It’s difficult to describe Mrs. Davis without sounding a little bit insane. It is, after all, a sci-fi series that takes on the spiritual and the technological with an irreverent tone. It’s hilarious and action-packed, meta and ambitious, and it’s all led by a devoted nun taking down an all-knowing AI. 

Believe me when I say there’s nothing quite like it at the moment, and it gets major props for being truly out of this world. But Mrs. Davis doesn’t get by on novelty alone. It’s a balanced piece of work, impressively stable despite the weight of all it’s trying to be, and it soars as both a satire, a thriller, and a genre show. It also keeps you guessing with each new scene, so if you like to be kept on your toes at all times, then this funny, fantastical, and wholly absurd show will surely be an enjoyable watch.

It’s hard to shock viewers nowadays, with TV being saturated with every type of show imaginable. But Am I Being Unreasonable? succeeds at standing out with deceptive simplicity. The six-part series asks us to follow Nic (Daisy May Cooper) and Jen (Selin Hizli), seemingly ordinary mothers living seemingly ordinary lives. Predictably, it starts with their midlife malaise, but the more we learn about the pair, the more complex and fearsome they become, and the more it becomes clear how difficult it is to know (and much less trust) another person. 

The show swerves from drama to comedy to romance to horror all in a flash, and in lesser hands these changes can be frustrating and jarring. But here they feel welcome and fresh, thanks in large part to confident direction, a whipsmart script, and the wonderful relationship that forms between Nic and Jen. Every twist feels justified and every genre shift feels ingenious. Like its leads, Am I Being Unreasonable? can seem simple at first, but it dives into unexpected depths with every new episode.

Boots Riley established himself as a wildly creative voice with 2018’s zany anti-capitalist satire Sorry To Bother You, and with his second project, he digs his heels even deeper into that singular approach. I’m A Virgo’s world feels deeply uncanny yet intimately familiar, what with its absurdly militarised authority figures, dog-whistling media, and greed-driven economy. It’s set in Oakland, where 13-foot Black teenager Cootie (Jharrel Jerome) lives in secrecy with his normal-sized family. Frustrated, Cootie decides to venture into the outside world, but he’s soon exploited, projected onto, and demonized. However, it’s also not long before he makes his first friends, falls in love, and unlearns everything he thought he knew about the world.

The biggest revelation is that Cootie’s favorite superhero, an Iron Man-esque billionaire called The Hero (Walton Goggins), isn’t actually doing good by enforcing the law to the letter. Though it takes many weird and wonderful detours, it’s this aspect of Cootie’s consciousness-widening that is the show’s ultimate destination. These radical politics give it a sharp overarching focus, meaning its mind-bending eccentricity never feels too indulgent. It all makes for a refreshingly original, gloriously weird watch that you’re guaranteed not to have seen the likes of elsewhere.

This new six-part comedy series is as razor-sharp as a vampire’s fangs, skewering everything from the horror genre’s historically iffy treatment of people of color, lazy media stereotypes of Muslims, and real-life fixtures of Islamic communities. It never feels bogged down by the weight of the issues behind it, though, always staying true to the lightness of its silly — but ingenious — concept.

The show follows the goofy Abdulla (Arian Nik), a British-Pakistani trainee doctor and horror nerd who has enough on his plate — what with an unavailable crush and the social pressures of being a not-so-perfect Muslim — without also having to contend with being turned by vampire-dominatrix Kathy (played with gusto by Jaime Winstone). Writer Kaamil Shah manages to pack an impressive amount of cutting humor into each 20-ish-minute episode, whether through Kathy railing against the appropriation of vampire culture during Halloween (presented less as an anti-woke joke and more as a wry analogy to media misrepresentation of real minorities) or a wink to Muslims about the epidemic of hypocritical haram police in our communities. This balance between universal humor and inside jokes that speak directly to — rather than over the heads of — British Muslims makes Count Abdulla a very welcome addition to TV comedy in general, as well as a refreshing widening of the horror genre.

