Plot

Capitol Hill, Washington. Having played an instrumental part in the new President’s election, power-hungry congressman Frank Underwood (Spacey) is expecting to be appointed as Secretary Of State. When he’s passed over, however, Frank resolves to exact revenge, vowing to destroy anyone involved while secretly manipulating his way to the top. Aided by Claire (Wright), his unusually supportive wife, he first sets about securing some well-placed pawns, including troubled congressman Peter Russo (Stoll) and ambitious reporter Zoe Barnes (Mara)…

Review

Perhaps unavoidably, most of the pre-release hubbub surrounding House Of Cards centred on its unusual method of distribution. Released exclusively online, it became the first major series to forgo the time-old approach of a single televised episode per week, with steaming service Netflix dropping the entire first season – yes, the entire first season – all at the same time. Once the 13 episodes had landed, however, the conversation quickly shifted to what really mattered – the fact that it was bloody great. Smart, riveting and brimming with HBO-like quality, it was quickly labelled as the latest must-see show on TV. Even though, strictly speaking, it wasn’t on TV.

Adapted from the acclaimed BBC miniseries that you probably hadn’t heard of before (which was based on Michael Dobbs’ novel), Netflix’s Americanisation is a handsome, grown-up cable drama with pedigree to burn. Developed by screenwriter Beau Willimon and overseen by filmmaker David Fincher (who also directs the first two eps), it’s a slow-burn political thriller which is peppered with clandestine meetings and served with a side-order of investigative journalism. Imagine, if you will, All The President’s Men by way of Zodiac, or The Ides Of March via The Social Network.

An intricate, unhurried affair which mostly consists of people talking in shadowy rooms, it’s not a show for those who like their TV quick and action-packed. But while the political-jargon might seem daunting at first, House Of Cards is more about ambition, power and greed than it is Whitehouse legislation, while Kevin Spacey’s to-camera asides help keep us straight. Having a character address the audience directly could have felt gimmicky in lesser hands, but Spacey (in his first collaboration with Fincher since Se7en) nails it each and everytime. Owning the role from minute one, he very quickly he makes it impossible to imagine anyone else as Frank Underwood.

But that’s not to say House Of Cards is a one-man show. Corey Stoll stands out as the boozy congressman and Kate Mara (sister of previous Fincher muse, Rooney) is terrific as the upstart journo, while Robin Wright quietly steals the whole thing as Frank’s equally calculating wife. There really isn’t a bum note, however, as the performances throughout – from the aforementioned star turns to the smaller bit parts – are nuanced, crafted and impeccably well-judged. Much like the show itself.

Verdict

While the pre-release chatter centred on the unusual method of distribution, House Of Cards deserves to be recognised for its quality. Smart, riveting and brimming with HBO-like quality, it’s a handsome, slow-burn drama worth voting for.

Midway through Arrested Development’s second season, the absurdity quotient was turned up by a frozen banana or two. On one hand, this yielded some inspired, Bluth-powered lunacy, but on the other it also resulted in the show’s first real missteps. Largely more of the same, season three continues down this path like Gob whizzing past on his trusty segway, combining the usual assortment of knowing in-jokes and brilliant foreshadowing with some undoubtedly weaker material (most notably, the British stuff).

But even at its weakest, Arrested Development is still smarter and funnier than most sitcoms. As mentioned, season three contains some of the show’s lesser material, but it also boasts some of the best. Highlights include George Sr. (Jeffrey Tambor, arguably the MVP) hiring a surrogate while under house arrest; Tobias’ ongoing ignorance to his unintentional double-entendres (asked if he’s buying or just curious, he responds “I suppose I’m buy-curious”); and the ingeniously-named lawyer, Bob Loblaw (say it out loud). In the end, the ever-dangling cancellation axe fell anyway, but the final handful of episodes are up there with the show’s best.

