout series, “Interview with the Vampire” and “Dark Winds,” each of which has completely transformed the horror genre on the small screen. Hopefully, if the series continues, it can provide actors like Fichtner and Denton with material that enhances their captivating performances, rather than being overshadowed by their presence.

Series premieres October 26 on AMC+.

I don’t like spending time with John Wayne Gacy, the infamous serial killer who murdered more than 30 teen boys and very young men in the seventies, burying many of them under his house. But Peacock’s “Devil in Disguise: John Wayne Gacy” is an important watch, exploring how ideas about masculinity enable horrible crimes like Gacy’s to happen, unpunished.

Part of what makes “Devil in Disguise” so strong is how showrunner Patrick Macmanus put his limited series in conversation with other true crime shows. We see no murders and very few acts of violence. Timothy Jack McCoy, John Butkovich, Francis Wayne Alexander, Darrel Samson, Samuel Stapleton, Randall Reffett, Michael Bonnin, William Carroll, Jimmy Haakenson, Rick Johnston, William George Bundy, Kenneth Parker, Gregory Godzik, John Szyc, Jon Prestidge, Matthew Bowman, Robert Gilroy, John Mowery, Russell Nelson, Robert Winch, Tommy Boling, David Talsma, Bill Kindred, Timothy O’Rourke, Frank Landingin, James Mazzara, Robert Piest—these are the boys, ranging in age from 14 to 21, the show names and introduces us to. We see many of these young men for who they were: boys figuring out their places in the world, friends, sons, and lovers. And in many cases, we don’t see them with Gacy at all.

The result is a haunting series that emphasizes the humanity of the victims and the loss they experienced to their loved ones and the world. These aren’t people defined by their death, but instead, by their full, if short lives. These are boys who deserved better.

The show is also very clear about who’s at fault. Of course, primarily, it’s John Wayne Gacy, played by a phenomenal Michael Chernus. As the title suggests, his Gacy is completely believable, helping an elderly neighbor through the Illinois snow and turning dark when a boy falls into his snare. This is the guy who made us all scared of clowns, a murderer who performed for sick kids in hospitals, met with first lady Rosalynn Carter, and was a well-regarded businessman. So even as Chernus embodies his real character’s midwestern nice (Gacy gets caught after he invites the police tailing him in for beers), it’s also clear that there’s evil and sickness at this man’s core.

The show helps Chernus by structuring itself not as a whodunit but as an exploration of the systems that allowed Gacy to go free for so long. By the end of the first episode, he’s in custody, although the trial occurs in the second-to-last installment, with the aftermath powering the final chapter. True to form, we don’t see testimony or courtroom theatrics. In the final installment, we don’t see Gacy at all. Instead, the show continues to focus on the surviving people in Gacy’s orbit—how they felt, how they coped, what they tried to change.

Because a lot needs to change, outside of the apprehension of this one man. Gacy’s were sex crimes between a man and many boys, some on the cusp of manhood. As such, telling his story could veer into demonizing gay men as inherently perverse or violent. But “Devil in Disguise” smartly refutes that trap, in part by showing how Gacy’s own, internalized homophobia underlied his violence.

But more than that, “Devil in Disguise” indicts our institutions for failing to believe that hard scrabble and/or queer boys could be victims. The series emphasizes that the Chicago PD consistently overlooked the boys’ disappearances, spending their resources elsewhere. Even when Jeffrey Rignal (Augustus Prew) survives an encounter with Gacy, reports it, and eventually tracks and finds his assailant, the officers refuse to press charges. They believe Gacy when he says that gay men regularly torture each other in this way, including burning Rignal with chloroform. Gacy works their prejudice to his benefit and goes free.

Gabriel Luna as Detective Rafael Tovar, the lead detective on the case, gives a haunting performance as he uncovers all the missed opportunities to catch Gacy earlier. As a father to a son just a little too young for Gacy and an officer who worked vice, he sees the humanity of the victims and aches for them. His chief, Joe Kozenczak (a strong James Badge Dale), also sees the problem and works to address it. But Kozenczak is worried about losing his institutional power and will only push so much, ultimately undercutting the victims he is trying to serve. In this, the chief’s cowardice reflects the many who know right from wrong but aren’t willing to put themselves at risk for justice, the silent majority who let evil transpire.

We also meet the attorneys who try Gacy’s case. Bill Kunkle (Chris Sullivan) is a smarmy district attorney whose professional ambitions align with his task of prosecuting the serial killer. Michael Angaranoas as Sam Amirante, Gacy’s defense attorney, is excellent. He makes a strong case for everyone’s constitutional right to rigorous defense even as he confronts Gacy’s horrible crimes and deals with his client’s inability to discern his new reality. Angaranoas has a toughness and swagger that perfectly meet the moment without ever being overwrought.

“Devil in Disguise” further succeeds by rooting itself in a specific place and time. This is a story of a generation of boys who are only valued when they come from “good” (aka well-to-do and white) families and consistently perform heterosexuality. The casting matches modern actors with their 70s counterparts, giving them the same haircuts and wardrobe. Likewise, the cars speak to the moment, with Gacy’s menacing sedan transporting us back. Even the architecture speaks to a time in the not-so-distant past when, say, the law did not recognize that the crime of rape can occur between two men.

But it does happen. And “Devil in Disguise” reminds us that when we look back on true crimes, it is not the luridness of the violence or the puzzle of the investigation that matters. It is the people affected, their futures torn asunder in the wake of such terrible acts. And the way we honor them is not simply to remember, but to work on the institutions that enable violence, that demand perfection from victims to be taken seriously, that code entire groups of people as undesirable. That’s what “Devil in Disguise” is about, and it portrays these truths artfully with a moral clarity that echoes through the script, off the screen, and into our lived, imperfect reality.

Whole series screened for review. Premieres tomorrow, October 16.