If the premiere is any indication, it’s not the diverse strands of the Stephen King Extended Universe that’s holding this thing together: It’s Moonlight veteran André Holland. His character Henry Deaver is a just a black American from a lily-white small town, raised with a heaping helping of old-time religion and unexamined trauma. He’s not dreading an encounter with a demonic clown – the lawyer just wants to make sure that his client gets the legal representation the Constitution guarantees. He’s a careworn man trying his best, not a hero undertaking a quest. This is Mr. Holland’s opus: He acts like doesn’t know he’s in a highly anticipated television event from the creators of Lost and The Shining. He makes Castle Rock feel like a drama, not the haunted-house ride at the county fair.

And while Holland gets the meatiest material this time around, he’s surrounded by actors capable of moral and emotional seriousness. His mom is played by Carrie herself, Sissy Spacek. Pangborn is played by Scott Glenn, who’s brought grizzled gravitas to everything from The Silence of the Lambs to The Leftovers. Molly Strand, the suburbanite pill-popper who briefly shows up? That’s Melanie Lynskey, who hasn’t met a role she couldn’t crush since Heavenly Creatures. Frances Conroy, a solid player in both prestige dramas (Six Feet Under) and guilty genre pleasures (American Horror Story), cameos as Warden Lacy’s blind wife. And the Kid? It’s Bill Skarsgard, dialing his performance as Pennywise from It down several notches but still weird and wall-eyed as ever.

Finally, there’s the not-so-good Warden Lacy, played by Terry O’Quinn. All the emphasis on Lost‘s unanswered questions makes it easy to forget all these years later, but the actor was an absolute godsend for that show — an MVP who could play a wily survivalist, a Wolverinesque badass, a failed hero, a bitter old man and an embodiment of pure evil with equal nuance and skill. Yes, the Warden commits suicide by driving off a cliff with a noose around his neck (“guillotining himself with a Lincoln,” as Henry puts it). But we’re in King Country now, and even if you discount supernatural shenanigans, the flashback toward the episode’s end indicates we haven’t seen the last of him.

I’m covering Castle Rock, the new “songs in the key of King” series on Hulu, for Rolling Stone, starting with my review of the series premiere. It’s not sit-up-and-take-notice stuff like The Terror was, but it’s promising.

And now, a brief aside about an outer-space action movie that I provides a useful interpretive framework.

Alison’s father’s latest wife is played by Dina Meyer, one of the stars of Paul Verhoeven’s ultraviolent sci-fi satire “Starship Troopers.” That film, which chronicles a militaristic future Earth’s intergalactic battle against a sentient species of giant insect, has long disgusted some critics and delighted others in equal measure. On the surface, its story of young, beautiful soldier-citizens waging a war of extermination against literal vermin reads as gleefully fascist.

But Verhoeven and his collaborators’ conceit was to make the kind of war movie such a society would make about itself, celebrating the virtues espoused by the fictional society it depicts. The film is positioned as the product of the mind-set of the characters within the film — not a bad way to understand how what we see on “The Affair” is filtered through the perspectives of its main characters.

I reviewed yesterday’s episode of The Affair, which dug right into the heart of Alison Bailey and the show itself, for the New York Times.

The Dream Machine: ‘Superman: The Movie’ (1978)

Where to watch: Rent it on iTunes, Amazon or YouTube

The machinery of the modern-day blockbuster — kick-started by Steven Spielberg’s “Jaws” and thrown into high gear by George Lucas’s “Star Wars” — never operated in a more chaotic, or mercenary, fashion than it did in this big-budget work of art-by-committee. There was its small army of screenwriters, credited and uncredited (including the author of “Godfather,” Mario Puzo); the decision to shoot the film and its sequel simultaneously in order to increase the return on investment; the fortune thrown at Marlon Brando for just a few minutes of screen time as Superman’s Kryptonian father; the conflicts between director Richard Donner and his producers that led to his ouster before the sequel was completed (Richard Lester stepped in): All in all, the process was as industrial as building a car.

But all that fades away the moment the movie begins. The visual effects, most notably the Zoptic front-projection system that made Superman’s flight convincing, won an Oscar. The star-studded supporting cast, with Margot Kidder as a vivacious Lois Lane, Brando as Jor-El and Gene Hackman as Lex Luthor, gave the thing gravitas. Finally, there’s Superman himself: Christopher Reeve, in a performance so effortlessly charming yet rooted in thoughtful physicality, it forever associated him with the role. His instantaneous change in posture and expression when he switches between Superman and Clark Kent remains a wonder to behold.