Kevin Can F*** Himself takes on big risks by going back and forth between genres, but the move pays off. The switch from multi-cam sitcom (complete with canned laughter and too-bright colors) to single-cam drama (necessarily gritty and low-lit) is more than just some gimmick, it’s a technical feat that doubles as a precise critique of both formats. 

And beyond the smooth transitions and incredibly flexible performances lies a complex and overdue appraisal of the long-suffering wives of American sitcoms. In the brightly-lit setup of a studio comedy, Kevin (Eric Petersen) looks like the endearing man-child you put up with for the laughs, but in the grim perspective of a drama, it becomes clear that he is a harmful man who has used the trope to get away with narcism and abuse. Tired of being the butt of the joke, Allison (Annie Murphy) breaks free from the strains of her marriage but soon realizes it’s never that easy, and leaving might never be enough. The series delves into dark depths, but it’s buoyed by ambition and layered performances, making it a stunning and searing watch.

What if the 1960s space race never ended? For All Mankind imagines such a world; here, Russia’s cosmonauts arrive on the moon first, the galaxy holds resources beyond belief, and global wars have expanded in stakes and scale. More than just the final frontier, outer space is now the focal point of warring nations hungry to capitalize and claim new assets. 

For All Mankind’s out-of-this-world premise alone make it a thrilling watch, but you’ll be glad to know that the show also feels intimate and affecting thanks to its fully fleshed-out characters. If you’re looking for an epic but grounded story to lose yourself in, this is it. 

Undone is a rotoscoped, genre-bending fever dream of a show. It’s a mystery in that the lead Alma is tasked to discover the truth about her father’s death, but also a fantasy in that she bends the limitless possibilities of time and space to achieve her goal. It’s a surreal adventure bolstered by daring animation, but it remains grounded largely because of its impeccably flawed characters. At the heart of this trippy show is a woman trying and failing (and trying again) to come to terms with herself, and that’s something any one of us can get behind. 

In the hands of a lesser artist, something like The Choe Show might have come off as a vanity project or an excuse to show off one’s art and one’s thoughts about art. But David Choe seems to want the opposite: together with an eclectic mix of guests, he lays bare his most shameful feelings and hardest struggles without ever asking the audience for sympathy and forgiveness—all the while using paint and performance to carve a path toward healing and mutual understanding.

The interviews are already impressive on their own, pitched somewhere between a casual chat and an exorcism of personal demons. But it’s around these conversations about addiction, abandonment, and family trauma where the show truly comes to life. With a whole team of animators and illustrators, Choe lets every pointed statement and loaded anecdote leap off the screen. Noise, color, photographs, home video tapes, and performance art footage constantly invade what we’re watching, as if the show is being created and reinvented right before our eyes. Fun, chaotic, boundlessly imaginative, and always open to change—if that’s how it is with art, that’s how it should be with people, too.

One of the most original, underseen, and unexpectedly wholesome shows on HBO, High Maintenance spends each episode looking into the everyday lives of various New Yorkers, often with eccentric jobs or alternative lifestyles. The only thing that connects them is that they all happen to be clients of an unnamed weed dealer (played by Ben Sinclair), who becomes a witness to their ordinary joys and struggles. Barely any of the stories we get to see throughout the show’s four seasons have a traditional dramatic arc to them, but the series remains a one-of-a-kind comfort nonetheless—showing us just how colorful and interesting a mundane life can be when we have well-meaning people surrounding us. And it’s a prime example of how television should be allowed to tell stories in any form, making perfect use of the half-hour episodic format to capture these fleeting, beautiful snapshots.

From the mastermind behind Netflix’s Kingdom, Kim Eun-Hee’s Signal is an exhilarating series that seamlessly weaves together gripping crime thriller elements with an intriguing touch of supernatural. With its unique premise of a mysterious walkie-talkie that connects the past and the present, the show follows a team of detectives from different eras as they collaborate to solve cold cases and unravel the secrets behind unsolved crimes. The superb writing and exceptional performances by the cast, including Lee Je-hoon, Kim Hye-soo, and Cho Jin-Woong, have made Signal a major hit among K-Drama fans.