“Humanity’s greatest weapon is the lie,” says Reverend Mother Tula Harkonnen of the Sisterhood (Olivia Williams). “Human beings rely on lies to survive. We lie to our enemies, we lie to our friends, we lie to ourselves. Lying is among the most sophisticated tasks a brain can perform.”

The acolytes under Tula’s tutelage in this first episode of “Dune: Prophecy,” the new prequel series developed by Diane Ademu-John and Alison Schapker, are learning to lie more effectively in order to better control the people they supposedly serve. As recipes for political success go, it’s hard to argue with the results.

I’m covering Dune: Prophecy for the New York Times, starting with my review of the series premiere.

What will it remind me of?

“Shogun” is very much a product of the post-“Game of Thrones” television landscape: It is a high-budget medieval-esque action-adventure period piece with a high melodrama quotient. While many shows indebted to “Thrones” are fantastical — “The Wheel of Time,” “The Rings of Power,” “House of the Dragon” — “Shogun” is straight historical fiction. Its visual grandeur, however, makes it look like an epic fantasy minus the dragons.

There are other clear influences, including the samurai films of Akira Kurosawa — as Frederick E.O. Toye acknowledged in his acceptance speech for best drama directing on Sunday night. This applies not only to the show’s setting and swordplay but also to the psychological drama, scheming and tragedy.

The show’s emphasis on the roiling interior lives of its women characters, who are hemmed in by cultural and religious constraints, echoes the work of Ingmar Bergman. Lady Mariko’s desperate life, in particular, feels like “Cries and Whispers” with samurai swords.

I wrote a primer for the Shōgun-curious after last night’s Emmy Awards romp for the New York Times.

“Shogun” reactions seemed to move swiftly from “Hmm, this show sounds interesting” to “Wow, this show is really good” to “Give this woman the Emmy right now.” Were you tracking that groundswell?

It wasn’t like I was sitting in front of my computer reading everything, but there’s always going to be a part of me that’s very self-critical. Even while it was happening, I was like, But what if they don’t like the next episode? Once we hit the end, I realized, Oh, OK, people are actually happy with the Mariko they saw. She’s beautifully written, and that’s why they love it, but I probably didn’t do a horrible job.

Does the Emmy nomination confirm that for you?

It gives me confidence. I have such bad impostor syndrome, so I feel like: I’m doing OK; I can keep moving forward; I can keep doing jobs; I can keep working hard to do what they saw on “Shogun.” It just makes me want to do more. It makes me want to keep telling stories that have a big impact on the people who haven’t been seen.

I got to interview Shōgun star Anna Sawai for the New York Times again, this time focusing on her Emmy nomination for her work as Lady Mariko. This was a really fun one to do.

Chekhov warned writers against placing just one gun on the mantel without firing it by the end, let alone a dozen. In its second season finale, “House of the Dragon” calls Chekhov’s bluff 11 times over.

Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Syrax, Vermax, Vermithor, Caraxes, Seasmoke, Silverwing, Moondancer and the newcomers Sheepstealer and Tessarion: These are the living dragons introduced thus far, all available — theoretically, anyway — to take part in hostilities when the episode begins. (Aegon pronounces his dragon, Sunfyre, dead, so that takes him out of the action; more on Sheepstealer and Tessarion later.) Eleven beasts locked and loaded, and not a single one fired when the closing credits roll.

True, Vhagar torches a town off-camera at Aemond’s command, a horrific crime that shocks both the Black and Green camps. Still, the entire episode — the entire season — builds to a conflagration that never arrives. Even the abundance of dragons soaring together in the opening credits’ tapestry feels like a bait and switch.

That final cut to black knocked the wind out of my sails. Unfortunately, the episode is so good at building tension and anticipation for the three-front war on the horizon that it becomes a victim of its own success when the action doesn’t arrive.

I reviewed the season finale of House of the Dragon for the New York Times. (Gift link!)

Before Season 2 of “House of the Dragon” began in mid-June, HBO hadn’t released a new episode for about two years; so with the premiere days away, we published a guide to the show’s sprawling cast.

Seven episodes later, much has changed. Westeros is divided by a civil war between the Blacks, who support Rhaenyra Targaryen’s claim to the throne, and the Greens, who support her half brother Aegon’s. Characters have died, been maimed or disappeared. Meanwhile, the common people — known in the show’s parlance as smallfolk — have played an increasingly large role, adding several new faces to the show. It seemed like time for an update.

Whether you’ve picked sides or simply want to catch up in time for the Sunday season finale, here is a look at the major players now.