The Reaganomicon: ‘RoboCop’ (1987)

Where to watch: Stream it on DirecTV Now or IFC; rent it from iTunes, Amazon or YouTube

Despite the success of “Superman” and its even better sequel, “Superman II,” the standard superhero seemed a little superfluous in the 1980s. With President Ronald Reagan telling tales of good versus evil straight out of a comic book, and action stars like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis sculpting their physiques to cartoon-worthy levels, who needed spandex?

Enter “RoboCop,” the sci-fi satirist Paul Verhoeven’s biting black comedy in ultraviolent action-hero drag. In a dystopian future where hospitals are driven by profit and police departments use military-grade weaponry — imagine all that! — a badly-wounded rookie cop (played by the unlikely action star Peter Weller) is fitted by a creepy corporation with cybernetic enhancements that increase his lethality but wipe out his memory. The story of a super-cop literally fighting against his own programming in order to reclaim his humanity — in a city being stripped for parts by the superrich — is as poignant now as it was in Reagan’s America.

Blockbuster Begins: ‘Batman’ (1989)

Where to watch: Rent it on iTunes, Amazon or YouTube

Almost as soon as the TV show “Batman” went off the air, darker material began to ferment in the comic-book depictions of the Caped Crusader and his peers. “Batman” was the blockbuster that brought this grimmer vision roaring into multiplexes and the mainstream consciousness. Directed with confident neo-noir style by Tim Burton, the movie pivoted off works like the cartoonist Frank Miller’s “The Dark Knight Returns” and employed an array of talent — the composer Danny Elfman; the production designer Anton Furst; and Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson as Batman and his psychopathic nemesis, the Joker — working at or near their career peaks.

While “Batman” remains one of the genre’s best films (the best, if you want my opinion), its industry innovations sometimes overshadow its aesthetic excellence. The movie’s PG-13 rating became standard for tent-pole movies, while its record-breaking box office enshrined opening-weekend revenue as a key measurement of a film’s success. “Batman” was an inescapable last gasp of Big ’80s monoculture; that summer, the bat symbol was nearly as ubiquitous as Coca-Cola.

I’m really glad my editors at the New York Times talked me into writing a cultural history of superheroes on film and television, touching on changing mores, aesthetics, technology, showbiz, and American society in general. I’m very proud of how this piece turned out, especially of the effort we made to give proper credit to the characters’ original creators. And there’s links to where you can watch every single movie and show on the list online!

Gather ’round, friends, and I’ll tell you a scary story. It’s a tale of political intrigue, in which right-wing politicians in a Western nation (culturally, if not geographically) conspire with the intelligence apparatus of authoritarians abroad to undermine democratic institutions and maneuver themselves into power. This story has it all: International hackers, compromising video of illicit liaisons between politicians and secret foreign spies, deep-state chicanery, romantic relationships between reporters and intelligence agents, false-flag terrorist attacks, a trans woman risking her life to expose abuses by the military-intelligence apparatus of which she’s a part, honeytraps, rampant xenophobia and racism, indefinite detention, allegations of fake news, attacks on the press, oppression of dissent…

Wait, you say you’ve heard this one before? And you haven’t watched Secret City, the Australian political thriller from Summer 2016 now playing in Summer 2018 in an American Netflix account near you?

In one of the most remarkable cases of art not imitating life but anticipating it, Secret City‘s short, sweet six-episode first season plays like a prophecy about the next two years of life in these United States, issued by a Canberra Cassandra who won’t be heard until it’s too late. And after the events that unfolded between America and Russia this week, it feels more relevant than ever — just swap a few proper nouns and serve hot.

I wrote a few pieces I’m proud of last week. First up, a few words on Secret City, the new-to-Netflix Australian political thriller from 2016…that just so happens to be basically America in 2018.

Vik spills his guts to Sierra, perhaps for the first time to anyone at all. All his life, he says, he has struggled to be the good immigrants’ son, “parenting” his own parents by studiously living up to all their dreams instead of his own. The one exception he carved out for himself was to build a family on his own terms, but that, too, is now tainted: He got together with a single mother partly as an act of rebellion, and now he is demanding she have a baby for their sake rather than for his or hers. “I’m going to die, and I haven’t really made a single choice for myself,” he says, before collapsing into sobs.