While the third and final season of Starz’s flagship hit delivers the usual stylish orgy of blood and boobs, it does so on a much bigger canvas. Widening its scope, War Of The Damned sees Spartacus (Liam McIntyre) and his newly-amassed army of rebels marching on Rome, opposed by both a cunning nobleman (Simon Merrells) and a young Julius Caesar (Todd Lasance).

As ever, there’s plenty of hyper-stylised violence and gratuitous nudity, with the succession of mini-wars and battles providing enough inventive, slow-motion kill shots to last a lifetime. By this stage, it’s easy to have grown somewhat desensitised to the constant carnage, but there’s no doubting how epic and cinematic the show manages to look on a consistent basis. Especially on a relatively small TV budget. Ultimately, the body-strewn battlefield clashes aren’t nearly as interesting as the master-slave politics of earlier seasons, but they’re eventful and strikingly realised, while the final instalment provides us with a rousing and well-judged full-stop.

As our hero, the lantern-jawed Liam McIntyre has grown into the loincloth once owned by Andy Whitfield (who tragically lost his battle with cancer two years ago), but the latter’s commanding presence is still missed. Likewise, both Merrells and Lasance are decent enough villains, but even combined they’re not half as much fun as John Hannah’s sweary slave-owner once was.

Let’s get one thing straight: Derek isn’t a mean-spirited piss-take which mocks the mentally ill. That’s just a preconceived notion from Ricky Gervais haters who jump on any half-morsel of controversy he throws their way. Set in a tranquil nursing home, it’s actually about the virtue of kindness, as typified by Gervais’ titular figure, Derek Noakes, a good-hearted care worker with learning difficulties and a penchant for cardigans.

That said, it’s not entirely successful. Though gentle and well-observed at times, it’s also flat and somewhat heavy-handed at others, while the writing isn’t nearly as elegant or subtle as Gervais’ best work. On one hand, the sincere approach yields a few surprisingly affecting moments (this writer welled up once or twice), yet on the other the drama occasionally veers into manipulative territory (cue a Coldplay-assisted montage).

But while Derek isn’t exactly what you’d call a return to form for the man who gifted us The Office, it’s far more rewarding and likeable than his previous misfire, Life’s Too Short. Admittedly, there isn’t a huge amount in the way of laughs, but you get the feeling this wasn’t a top priority for Gervais. His first TV project without usual wing-man Steve Merchant, it’s more of a bittersweet dramedy with low-key humour than an out-and-out comedy, realised with the same mockumentary format the pair used to bring Wernham Hogg to life.

This being the case, you could argue that Gervais shouldn’t have cast himself, given that he’s far too recognisable to be accepted as part of a ‘realistic’ documentary. Regardless, the former Brentmeister General delivers a far more nuanced performance than his physical appearance might suggest, although the shuffling and jaw-jutting does feel a touch broad on occasion. Likewise, buddy Karl Pilkington is far better than you’re probably expecting, even if he’s essentially playing a heightened version of himself in a distractingly bad wig. Kerry Godliman, though, is by far the best thing about the show, while her home manager Hannah provides further proof that Gervais doesn’t get enough credit for his female characters.

Plot

After several months on the road, Rick (Lincoln) and the survivors take refuge in an abandoned prison. Nearby, a man known as The Governor (Morrissey) is in command of Woodbury, a small, fortified town which offers safe haven from walkers. But The Governor and his people aren’t nearly as welcoming as they seem, leaving Rick and the others with more to worry about than the undead…

Review

Now that’s more like it. After two years of ambling between the sort of gripping zombie drama we wanted and so much chatty downtime that you could’ve renamed it The Talking Dead, AMC’s survival serial finally find its groove in season three. A huge, notable improvement, the first full year without developer Frank ‘Shawshank Redemption‘ Darabont is also the best yet, with new boss Glen Mazzara making all kinds of great decisions. Having clearly taken stock, Mazzara and his writers set about course correcting with a sense of self-awareness. Lori admits to being a bad wife and mother, deadweight characters are killed off in dramatic fashion, a few previous favourites are brought back (Michael Rooker!), and the walker-strewn prison makes for a better setting than Hershel’s sleepy farm.

