David Cote

If in its back end the series devolves into a more formulaic whodunit and tale of Catholic Church coverups, the fine cast keeps you emotionally engaged and the filmmaking is fairly lush, with Harry Wootliff and Rachna Suri alternating directing duties on the six-episode season.

Three seasons in, Slow Horses is still tremendous fun.

Campy, acted with flair, and boasting lush, operatic death sequences (bravo Michael Fimognari), Usher is sparkly but not deep, more box Merlot than Amontillado.

The Flintstones with gore and raunch, plus a spot-the-mythological-reference game, Krapopolis is a pretty one-joke series: Look at what a random debacle ancient civilization was.

Although not to be confused with actual medieval history, The Winter King proves that you don’t need myth or magic to spin a mesmerizing epic, as fantasy benefits from a healthy dose of reality.

A blend of music-biz satire and sentimental life lessons that makes for an enjoyable road trip, if not the mind-blowing concert you’ll never forget.

The little prodigy would be a pill if she weren’t played with such humor, poise, and thoughtfulness. Murchison is sweet without being cloying, her acting confident without turning canned. ... In terms of production values and visual ambition the show’s an evolutionary leap beyond those [3-2-1 Contact, Bill Nye The Science Guy and Dora The Explorer].

For all the lush production values, smart, cutting dialogue, and Weisz’s monstrously fine performance, Dead Ringers still feels a bit much. ... Still, there’s enough craft and tension to hang on for the gruesome finale of this limited series.

The struggle to be true to yourself while reinventing yourself: a potentially rich theme. ... But the emotional journey there is more cloying than moving. Lindsay and Miguel break up and reconcile repeatedly. If you bail on this relationship halfway through, it’s unlikely you’ll come crawling back.

Retrograde and lazy comedy punches down; virtuous, often smug comedy punches up; the truest sort (even History Of the World, Part I) punches in both directions to dismantle all pieties. Sadly, this limp coda to the Brooks oeuvre only lands a half-hearted knuckle sandwich on its own crotch.