The actor Omar Metwally is frighteningly committed to this scene, digging up and spilling out a profound sense of failure and loss. In turn, his partner in the scene, Emily Browning, makes Sierra feel like a lived-in, serious presence, despite her narrative function as a vehicle for Vik’s moments of self-realization and infidelity.

The confession (and, admittedly, the very hot sex scene) is “The Affair” in a nutshell. This is a show about the gender-based shapes society allows our self-image and suffering to take. Noah is the guy who played by the rules but never got the chance to break them. Helen is the perfect partner and mother who has had a hard time making it look easy. Cole is the Good Guy who just cares too much. Alison is a Magdelene-like martyr-siren. I was all prepared to type out something about how Vik is the Good Son and the Model Minority who has never really lived for himself. But then he went ahead and said it for me.

I reviewed this week’s excellent episode of The Affair for the New York Times. I realized afterwards that there’s a trick to watching this show similar to the one you have to pull off with Starship Troopers: Everything you’re seeing is the product of an in-world mindset.

Also, if you’re into watching beautiful actors fuck, and if you aren’t what the hell are you watching movies and TV for, this episode has you covered. Joshua Jackson, Phoebe Tonkin, Omar Metwally, Emily Browning, goodness gracious me.

It’s an enormously tantalizing note to end on. Yet I can’t help but wish it really was the end. I know that political thrillers tend to be endlessly iterative, and detectives and spies are as franchiseable as superheroes. But Secret City already started stumbling over itself here in the end, and now we know it’s done so without the satisfaction of a self-contained story to compensate for it.

No one’s going to complain about seeing more Anna Torv, a natural-born leading actor for this sort of story, that’s for sure. There’s a throwaway moment in this episode, when she has a tension-breaking laugh about her cop pal Bremmer’s target-shooting prowess in which she jokes she’ll safe as long as all their attackers are made of paper, that’s as human and incisive as anything you’re likely to see in a genre work this year. But Torv, and Harry, deserved a conclusion as well-drawn and decisive as Harry herself. I wish they’d gotten it.

I reviewed the season finale of Secret City for Decider. It tripped up in the end, which is a shame.

Filmed in 2016, Secret City is a dystopian vision of a future for Australia that has already come to pass in America. That’s what I can’t get over, watching the fifth and penultimate episode of the show’s first season (“Ghosts in the Machine”). I mean, it’s uncanny. Right-wing influence peddlers collude with authoritarian foreign governments to consolidate power. They use fear of non-white foreign hordes to drum up xenophobic fever. They take advantage of the previously existing, already unaccountable security and surveillance apparatus — left intact by a left-wing government in order to look tough — to consolidate power even further. Like I said in my previous review, all you need to do is change a few nationalities around, and this thing isn’t a drama, it’s a documentary.

[…]

In the end, I think the point Secret City is trying to make as it closes in on its final hour is that politics as warped as those being practiced here is pulp. If politics is the art of the possible, as the saying goes, and it’s possible to detain a journalist without a warrant and disappear her into a Kafkaesque nightmare only the lawyers of the country’s top newspaper can get her out of — and only just in time, since legislation has been passed to prevent this — well then, there’s really no limit to what politics can be, right? Compromised cabinet members, clandestine meetings, rampant corruption, flagrant human rights abuses, crackdowns on dissidents: Anything goes. Are a few bodice-ripping hookups and pitched gun battles really that outlandish in a political landscape that seems torn from a fever dream?

I reviewed episode five of Secret City for Decider. There’s some sex stuff in this one, too!

The contrast between actors Dan Wyllie as Mal and Sam Fraser as his son Dylan works well, too. Dylan’s as estranged from his dad as you’d expect the quasi-failson of a wealthy government official who sent him to boarding school hundreds of miles away to be. That this gets reflected in their physicality — Dylan is tall, lean, pale, thin-lipped, with bass in his voice; Mal feels napoleonic in dimensions and demeanor, with a big mouth, convex eyes, and a raspy tenor — is very smart casting indeed. So when they do bridge the gap, as when Dylan quietly insists on coming to work with his dad and Mal acquiesces, or when Mal gently ribs Dylan about his conspiracy-theorist, Walter White wannabe friends, or when Mal employs Dylan for a little surreptitious surveillance of one of the right-wing generals calling the shots in the government now that Mal himself has been marginalized, you feel it in a way you wouldn’t if they looked like two peas in a pod.