Okay, so a few of the supporting players remain uninteresting and the finale isn’t a patch on last year’s farm invasion. But on the whole, season three is more urgent and exciting on a regular basis, with such an increase in zombie action that previous budget concerns must be a thing of the past (more walkers are killed in the first episode alone than the whole of season one). Opening with a strong run of instalments, there are some genuine gut-punch moments (such as the end of episode four), while Andrew Lincoln, who’s really grown into the role, gets far more interesting material as his de facto leader struggles under the burdensome weight of his Ricktatorship.

Disappointingly, fan-favourite Michonne (Danai Gurira) never lives up to the promising intro she received during the previous finale, rarely offering more than a scowl and some sword-based slicing. David Morrissey’s Governor, on the other hand, makes for a show-elevating addition, providing us with a fascinating antagonist who brings a different kind of threat to the table. Keep an eye out for him.

Verdict

A huge, notable improvement, season three sees The Walking Dead find its groove and become the show we’ve always wanted it to be. Well, mostly.

While the second season of Mitch Hurwitz’s knowing sit-com isn’t as outstanding as the first, it still delivers a self-aware cocktail of running jokes, clever lines and terrific gag foreshadowing. Indeed, the way that seemingly random happenings dovetail into important plot points is consistently impressive. See, for example, how Buster gets his hand chopped off by a loose seal after dating Lucille II (get it?), in addition to the hand-related comments he’d made in previous episodes. While most comedies build jokes through an episode, Arrested Development also builds them through a season.

Truth be told, the season does suffer from a lesser second half which goes over the top too often. Round about the episode where Martin Short guests as an invalid millionaire (which Hurwitz identifies as the point they “crossed the line”), the show gets more and more absurd on a regular basis, with a few ongoing gags which feel like overly broad missteps (see Tobias as a Mrs Doubtfire-esque Nanny). Still, the cast is fantastic throughout, from Jason Bateman’s straight man all the way down. Most of the praise is usually directed at Will Arnett’s dramatic magician and David Cross’ asexual actor, but the likes of Portia De Rossi and Jeffrey Tambor steal scenes for fun, while Jessica Walters’ hyper-critical lush might just be the best of the lot.

Over the course of four hypnotic seasons, Mad Men has won oodles of deserving critical praise while establishing itself as the classiest drama on the box. Returning to our screens after an agonising 18-month hiatus, Matthew Weiner’s period piece might have moved from BBC Four to Sky Atlantic, but it delivered another spellbinding cocktail of top-drawer writing, sublime performances and sumptuous retro style.

The theme of season five was change. Given that the show was initially defined by its drab post-War sensibilities, it was always going to be interesting to see how it adjusted to changing times. But Mad Men has always been about far more than sexism, racist behaviour and consequence-free smoking, as Weiner and his capos make an effortless slide into the colourful, swinging sixties.

Accordingly, this year saw older characters starting to sense that their ‘time’ was passing in favour of the new generation. Pete, secretly unhappy with his suburban home and superficially perfect life, became the ‘new Don’. Don, marrying a much-younger secretary, became the ‘new Roger’. As always, there were surprising scenes (Lane and Pete’s smackdown), unpredictable developments (Betty got fat!) and affecting moments (Don kissing Peggy’s hand), all wrapped up in the immaculate craftsmanship we now take for granted.

Though Spartacus: Blood And Sand eventually blossomed into an enjoyable guilty pleasure which should’ve been called Spartacus: Blood, Sand And Boobs, a follow-up season was delayed when magnetic star Andy Whitfield was diagnosed with cancer. While he recovered, the producers opted for a prequel mini-series as a short-term stop-gap, allowing them the chance to bring back John Hannah’s previously-slain Batiatus and increase the amount of Jupiter’s Cock-themed swearing in the process. With Whitfield tragically losing his battle, however, the show is forced to return without Hannah or him, leaving its third year with two gaping holes at the centre.

