In Under the Banner of Heaven, Andrew Garfield plays Detective Jeb Pyre, a devout Mormon whose faith is shaken when he takes up a violent case that involves his church. When he discovers the gruesome death of a fellow worshipper and her 15-month-old child, he is driven mad by the choices he needs to make about his faith, his family, and the threat of fundamentalism these two pillars present. Terrifying and compelling, Under the Banner of Heaven is not for the weak-hearted, but it is recommended to anyone up for a good, challenging watch. 

After having just lost her sister Holly, Sam (Bridget Everett) is in a bit of a midlife crisis. Work feels meaningless, singing doesn’t bring as much joy as it used to, and her family isn’t exactly the most supportive bunch out there. When a colleague introduces Sam to his friends (a lively, welcoming group of choir singers), she slowly regains hope and even confidence to start a new life in her 40s.  

Produced by the comedic Duplass brothers, Somebody Somewhere finds joy in everyday life. Office gossip provides respite at work, local talents transform into stars during choir practice, and drive-thrus for coffee become stalking escapades to find out if Sam’s brother-in-law is a drug dealer. This slice-of-life journey is at once funny and poignant, as well as incredibly perceptive about issues like grief and depression. Everett was most known for her stand-up and comedic sketches, but after her turn as Sam, she’ll no doubt make a name for herself as one of the most layered and nuanced actresses of her generation. 

Stills and synopses of The Summer I Turned Pretty make it seem like typical teenage fluff. It isn’t. Sure, it starts off cheesy and predictable, but it quickly blossoms into something rich and earnest and far more significant than the sum of its parts. The love triangle is merely a jumping-off point to better understand these flawed characters and the people around them. Outside of Belly’s coming-of-age journey, there is her brother who encounters a rude awakening on race and class, and their mother who, fresh from a divorce, attempts to establish an identity of her own. Everyone has their own thing going on in this series, so it’s easy to feel invested in their fleshed-out failures and triumphs. 

It also feels authentically young; the music sounds like it was curated by an actual teenager, while the performances are raw and believable, not stilted and forced as it often is with teen series. The Summer I Turned Pretty is familiar, but comfortingly so. Watch this if you’re yearning to re-live the magical, heartbreaking feeling of being young and in love for the first time. 

Between HBO’s The Rehearsal and Peacock’s Paul T. Goldman, it would seem that genre-bending reality-based shows are having a moment. Among the more lighthearted and enjoyable ones out there is Jury Duty, which follows a trial involving improvisational actors, save for one: Ronald Gladden, a friendly everyman who has yet to realize that everything around him, from the inane case to his oddball co-jurors, is fake. Every now and then though, thanks to the sheer ridiculousness of it all, Ronald looks like he’s at the cusp of figuring it out, but the guy (bless his soul) is just too damn nice to get there. 

And that’s what makes Jury Duty so watchable. It finds a heart in the ever-hopeful Ronald who, as the appointed foreman, goes out of his way to help his fellow jurors. Whether that means reading a script with James Marsden (who plays a hilariously narcissistic version of himself here), building up nerdy genius Todd’s confidence, or even just encouraging ol’ Barbara to stay awake, he’s there every step of the way. More than just laugh at Ronald’s ignorance, we’re also asked to look at his capacity for caring for people, which makes Jury Duty not just funny and experimental, but unexpectedly endearing as well. If you’re looking for a show that’s both easy and eccentric, familiar and new, then you should put this on.

It’s hard not to roll your eyes at what looks like yet another white-centered story set in a foreign land. But Tokyo Vice, thankfully, is hardly that. Co-produced by crime drama auteur Michael Mann (Heat, Collateral, Miami Vice), the HBO series is a stylishly thrilling and comprehensive look at the yakuza crime ring running Tokyo from the underground.