[…]

The thing I keep thinking about while watching this show now is this: Secret City would be great for an American remake, with the governments of Russia or Israel or Saudi Arabia or any of the other foreign powers aiming firehoses of dirty money at the current regime standing in for China. But reality has clearly outpaced television. Secret City, a drama when it aired in 2016, feels more like a documentary from a slightly alternate reality in 2018.

I reviewed the fourth episode of Netflix’s Secret City for Decider. This is why I love doing episodic reviews: You can zoom in on details, which is where the stuff of art really is, and then you can cut back to the big picture.

Please click through to see a whole lot of lovely shot compositions that the Decider team captured and gif’d for me, too.

“The Affair” takes the work of adulthood seriously. That is different than saying that adults on “The Affair” always behave in a serious manner, or what passes for it in narrative fiction. Alison, Noah, Cole, Helen and all their various relatives, friends and lovers rarely make the linear progress we’d like to see from ourselves, or rise and fall in the more predictable arcs we enjoy from television characters.

They circle back on the same issues and reprocess the same traumas, yet they hide others for years. They repeatedly fall hard when Mr. or Ms. Right appears to come along, not letting past transformations into Mr. or Ms. Wrong stand in the way. And they hash it all out in arguments and heart-to-hearts, in therapeutic settings and in impetuous getaways, in sexual encounters that are as much about figuring things out as they are about feeling good. No one here is “adulting like a boss,” as the ultimately infantile pop culture phrase goes. On “The Affair,” people do adulthood like nine-to-fivers, like tipped workers, like freelancers with unstable incomes. It’s work, and it’s more refreshing than a dip in the ocean.

I continue to make the case for The Affair at the New York Times with my review of this week’s episode.

If there’s one thing Secret City has gotten right, it’s showing how hard we can cling to our preferred versions of the people we love. That’s an unusual statement to make regarding a cloak-and-dagger thriller about the menace of China Rising, but it’s true nonetheless. Episode 3 of Secret City finds its emotional center in the mourning for Kim Gordon, the slain spy who was once married to main character Harriet Dunkley, and it provides ample opportunity for writer Belinda Chayko and director Emma Freeman to demonstrate this maxim.

I reviewed the third episode of Secret City — featuring some really beautiful shot compositions, a magnetic performance by Anna Torv, and misgendering as a sign of villainy — for Decider.

I do have one concern, though, and upon thinking about it it’s a pretty major one: What is this for? Don’t get me wrong: Anna Torv and Damon Herriman (a cis male actor cast as a trans woman, he steers clear from the showy pitfalls such performers often leap into, even when the material all but frogmarches him in) are both magnificent in this segment, and if anything it’s a shame they won’t be given a chance to repeat this performance together. Yet I’m sitting here watching these characters in terror and pain because, what, there’s some opaque shenanigans and skullduggery going on in a pissing contest between Australia and China, involving a bunch of unlikable bureaucrats we’re treating like fun antiheroes and flat-affect spies who can best be described as “sinister Asians”?

The stories of spycraft that have really mattered to me — The Americans, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Joseph Conrad’s relatively obscure but beautifully bleak novel Under Western Eyes — wedded their characters’ zealous, often murderous and amoral patriotism to a sense of colossal waste. It’s impossible to walk away from those stories feeling like you’ve watched an edge-of-your-seat thriller and nothing else, not when they’re based on the idea that espionage is a soul-destroying, life-destroying business. Unless and until Secret City gets serious not just about the deaths of people like Kim, but the whole fraudulent and poisonous enterprise for which such people died, it’s not a city I really want to live in.

I reviewed the second episode of Secret City, which is maybe a bit too good for its own good in terms of wedding well-made characters to a potboiler, for Decider.

“All right, so, let me get this straight. She was married to you, and then she cheated with you, and then she left you for you, and then she cheated on you with you, and then she had your baby, but then said it was your baby. Did I get that right?”