I updated my guide to the cast of House of the Dragon for the New York Times. It’s a gift link!

The hug lasts 45 seconds before they kiss. Yes, I counted. In the terms of that episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” where Larry hugs Auntie Rae for a little too long, it’s nine “five Mississippi”s. And like any long, drawn-out take on this densely packed show, it stops everything in its tracks.

For three quarters of a minute, we watch empathy, respect, gratitude, warmth, heat, curiosity, desire and, finally, passion all play out in the silent embrace between Queen Rhaenyra and her friend and counselor Mysaria. For the first time in their lives, each of these two very different people has found somebody she sees as an equal, and who sees her as an equal in turn, and the thought quickly goes from comforting to intoxicating. Dragons are flying, men are burning, reigns are teetering, but for as long as that embrace lasts, the world of “House of the Dragon” exists between these two women’s arms.

I reviewed tonight’s episode of House of the Dragon

In his series of epic fantasy novels A Song of Ice and Fire, the author George R.R. Martin has based a trio of men-at-arms on Curly, Moe and Larry, the Three Stooges. He has used the superheroes Blue Beetle and Green Arrow as the basis for noble houses’ emblematic sigils. During the events depicted in “House of the Dragon,” the important House Tully is variously ruled over by Lords Grover, Elmo, and Kermit, with a Ser Oscar thrown in for good measure, as if “Sesame Street” had come to the Seven Kingdoms.

So do I think it’s possible that in his book “Fire and Blood,” the basis of “House of the Dragon,” Martin put Prince Aemond Targaryen in control of Westeros just as a cheeky way to illustrate the maxim “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king”? I wouldn’t put it past him.

I reviewed tonight’s episode of House of the Dragon for the New York Times.

From its sobriquet on down, George R.R. Martin’s World of Ice and Fire is largely a bipolar one. Blacks fight Greens. Starks fight Lannisters. And in the prophetic Song of Ice and Fire itself, death wars against life.

The dragons flown by the Targaryen dynasty are an exception to this rule. In the source novels, various maesters and royals speculate that dragons are neither male nor female, capable of switching sexes as needed. True, they are the fire that helps turn back the ice of the Night King and his undead minions in “Game of Thrones,” and the most magnificent and awe-inspiring living creatures in the Westerosi bestiary. But they are also death incarnate, capable of inflicting carnage amid soldiers and civilians alike at an industrial scale.

And if need be, they can be called upon to kill one another, in battles as brutal as they are beautiful. There is a reason scholars within Martin’s fictional universe refer to the Targaryen civil war as the Dance of the Dragons: The conflict is as rapturous to behold as it is repugnant, often in the same scene.

I reviewed tonight’s incredible episode of House of the Dragon for the New York Times.

As a screen presence, Santiago needs that kind of ammo. He has to hold his own with the “big four” members of the show’s emotional quadrangle, Louis, Lestat [Sam Reid], Claudia and Armand [Assad Zaman], even though he’s not romantically or emotionally involved with any of them.

[Smiling] Is he not?

Well, well, well!

This was one of the first jobs I’ve ever done sight unseen, just because it meant working with Rolin. From the outset, Rolin called up and said, “Listen, are you OK if we don’t make Santiago queer?” I was like, “Yeah, I can sort of see it.”

But as the script started to come in, I thought the only way this level of vitriol that he has works is if he’s in love with Armand. There is this extraordinary psychological term called reaction formation, which is what Iago has for Othello. It’s a defense mechanism whereby your impulses are so unacceptable to your ego that they’re replaced by this opposite, exaggerated behavior.

Santiago finds Louis incredibly attractive. Because Armand killed Santiago’s maker — who I think he was in love with too — and also finds Louis attractive, the whole thing must be destroyed. It gave such a drive to his hatred. It was just something ruminating in myself that drove him forward in a very aggressive, mad, extreme way.

Here’s a gift link to my interview with the magnificent Ben Daniels about his delightful work as Santiago on this season of Interview with the Vampire. He was extremely gracious and generous with his time and emotion, as you’ll see. It’s one of my favorite interviews I’ve ever done.

“We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think,” George R.R. Martin wrote in his short 1996 essay “On Fantasy.” “To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang.” By that standard, this week’s episode of “House of the Dragon,” a series based on Martin’s book “Fire and Blood,” is spicy fantasy indeed.

I don’t just mean the sex and nudity, though what there was of both blew my hair back on my head. For Martin, fantasy is about more than ribaldry. Describing it as a genre of “silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli,” he goes on to write of how its very largeness, the unbounded scope of its imagination, “speaks to something deep within us.” This episode certainly spoke to something deep within this critic.