Ansel Elgort’s Jake, an investigative journalist, may be our way in, but it’s the rest of the characters who grip our interest. They’re gangster tropes fleshed out with rich and complicated backstories. Ken Watanabe’s Katagiri is a hardboiled detective—so effectively cool and scary—who you’d like to believe is good, but also has his own secrets lurking in the shadows. Rachel Keller’s Samantha is a sultry hostess who, unlike in mob films past, actually has character, motivation, and specific problems she figures out on her own. Sato (Sho Kasamatsu) and Emi (Rinko Kikuchi), Jake’s yakuza friend and newspaper editor respectively, are also given stories that genuinely intrigue and compel on their own.

Lit by Tokyo’s neon glow and set to Mann’s signature fast pace, this is a series not to be missed by action-crime fans.

True crime documentaries have had a bit of a sensationalist streak in recent years, but thankfully, Never Let Him Go never stoops to that level. It knows, respects, and empathizes with Scott Johnson and his family, who, for 30 years have relentlessly sought answers as to how and why, exactly, Scott died the way he did. An American prodigy studying in Australia, Scott had a bright future ahead of him. But it was cut short when his body was found at the bottom of a cliff, naked and mutilated, with police concluding simply that Scott had committed suicide. Over the course of decades, however, multiple leads would come up that suggest Scott could’ve been one of the many hate crime victims whose violent and bias-motivated end went unacknowledged. In four efficiently edited, objectively studied yet emotionally told episodes, Never Let Him Go tracks this years-long affair and studies how it evolved from a simple unresolved mystery to a landmark case that exposes not just the sorry state the LGBTQ community was subjected to, but the complicated bureaucracy that comes with obtaining justice. 

In their ninth drama collaboration, director Park Chan-hong and writer Kim Ji-woo partner again to deliver a murder mystery in Miraculous Brothers. The first few episodes juggle multiple plotlines between the novelist, the amnesiac boy he crashes into, and the serial murders, and at first, it seems unclear what links all of them. However, as the series successfully maintains its suspense for the two driving mysteries, it also makes it easy to root for the main characters – the superpowered empath and the reluctant writer – as they seek justice for crimes committed long before. The series shines best when the two become closer, and when the developing dynamic pushes Yuk Dong-joo closer to admitting the truth.

After much anticipation, The Worst of Evil has finally been released, starting off the season with a rumble between gangs underneath Gangnam. Through neon-lit streets, grimy green-tinged windows, and dimly-lit corridors, the series brings its viewers back to the 90s criminal underworld, though with modernized choreography and fairly realistic CGI blood. This set is the arena where undercover cop Park Joon-mo has to fight, in order to gain the trust of crime boss Jung Gi-cheul. As each fight gains some goodwill from each other, and as Park’s wife enters the fray, the series promises dangerous stakes, dramatic betrayals, and thrilling fight scenes. It’s a fresh take on the undercover cop, infiltrating the gritty underworld through sheer persistence, with an added emotional twist.

Based on the Argentine novel, Thursday’s Widows is a Mexican Netflix adaptation about the shallow lives of the nouveau riche. While this adaptation changed its setting – it’s now in Mexico, long after 2001 – the series slowly reveals the ridiculous heights to which all of the affluent families would meet to achieve their luxurious lifestyles. As the series does so with one episode dedicated to each family, their absurd lifestyles reveal possible agents, motives, means, and opportunities that could explain the death of three husbands. It makes the series a compelling murder mystery, as it delves into the things only rich people could do without dire consequences.

Butter Man: The Slickest Mexican Thief has gone under the radar the same way the titular criminal has evaded capture for years. Which is quite a shame, because Él Mantequilla has the charming, slick style of heist films from decades past. Through eight parts, Emiliano Escamilla takes on multiple fake identities, five of which happen to be the main identity Escamilla takes on in each episode. It’s funny to see how Escamilla gets away with some of these disguises, especially when he gets away with pulling millions from oblivious rich people just by dumb luck. However, what makes these scams compelling is how closer these get him to his real goal: reconnecting with his father and finding out the truth. Butter Man turns the caper series into a drama centered on family, mixing fun nostalgia with some heart.