Sure, I could identify the men referred to by each use of the word “you” in the above monologue, delivered by the high-school student Anton Gatewood to his teacher Noah Solloway and Noah’s former romantic rival Cole Lockhart. But would it really even matter? Watching the actor Christopher Meyer say all this stuff from the back seat of a car to the two men in the front, his head swiveling back and forth as if he were watching some kind of bizarre, psychosexual Wimbledon, says it all. As an encapsulation of the chaos into which the titular relationship on “The Affair” plunged its various participants, Anton nails it. And judging from the cryptic flash-forwards that have opened each episode of Season 4 so far — in which Noah, Cole and Anton embark upon what appears to be a search for Alison Bailey — there’s more chaos to come.

But this particular brand of interpersonal mayhem takes a back seat to more immediate professional and physical concerns in this week’s episode, which returns us to the Los Angeles half of this season’s story. While Noah navigates the rocky waters of class, race and faculty politics at the charter school where he works, his ex-wife Helen and her boyfriend, Vic, receive a devastating medical diagnosis that throws their already strained relationship into greater turmoil. Connecting the two story lines is the sense that life is turmoil and chaos, and that the times we’re able to control it are happy accidents at best.

Savior complex: I reviewed tonight’s episode of The Affair for the New York Times.

“Grim-Faced Murder Detectives Abroad” is a genre of prestige — or at least prestige-adjacent — television I’ve avoided until now. So too is its auxiliary wing, “American Version of Grim-Faced Murder Detectives Abroad.” Secret City, the new crime drama from Netflix, is a little bit of both. Set in Canberra, Australia, the country where it originally aired in 2016, it’s one of the many many foreign shows branded with the American streaming-media behemoth’s familiar red N. Its star, Fringe‘s Anna Torv, also co-headlines the David Fincher serial-killer series Mindhunter, a hit for the network (as far as anyone knows; Netflix is infamously opaque about such things). Despite predating Mindhunter, this gives Secret City the feel of a side project, a place Torv can use her native accent and look less like Carrie Coon while still dealing with the same basic matters of investigation, intrigue, and murder most foul. If Mindhunter is her Parliament-Funkadelic, Secret City is Bootsy’s Rubber Band.

I reviewed the first episode of Secret City on Netflix for Decider. Based on one episode out of a total of six, it’s a so-so show with a strong lead and at least one interesting supporting character.

Coincidence, synchronicity, luck of the draw: If any show on television is aware that these mysterious forces are often less than benign, it’s “The Affair.” The series’s titular relationship began with what seemed like kismet between a frustrated father and a grieving mother, and it ended in a slow-motion crack-up of the families involved. In the process, Noah landed in prison for a death he didn’t cause, covering for both his current wife and his former one. And those are just the two most prominent instances among many.

Which brings us to tonight’s episode, in which the often traumatic experiences of undocumented immigrants plays a central role in the story — airing, it just so happens, on a week when it has played a central role in American life and politics.

True, the back story behind Cole’s second wife, Luisa, was planted when she first appeared on the show; Sarah Treem, the series’s co-creator and its sole showrunner, has long had an eye for the undercurrents in this country that can drag otherwise fully functional adults down. Indeed, another such riptide, the small-town drug epidemic made manifest by the Lockhart family’s coke-dealing side hustle, popped up again this week after many, many hours of screentime had elapsed since it last played a part.

Still, this week’s installment, written by Treem and directed with Atlantic Ocean coolness by Rodrigo García, brings home the difficulties faced by America’s 11 million undocumented immigrants by tying it to quotidian and universal events. Let’s say you aren’t an undocumented immigrant, or don’t know any personally: You’ve almost certainly experienced the stomach-dropping dread that comes with seeing the lights of a cop car in your rearview mirror. You’ve probably also at some point felt like the odd person out, prevented by circumstances beyond your control from truly fitting into the life of a person you love. And you’ve most likely wondered why people who are supposed to care about you are too tied up in their own petty concerns to treat your plight with the seriousness it deserves.

That’s Luisa’s story, told from Cole’s perspective over the course of a bad couple of days in their life. For those of us in the real world, the timing could not be better. (Or worse.)

I reviewed last week’s typically on-the-money episode of The Affair for the New York Times.

Does the series still work? Did it ever? Appropriately, that may depend on your perspective. There’s an old saw taken from therapists and their countless dramatized depictions that sums up the experience of watching “The Affair” quite neatly: “How does that make you feel?” And from its very first hour, when its multi-perspective template was established, this series has emphasized feeling, serving more as a vehicle for impressionism rather than for realism. The differences among its characters’ competing histories speak to a basic truth about the unreliability of memory, but some of them are probably too major to explain away as tricks of the mind. (I mean, two totally different people saved the same kid from choking to death all the way back in the pilot.) As such, I have long believed that the best way to process “The Affair” is as a portrait of those mindsets, not as an effort to reconstruct the truth.

