Tracy Moore

Chaotic. ... It’s hosted with bewildering seriousness by Nick and Vanessa Lachey, who frame this madness as not only emotionally healthy at every turn, but somehow a unique opportunity for serious people.

All told, it’s a hell of a story for a casual fan. But diehards and mere enthusiasts may find common ground in the moments that tap into the era’s poetry.

Strap down your Stetson, ’cause it’s a grim, bumpy ride—one so dark at times it threatens to overshadow even the most golden sweeping sunsets on those untamed Great Plains.

Misleading premise or no, Sexy Beasts isn’t without its pleasures. One is the awkward near-slapstick of watching a woman with a dolphin head try to nurse a beer, or a man with a beaver head try to kiss through enormous rubber teeth. Another: Rob Delaney’s good-natured but snarky narration. Watching contestants struggle to cough up innuendo or a personality, occasionally for what seems like for the first time, is a treasure.

I’m not sure what it means to “win” this show. The last singer standing at the end of each episode can’t claim to be the most accurate, or even the most popular, or even the most-upbeat contestant in the bunch. The series is an oddly compelling celebration of technical mediocrity.

While full of increasingly outrageous reveals, it doles them out in a riveting slow burn.

[My Brilliant Friend: The Story of a New Name] still expertly portrays the bewilderingly contradictory dynamics of female friendships. But it also offers savagely dramatic, heartstrings-pulling, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cliffhangers. ... Season two reconciles that heaviness [of season one] with a pleasurable mix of plot, visual oompf and pacing: It is shot after shot of arrestingly pure swoon, even when it’s damply dreary. What’s more, it moves, giving viewers more twists and turns, more suspense, and more emotionally resonant brushstrokes that bring the largely emotional experience of reading Ferrante’s books into vivid Technicolor.