I reviewed this week’s superb episode of House of the Dragon for the New York Times. Please note that I’m going to be using gift links from now on, which will enable you to read my NYT pieces even without a subscription

“House of the Dragon” is a civil war story, and civil wars are often described as wars of brother against brother. Your characters make that theme literal.

LUKE Our relationship and our death were very much a symbol — not just of what’s to come, but the theme of the whole piece, really, which is family against family.

Does taking on that symbolic weight add pressure?

ELLIOTT No, because that symbol is built within our relationship naturally, being identical twins. That’s a unique relationship — unique only to identical twins, who are split-embryo. Even a twin who’s not split-embryo … not to sound disrespectful, but they’re more like a brother and sister born at the same time. An identical twin is a beautiful phenomenon of nature.

But you’re playing identical twins in the act of killing each other.

LUKE I think it helps. You’re aware of what they’re up against because of all these years of being a twin. If that was a scene between me and Criston Cole, it would probably be a bit harder. Doing it with Elliott made it easier to get there and sit in that head space. It’s naturally grounded, something you can latch onto.

I interviewed twin actors Elliott and Luke Tittensor about playing twin Kingsguard knights Erryk and Arryk Cargyll on House of the Dragon for the New York Times.

This ability to shock — not in the gross-out sense, although this is often the case as well, but rather in the sense of a sudden, severe surprise — is the greatest strength “House of the Dragon” possesses. Civil wars are often said to be battles of brother against brother; fantasy can make the metaphorical literal. What better way to illustrate the senseless brutality of warfare than by having two men who look and sound exactly alike, who love each other, who say they are one soul in two bodies, perish in a brutal murder-suicide that achieves exactly nothing?

I reviewed tonight’s weirdly untitled episode of House of the Dragon for the New York Times.

Like “Game of Thrones” before it, “House of the Dragon” can be challenging to the prestige-TV palate. Its emphasis on criminal-political conspiracies, high-octane performances by a suite of talented character actors, and family drama in all its forms can be traced directly back to “The Sopranos.” But its use of high-fantasy spectacle and Grand-Guignol violence add notes that can ring as discordant in some viewers’ ears.

Listened to the right way, however, the sound is magical. Condal and company have constructed a drama of chamber rooms and bedrooms, roiling with sexual energy and gendered experience, occasionally marked by near-psychedelic explosions of high-fantasy supernatural spectacle. As women pray and sob and make love, dragons soar, blades are drawn, and eyes are taken for eyes. It’s Ingmar Bergman’s “Cries and Whispers” via the sword-and-sorcery artist Frank Frazetta. And if it’s what you’re into, it’s magnificent.

I’m covering House of the Dragon for the New York Times this season, starting with my review of the Season 2 premiere.

It has been nearly two years since the shadow of dragons’ wings last darkened our screens. When “House of the Dragon,” HBO’s hit “Game of Thrones” prequel based on the book “Fire and Blood” by George R.R. Martin, returns this weekend, its sprawling cast of characters will be prepping for war, the sides distinguished by the color of the banners they fly.

The Blacks are led by Rhaenyra Targaryen (Emma D’Arcy). Named heir by her father, King Viserys, years earlier, she has seen her claim to the Iron Throne of Westeros usurped by her younger half brother Aegon (Tom Glynn-Carney); he and his backers, including his mother, Alicent Hightower (Olivia Cooke), are known as the Greens. Now these two women will determine the fate of what remains very much a patriarchal world.

Whether you want to pick a team or simply brush up ahead of the Season 2 premiere, airing Sunday on HBO, here is a primer on the major players from both sides of the great dragon divide.

Did I write a cheat sheet for this season of House of the Dragon? Does a Dornishman [REDACTED]?? I broke down Team Black and Team Green for the New York Times, where I will be covering the show all season long with both episodic reviews/recaps and interviews, and maybe more.

So in the end, it is the show’s opening credits, with the image of a frightening mask erupting from a mountainside, that have the right of it. “Shogun” is not the story of a hero charging his enemies. It’s the story of a mastermind slowly revealing himself, until a nation cowers before his countenance.

I reviewed the finale of Shōgun for the New York Times.

Finally, the lady gives up. Since she cannot obey her lord’s instructions to return to Edo with his family, she also cannot live with the offense of failing him. She will kill herself at sunset, she announces. Since Mariko is Christian, this is a mortal sin, unless she can find a second willing to deliver the death blow. It’s a grim honor — one that the Christian regent Lord Kiyama (Hiromoto Ida) refuses, despite his own beliefs. The lords are not yet ready to make a public break with Ishida and Ochiba, whose control of the Heir gives her incredible power.