Viewed from that perspective, all the sex, lies, self-destruction, screaming matches and occasional violent outbursts and murder mysteries are merely the screen on which the series projects its kaleidoscopic picture — a picture of the ways in which grief, guilt, lust, love, parenthood, couplehood, marriage, divorce, age, class and (especially) the limits of traditional gender roles replace reality, deep down inside us. And if you can accept that, then “The Affair” winds up looking like one of the smartest, most observant, most empathetic things on television — the most truly adult show since “Mad Men.” You just have to let yourself feel it.

So how does it feel? Not always great, but I don’t think it’s supposed to. Helen and (especially) Noah aren’t merely unreliable narrators in this episode, they’re also unpleasant ones. The series — and the actors Maura Tierney and Dominic West — isn’t afraid to make these people ugly, and to look ugly doing it. They pay the price every time a viewer or critic says, “Get your act together, Helen,” or, “Ugh, Noah is the worst.” But expecting otherwise treats that ugliness (to echo Helen) as if it were the show’s “fault” rather than its strength. That misses the point.

Because if you’ve reached adulthood without ever failing to get your act together or being the worst … well, bless your heart, because that sure doesn’t look like life from where I’m sitting. “The Affair” — angry, guilty, horny, and as restless as the ocean Fiona Apple sings about in the opening credits — does.

I’m excited to be covering The Affair, one of my favorite shows, for the New York Times this season, beginning with this review of the season premiere. Co-creator and showrunner Sarah Treem saw this review and said “I’ve never seen anyone articulate what I’m trying to do on this show as clearly,” so there’s that.

The funny thing is that despite the length of the finale and the glacial pace of most of the preceding episodes, Westworld Season Two still feels like it just barely got started. Take away the shifting time frames and the occasional detour into Flashback Country, and what have you got? A road movie in which characters who either perpetrated or survived Season One’s climactic massacre all head to the Valley Beyond. A bunch of robotic redshirts and a few supporting players get killed. A few other supporting players make it through to a virtual-reality paradise while Bernard, Dolores and the Man in Black live on (in one form or another) in the real world to fight another day.

It’s not a bad narrative, necessarily. From The Warriors to the freaking Odyssey, plenty of good work concerns its characters’ quest to get from Point A to Point B without losing their lives or souls in the process. But the show’s parameters for the park are too vague to give their journey a sense of direction. All we know is that it’s really, reallybig. That, and there are strategically located bunkers and hideouts just a few minutes of screentime away from wherever the characters are at any given moment so they’re never in real danger of getting lost.

Meanwhile, the constant cross-cutting between storylines dilutes our investment in the physical journey of any one character or group, since we know we’ll be whisked away to some other place and time at any moment. There’s a reason the Akecheta episode hit as hard as it did, even aside from Zahn McClarnon’s performance: It rooted us in the experiences and perils of a single character for an entire episode, in a way that made us feel what was at stake – and that no amount of Dolores monologues could equal.

And we don’t even have a recognizable endpoint in mind to serve as an anchor, the equivalent of The Lord of the Rings‘ Mount Doom. “The Valley Beyond” is amorphous even by the show’s standards (at least Season One’s “Maze” implies a central location). It’s just a bunch of rocks in the middle of a Western landscape like countless others the characters have crossed, and even as a metaphysical concept it’s just a bog-standard promised land. To paraphrase Bernard’s imaginary Ford, you might as well have spent the season chasing the horizon.

Which is a bit like the experience of watching Westworld itself. There are enough individual elements at play – concepts, creature effects, a handful of strong performances – to make you believe it could all come together at some point. There’s a consistent leap of faith needed, a fingers-crossed hope that the show will Get Good the way many other dramas that suffered shaky starts eventually did. Yet all our pathways keep leading us to the same place: clichéd dialogue, meaningless twists, plodding pacing. And the good Westworld remains, as ever, its own Valley Beyond, maddeningly out of reach.

