Adolescence isn’t a miniseries—it’s a dare. A punch to the gut of conventional storytelling.

It’s filmed in a series of unbroken, single-take episodes that feel like a tightrope walk without a net.

There are no edits to hide behind, and that’s exactly the point.

The story follows Jamie Miller, a 13-year-old accused of murdering a classmate, but the camera never gives you the distance to settle into comfort or detachment.

Directed by Philip Barantini (of Boiling Point fame), the show starts like a documentary and spirals into something much more intimate and haunting.

You don’t watch Adolescence—you endure it.

The opening scene, for instance, tracks police officers entering Jamie’s home in a fluid, continuous shot that threads through bedrooms, hallways, and panic.

It’s dizzying and intentional. Every moment is lived in real time, which means you feel every second of the dread.

And when the camera latches onto Jamie’s face—played by newcomer Owen Cooper—you can’t look away.

Cooper’s performance is unreal. He captures the fear, confusion, and numbness of a boy swallowed by systems he doesn’t understand.

But the show’s most jaw-dropping moment happens in Episode 2.

Midway through, the camera exits the school with Jamie, transitions onto a drone in-scene, and flies a third of a mile across the town to land at a police station—before reattaching to a Steadicam without a single visible cut.

It is, technically speaking, ridiculous.

That kind of choreography would crumble under one missed mark, one fumbled line, one late cue.

But it doesn’t.

According to interviews with the crew, they used a custom drone and a gimbal handoff mid-shot, coordinating dozens of extras and camera operators in precise timing.

That’s not just flashy—it’s deeply functional.

Stephen Graham is ferocious as Jamie’s father, Eddie—his performance flinches with rage, grief, and helpless love.

And Erin Doherty, as the psychologist trying to pull the truth from Jamie, gives the series its wary moral spine.

The show’s visuals don’t allow retreat, and neither does its narrative.

Barantini’s choice to forgo cuts doesn’t just serve aesthetics—it traps us in the moment, just like the characters.

Adolescence is less about crime and more about corrosion—of identity, of family, of innocence.

This is a series that leaves marks. Not because it shouts, but because it refuses to blink.

And neither will you.

Severance, now in its second year, returned with a finale that was bold, emotional, and at times, brilliant. But it wasn’t really a finale.

It had the pacing of a strong mid-season episode and the emotional pull of a season starter. The plot advanced, sure, but not in the propulsive way a true finale demands.

No cliffhanger was truly gutting. No resolution was satisfying enough to be called earned. It was a strong episode that simply didn’t carry the weight of finality. Instead, it settled into something quieter, stranger, and more reflective.

One of the most memorable moments came when Mark—played with remarkable control and precision by Adam Scott—had a conversation with himself. “Innie” Mark met “Outie” Mark in a moment that, while brief, felt like a kind of breakthrough.

Scott pulled off something rare—two versions of the same man, both vulnerable, both incomplete, both deeply human. The scene hit like a whisper in a thunderstorm. It felt like a step forward for the series emotionally.

Then came the marching band. An actual, full-dress, brass-blaring, baton-twirling marching band.

Led by Mr. Milchick (Tramell Tillman, still delightfully unnerving), the band marched through the sterile halls of Lumon in a moment that was both absurd and beautiful.

It was pure Severance—bizarre, unexplainable, and completely mesmerizing. The sequence didn’t clarify anything. It might have just been a detour. Or maybe a distraction.

But it was executed with such conviction and visual flair that it elevated the entire episode. That’s the magic of the show: even its non-answers are unforgettable.

Still, you can play coy for only so long. The finale, for all its style and substance, didn’t land with the authority a closer should. There was no narrative exhale, no sense that anything had truly ended. Questions piled up. And while not every enigma needs a solution, some do. And two seasons in, the audience deserves at least a few.

What is Lumon Industries truly planning with the severance procedure? Why has Gemma been severed dozens of times? What’s with the sacrificial goat ritual, and how does it relate to Lumon’s experiments?  What did Dr. Mauer mean when he warned Mark and Gemma, “You’ll kill them all!”?

Lingering mysteries add to the show’s allure, but also test the patience of viewers seeking closure.

Still, it’s hard to stay mad when the show is this well-crafted.

Visually, it remains Kubrick in TV form—clean, cold, eerily symmetrical.

Emotionally, it hits when it wants to, especially in moments of silence and stillness. The writing is sharp, withholding, and exacting. The acting—especially from Scott, Britt Lower, and Tillman—is top-tier television.

So yes, the finale stumbled where it should have sprinted. But Severance remains the best show on television.

Even when it frustrates, it fascinates. Even when it misfires, it mesmerizes. Season Two didn’t stick the landing, but it stuck with you. And that’s enough—for now.

In television’s heyday, we got antiheroes like Tony Soprano, Walter White, Don Draper, and Saul Goodman. Now, you can add Ray Shoesmith to the list.

Each of those characters follows a familiar trajectory: a slow descent into ego-driven destruction, often culminating in a tragic downfall. The antihero story is an Ozymandias tale—ambition, hubris, and ultimately, ruin.

But Mr Inbetween subverts this in a way few shows have. Ray Shoesmith, its protagonist, is the greatest antihero you’ve never heard of because he doesn’t change.

Played by the show’s creator, Scott Ryan, Ray is a hitman, a father, and an ex-husband who operates with a level of self-awareness that most antiheroes lack.

He knows who he is and never fights it. He doesn’t justify or excuse his choices. He handles business when it needs handling and then goes home to read bedtime stories to his daughter.

Unlike Walter White, whose transformation from desperate teacher to ruthless kingpin was fueled by ego, or Tony Soprano, who spent years in therapy dancing around his own toxicity, Ray is refreshingly simple.

Ray does bad things, but he isn’t conflicted about them. He’ll just as easily beat a man half to death as he will crack a joke about it later. And sometimes, he’ll admit that violence is the answer.

That level of detachment makes Mr Inbetween a rare find. The show never indulges in the melodrama that defines most crime sagas. It doesn’t rely on elaborate plot twists or high-stakes betrayals.

The series simply presents a man who is very good at what he does, living his life in a way that feels almost mundane. The show’s humor, often delivered in the most casual of moments, makes Ray all the more likable.

He’s a killer, but he’s funny. He’s dangerous, but he’s polite. He has an anger problem, but sometimes that works in his favor.

His relationships are what make him truly fascinating. He has a strict moral code, though it only applies to the people he cares about. His best friend, Gary, is a lovable screw-up who constantly gets himself into trouble. Ray protects him, even as he scolds him. His relationship with his brother, who suffers from a degenerative disease, reveals a softer side, but never in an over-the-top way.

His role as a father is perhaps his most defining trait—he loves his daughter unconditionally, but he also teaches her that the world is not kind. In one particularly telling moment, he instructs her to handle a bully not by reporting it, but by standing up for herself. He doesn’t believe in turning the other cheek.

Despite critical acclaim and a devoted cult following, Mr Inbetween never gained the mass recognition of Breaking Bad or The Sopranos. Maybe because it never asks for it.

The show ended on its own terms after three seasons, avoiding the mistake of dragging its story into unnecessary complexity. And just like Ray, it remained consistent.

No grand spectacle, no moral reckoning, no fall from grace. Just a man who knew who he was from the beginning and never pretended otherwise.