But Mariko’s resolve gives her power of her own — a terrible sort of power. When Kiyama fails to show up at the ceremony to serve as her second, her ultimate reward for all this suffering seems to be the damnation of her immortal soul.

It’s all too much for Blackthorne to take. Grabbing a sword, he takes his place by her side, preparing the fatal stroke that will slice off her head after she thrusts a blade into her belly.

Ironically, this is one of the show’s most intensely romantic moments. Such is Blackthorne’s love for Mariko that he is willing to kill her in order to grant her death the honor she believes it will hold. Mariko believes she is damning herself to hell for eternity. Whether he also believes this is immaterial. He simply cannot allow her to experience that anguish in her last moments. He cannot let her die alone and afraid.

This fleeting but real emotional intimacy, profound beyond words, is conveyed by Cosmo Jarvis and Anna Sawai with minimal speech and movement. It’s all shown with their eyes.

I reviewed the penultimate episode of Shōgun for the New York Times.

What attracted Lady Mariko to Catholicism?

That was one thing I was really trying to understand. I didn’t know how you could be Catholic and a samurai, because they feel so opposite. But it’s not because Mariko believes in the power of the religion, or the money, or the politics. She wasn’t interested in any of that. It was more that the Catholic priest reached his hand out when she really needed something to hold onto. It could have been anything, but it happened to be that. She found light where she couldn’t see any.

I interviewed Anna Sawai, star of Shōgun (and Monarch and Pachinko), for the New York Times.

The ritual of seppuku has been described and threatened by multiple characters since episode 1, but it isn’t until this point that “Shogun” finally depicts the act in graphic, agonizing detail. Indeed, Hiromatsu’s death scene functions as a microcosm of the whole series: teasing us with the taboo thrill of violence, then really making it hurt when it sinks the knife in.

The good-hearted Hiromatsu is the canvas on which the sound and effects team paint a grotesque portrait of metal tearing through flesh and muscle and viscera, until the sword of his son Buntaro, who Hiromatsu has asked to “second” the act, severs his head. It rolls directly toward Toranaga, like a grotesque accusation.

Here’s your code of honor, the show seems to say. Choke on it.

I reviewed this week’s Shōgun for the New York Times.

“When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” Few cinematic genres have had as fruitful a conversation with one another as the samurai film and the western, so it’s only fitting to use an epigraph from “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” to sum up the central conflict in this week’s episode.

I reviewed this week’s episode of Shōgun for the New York Times.

But this excellent episode has more going on than crucial back stories and thrilling war councils. It also contains the show’s sexiest, most romantic material to date. The writer Maegan Houang realizes that the concept of the eightfold fence, retaining hidden spaces for your true emotions while erecting barriers to obscure them, as emphasized in feudal Japan, is a gigantic gift for developing romantic tension between two characters.

Blackthorne’s visit to the brothel known as the Willow World, with Mariko acting as his translator, is presaged by an earlier scene. Passing through his house, Blackthorne overhears Mariko praying in Latin. He kneels down on the other side of the thin wall and begins reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Each can hear the other. Each understands that the other is communing with God, an incredibly intimate act. They share intimacy without impropriety.

Things get even more achingly romantic at the brothel. The pair are there on the orders of Lord Toranaga, who wants to reward Blackthorne for saving his life, and to compensate him for having endured the uncivil behavior of Mariko’s husband, Buntaro. Toranaga is also wise to the fact that there’s something going on between the Anjin and the Lady. Commanding her to serve as Blackthorne’s translator in a brothel may simply be a way to give them license to get naked in a private location together — although “private” is a relative term when even the sex workers are spies.

The lucky lady at the Willow World is Kiku. Girlfriend of the ambitious, jealous young Lord Omi, nephew of Yabushige, who is none too thrilled she will ply her trade with a barbarian. Kiku is acclaimed as the best courtesan in the region, and turns out to be a hell of a wing woman, too. Her erotic words about the pleasure and escape she can provide with her body are relayed to Blackthorne in Mariko’s voice, and the desire in that voice, as well as Blackthorne’s desire in hearing it, is unmistakable.

Though Kiku all but invites the two of them to make love, they know their every word and gesture are being scrutinized. Blackthorne follows Kiku to their bedchamber while Mariko insists on staying behind — but not before he brushes her hand with his own. I’m surprised no one’s kimono caught fire from the sparks that flew with that touch.

I reviewed this week’s episode of Shōgun, a show I’m looking forward to watching more and more, for the New York Times.