I reviewed the blah season finale of the blah show Westworld’s blah second season for Rolling Stone. I wanted to post this long an excerpt for a couple of reasons. First, it’s me riffing on one of my favorite topics: the way film can use the motion of bodies and objects across physical space to communicate. Second, and more on this soon, it illustrates a point I frequently try to make, which is that rather than start with thematic or sociopolitical critiques and work downward, you can often start with seemingly small formal considerations of cinematography, writing, performance, etc. and discover how they work upward toward larger flaws.

I’d also recommend reading my new Rolling Stone colleague Alan Sepinwall’s thoughts on the season; we realized early on that our takes were very complementary.

Evan Rachel Wood’s performance since her transformation into the Deathbringer has been impressive in its steeliness, but her hard-ass attitude and mechanical lack of emotion have left her little to do than act like a grumpy robot unless there’s something especially traumatic for her to process. We saw how well she could play that kind of emotion when she encountered the ruin of her father, his computerized mind torn to pieces by having too much data pumped into it.

Here, over the body of the man with whom she’s shared so much, we see it again. There’s something weird and alien in how her face registers the pain of Teddy’s death, as if her internal processors have to learn what grief feels like from scratch and figure out an appropriate physical response. Her face goes weirdly flat, then asymmetrical, then contorts in an animalistic silent howl of anguish and rage. It’s acting as creation, using the face and body to build a new way of expressing a familiar emotion. You want a metaphor for how good sci-fi operates? You got it. If only Westworld gave it to us more often.

Three weeks ago I reviewed the penultimate episode of Westworld Season 2 for Rolling Stone. It’s a return to mediocre form after the beautiful Zahn McClarnon/Akecheta episode from the previous week. One thing that emerged really strongly to me this season is how badly the material hamstrings even the best actors on the show, and there are some really good ones, and how in the hands of less-good actors (it is with a heavy heart that I must announce that Tessa Thompson is at it again) it just goes nowhere at all.

What a way to cap a season in which this ruthlessly entertaining and intelligent show, so gimlet-eyed about the corrupting influence of power and so deft at depicting its argot and appeal, finally brought in the buzz it has long deserved. To paraphrase the Hulkster, “Billions”-mania is running wild, brother. Long may it flex.

I reviewed the season finale of Billions for the New York Times. What a pleasure to write about this show this season!

If you want something done right, give it to actor Zahn McClarnon to do. That’s the logical conclusion to draw coming out of this week’s episode of Westworld, titled “Kiksuya” – and the series’ best hour by a considerable margin. For once, the show’s annoyances (easy escapes, constant pointless bickering, those damn orchestral alt-rock cover versions) aren’t enough to overwhelm the material of real value. It took one of its most underutilized cast members, placed him at the center of a storyline that directly addressed the series’ sci-fi conceit but combined it with real mythmaking power and then let him run. The warrior Akecheta may not save Ghost Nation and its many human captives, but he just might have saved this show.

Until now, McClarnon had only been required to do is act mysterious and menacing – which is easy to do when you’re covered head to toe in death-cult warpaint – and spend a little time in a real-world flashback scene looking smart and suave. (The dude is all cheekbones.) But if you watched Fargo Season Two, you know that this actor is capable of so much more. As Hanzee Dent, the Native American enforcer for a Midwestern crime family, he was a nearly mute murder machine whose every move and murmur carried the weight of the whole rotten world. His reading of a weary, whispered line like “Tired of this life” – so tired that even identifying himself as said life’s owner was too much to bear – was all he needed to make himself the season’s greatest monster and its wounded moral heart.

This is the McClarnon we get tonight.

Last night’s Westworld was, by a considerable margin, the best episode of the series. I reviewed it for Rolling Stone.

This week, on “Billions”: Salt Bae.

The viral-video sensation and steakhouse hearthrob Nusret Gokce makes an unexpected appearance to open the episode. Of all the real-life restaurateurs, athletes and hedge-fund aristocracy who’ve appeared on this show, none made me laugh harder at their sheer delightful audacity. Come to think of it, I don’t know if anything on TV has made me laugh harder than this.

The look of lust in the eyes of Condola Rashad’s normally unflappable attorney Kate Sacker, accompanied by the sensual strains of Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” on the sound system, simply add additional seasoning to the scenario. Silly as it sounds, the scene is a textbook example of the attention to detail “Billions” pays to its Manhattan machinations. The show never settles for satisfying when spectacular will do.

Billions is so good. I reviewed this week’s episode for the New York Times.