Turturro bites into the role with bitter humor and wounded idealism. Still, it’s Ahmed, at times resembling a young Andy Garcia, who is at the heart of this series, with his innocence being stripped away as the slow wheels of justice threaten to grind his soul. It’s powerful, and timely, stuff.

Mr. Robot remains one of the most dizzying, intoxicating, challenging shows on television, a gripping look at mental illness and brilliance run amok, tied to an essentially sweet, if damaged, character. It’s a show that poses Big Questions and dares to leave them hanging.

As summertime smarmy yarns go, American Gothic holds promise.

As gritty, dysfunctional family, crime-fueled dramas go, Animal Kingdom roars with dark promise.

The show’s biggest problem, though, is it’s hard to like either of its main characters.

The show is mostly a slow-burn look at Kyle as he tries to make sense of all the damage that seems to follow--and grow--around him. He may yet turn to prayer.

Although this is certainly the most narcissistic talk show in memory, it depends wholly on whether you enjoy Chelsea or not.

There are few serious undertones, but lots of lively excitement, despite all the lingering questions, which will assumedly be answered. Have faith.

There are some fine supporting performances here--most notably from Bradley Whitford as a loyal-if-appalled Hubert Humphrey, Melissa Leo as the beleaguered Ladybird Johnson and Stephen Root as J. Edgar Hoover. But, beginning to end, this is a tour de force for Cranston. Great stuff.

It’s not necessarily bad, understand, just surprisingly underwhelming considering it’s called Houdini & Doyle. One expects fireworks; instead we get consternation.

This is a disaster movie writ large for TV and the simple fact is, it works despite some none-too-subtle turns. You can’t help being enthralled by a story you wouldn’t want to be a part of.

Like the tremendously successful “American Crime Story: The People v O.J. Simpson,” HBO’s new film, the ultra-sharp Confirmation, is a look back at the muddled ’90s, when racism and sexism were shockingly overt, and one could be used to undercut or confuse the other on the public stage.

The pitch here can be shrill. The warden makes Satan look like a nice guy, and Gil has a temper that can be wearying. But the essential tension--who will finally tell the truth? everybody is lying to somebody--makes for compelling, if exhausting, drama.

It’s all a bit fuzzy, but then it’s all in good fun. Television has plenty of room for strong female characters.

What starts off as a lusty and dewy-eyed dance between lovers quickly turns into a taut game of cat and mouse more titillating than the pair’s pending nuptials. Enos and Krause have palpable chemistry.

Underground lingers on the slave experience, and that experience is appropriately awful and inhumane and certainly dramatic. But it’s also a show that wanders a bit too freely, undercutting its important subject matter and forward momentum by interfering with itself. As a show, it needs to learn how to keep it together.

It doesn’t follow the usual rhythms of television--Apatow puts the long in longform storytelling--but there are times when you want to tell him to just get on with it already.

To be sure, there are some fine performances, notably by Olivia Wilde as Richie’s former Warhol girl wife; Juno Temple as an ambitious gofer who wants to work her way up; and Ray Romano as Richie’s beleaguered right-hand man. But they’re mostly drowned in the confusion as the show veers from drama to farce to mostly poor musical interludes.

You already know the outcome. Yet you can’t stop watching, thanks to Murphy’s flashy dramatization, which is just the approach the “Trial of the Century” richly deserves.

The show certainly has plenty of diverse star power--Chris Rock, Amy Poehler and Michael Cera also appear along the way--but its shaggy approach wears thin until Cyrus shows up. Then again, save the best gift for last.

It’s all very complicated, but at the same time easy to follow and terribly mesmerizing and haunting.

Raimi shows he hasn’t lost his horror chops in directing the first episode, particularly with a spinning flashlight tension-builder. And the bloody roots of “Evil Dead” are fully honored as well.

As always, this is a scattered story with multiple moving parts.... Fargo revels in presenting ordinary folk with extraordinary problems, in stripping away their everyday guises and peering long and hard at their dark potential. That it can do this through adaptations of true stories makes it all the more jaw-dropping.

As the season progresses, Mapleton re-emerges and it becomes a tale of two deeply weird cities. It may all be a tease, but give The Leftovers this: It is the strangest show on television.

So, basically, this is a drug-fueled Sherlock Holmes situation, although Brian does something so monumentally stupid while supposedly in his smart state at the show’s beginning that it comes close to undermining the show’s premise. Luckily McDorman, who appeared in “American Sniper” with Cooper, has an easygoing charm that helps right the boat.

Instead of being seriously macabre, it goes for broad satire, although it certainly has its gory moments. It’s an odd mash-up that leaves little room for real connection to the characters, having faith instead in laughs and blood. Then again, laughs and blood have a good track record.

As harrowing, dark and bloody as the premiere episodes are, and as open as the show’s direction seems to be, the comparisons [to Game of Thrones,” “Sons,” “Deadwood,” “Breaking Bad,” “The Sopranos,” and “The Walking Dead”] seem apt. This Bastard rocks.

Marienthal is an appealing kid and it's nice to see Sagal back at work, but this show is just a little too sex crazy and far too predictable. [2 Oct 2000, p.5F]