Liam McIntyre is fine as the man asked to step into Whitfield’s sandals and loincloth, but he doesn’t have the same commanding presence. In fairness, it doesn’t help that ‘this’ Spartacus is given less focus with the show evolving into more of an ensemble. But while Whitfield inspired droughts to end while bringing gravity to the smaller moments, McIntyre is left handing out variations on the same speech to a bunch of forgettable supporting characters. Moreover, his story has lost momentum after an ill-fated two year gap, whilst all the thrusting, stabbing and spraying (in both senses) isn’t nearly as potent as it once was.

If this makes Spartacus: Vengeance sound like it’s descended into unwatchable territory, it hasn’t. It’s just that after three seasons you grow desensitised to all the blood-spilling ultra-violence and slow-mo carnage. With Spartacus and his fellow rebels on the run after escaping from the gladiatorial training school, the show deserves praise for widening its scope. Unfortunately, though, the ludus made for a far more interesting backdrop, while most of the characters feel adrift without the master-and-servant politics of gladiator training (see Peter Mensah’s not-Doctore-anymore Oenomaus and Manu Bennett’s Crixus). Still, there are a few welcome surprise returns, and there’s nothing to say that next season can’t get back on track.

Returning with the same glossy-but-likeable cocktail of knotty lawyering, impeccable tailoring and occasionally overdone movie references, the second season of Aaron Korsch’s courtroom-less legal drama is largely more of the same. Where season one’s narrative throughline concerned Mike Secret – IE, that he didn’t actually go to Harvard – this time the overarching storyline revolves around the return of firm founder Daniel Hardman (David Costabile), which shakes things up nicely. How so? Well Costabile makes for an excellent addition / nemesis as the ambiguously untrustworthy Hardman, while the ongoing focus on mergers, takeovers and control of the firm means the show is less case-of-the-week than last time. Again, sniffy viewers will dismiss it and there’s little in the way of true unpredictability. But while some of the hiring-and-firing feels like musical chairs for the sake of drama, Suits is still morish and cool. Patrick J. Adams and Gabriel Macht continue to offer an entertaining bromance (see the look on Harvey’s face when Mike goes for a fist-bump), while Sarah Rafferty (as Harvey’s assistant) and Rick Hoffman (as the firm’s black sheep) steal scenes for fun. Addictive stuff.

With everything up for grabs in the season four finale, creator Kurt Sutter was faced with a choice: take a risk by shaking up the status quo or watch the show grow stale by pressing the reset button. Happily, he opted for the former option, with Jax taking the gavel from a weakened Clay, who’s now on the outs with both Gemma and the Club. Refreshed by this shake-up, the fifth season of Sons Of Anarchy is as strong as the show’s ever been, with the changes allowing Sutter to play with new character dynamics to interesting effect. Jax as the leader, Clay as new Piney, Gemma replaced by Tara, it’s all change. Next thing you know, Opie will be cracking a smile.

At times, sure, there’s a lot of plot. With Jax caught between IRA gun runners, a Mexican drug cartel, the local police, an existing RICO case, Clay, his mother and a dapper black crime lord (Harold Perrineau – finally finding a good role post-Lost) wanting revenge, it can get a bit tangled. For the most part, though, Sutter juggles and interweaves the threads masterfully, while keeping us gripped with spicy developments and intense moments (see Tig forced to watch a burning or Jax helplessly watching as one of his men is beaten to death). Jimmy Smits is a predictably great new asset as a pimp (sorry – “Companionator”) who serves as an ally to the club and a love interest for Gemma, but it’s the regulars who make Sons Of Anarchy what it is. Walton Goggins, meanwhile, pops up in an unforgettable cameo as a busty transvestite. The climax might be a touch underwhelming, but we’re still eager to see where Sutter takes the club next.