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HIS PRINCESS FROM NOWHERE is a series that understands exactly how intriguing its own existence is. It knows it’s operating inside a format most people dismiss for anything more than doomscrolling. It knows the assumptions inherent in the vertical video format. And instead of fighting those assumptions or pretending they don’t exist, it quietly reshapes them into part of the experience. This isn’t trying to trick you into forgetting you’re watching something made for a phone. It’s inviting you to feel why that confinement matters.

Some shows make an impact by being cynical, or relentlessly bleak, and then there are shows like TED LASSO — the rare production that chooses warmth and humor without sacrificing sincerity. Revisiting the entire series in this 4K collection highlights just how carefully the show builds its emotion. The upgrade is welcome, but it’s the writing, performances, and character arcs that make this package worth owning. The story still stands firmly at the center.

TOWNSEND approaches therapy from an unusual angle, turning the concept inward and making the therapist the one searching for answers. The show follows Dr. Patrick Townsend, a celebrity psychologist whose life has publicly fallen apart. Instead of rebuilding his credibility through a redemption arc, the pilot puts him in a space where he’s questioning everything he used to present as expert guidance. It carries a dry, irreverent sense of humor that acknowledges how strange it can be when a person trained to guide others must confront his own lack of clarity.

THE HANDMAID’S TALE always carried a specific goal, but experiencing all six seasons together intensifies how its atmosphere of dread became its greatest tool and, later, its toughest limitation. The vision defined the early seasons; they weren’t content with simply imagining a collapsed America but actively interrogated how a society with democratic roots could break itself into something monstrous. This isn't just a setting—it’s an autopsy report. The first season, especially, remains one of the strongest debuts in modern television, propelled by the raw immediacy of Elisabeth Moss’ performance. She built June Osborne not as a symbol of rebellion from the outset, but as someone dragged toward resistance through repeated psychological and physical shattering. (The irony is how familiar many aspects of the series look to the real world we’re living in.)

The third season of THE GILDED AGE offers the confidence of a series that has settled into its identity. The world is grounded, the characters established, and the show is no longer working to convince the audience of its worth. Instead, this season focuses on escalation. The aftermath of the Opera War leaves the old order weakened, and the Russells step into the vacuum with a level of determination that transforms the social landscape of 1880s New York. The tension between tradition and progress has always been the backbone of this series, but Season 3 pushes those contrasts further, showing how ambition can reshape an entire community.

There’s a particular comfort in a series that knows exactly where it wants to stand from the moment it starts. ART DETECTIVES positions itself in that space where charm meets well-built cases, letting its mysteries feel grounded without being bleak. Instead of leaning on shock or cynicism, it trades in curiosity — the pull of art history, the tension of hidden motives, and the strange ways priceless objects can warp otherwise reasonable lives. With that foundation, the series lands securely in the cozy-crime sphere, but with just enough edge to keep its stories from fading into formula.

Season 3 of THE WALKING DEAD: DARYL DIXON wastes no time reminding you why these characters earned such longevity in the first place. There’s a confidence to this chapter, the kind that only emerges when a series knows its identity and trusts its cast to carry emotion without forcing spectacle. The return of Carol makes this even clearer; she doesn’t simply rejoin the story — she reorients it. The season carries the energy of a long-delayed conversation finally happening, the kind that personalizes every step Daryl and Carol take across a Europe that feels both expansive and claustrophobic. There’s real comfort in their reunion, but also an earned tension in how differently they’re approaching the idea of “home,” turning what could have been straightforward fan service into something richer.

ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL enters its sixth season with the confidence of a series that knows exactly what it represents: a calm breath in an increasingly chaotic world. What makes this chapter particularly compelling is the way it folds lingering wartime tension into the daily rhythms of life in the Yorkshire Dales. There is no attempt to turn the series into a sweeping historical epic. Instead, it remains grounded in the homes, farms, surgeries, losses, and repairs that shape its characters’ lives. That restraint is part of why the show continues to work as well as it does. This season understands that healing rarely arrives all at once; it emerges in pieces, often through quiet moments rather than dramatic revelations.

TALES OF THE WALKING DEAD takes a franchise that has been running for over a decade and asks a simple question: what else can this world hold? Instead of tracking one group of survivors week after week, this anthology tells six self-contained stories set at different points after the outbreak, with distinct tones, locations, and a rotating cast of familiar and new faces. On paper, it’s exactly what this universe needed: permission to experiment. On screen, the result lands firmly in that middle category where ambition is undeniable, individual episodes stand out, but the season as a whole never quite becomes essential.

Sebastian Maniscalco’s latest stand-up special, filmed at the United Center in Chicago, feels like an artist out of sync with the world he’s performing in. For a comic who once thrived on observational precision—mocking modern quirks and social absurdities with sharp hits—IT AIN’T RIGHT instead comes across as a relic from an earlier era of stand-up. The polish is there, the energy is undeniable, but the content feels more like a time capsule from the 2000s than a reflection of 2025.

Some older television physical media releases feel like nostalgia pieces; others feel like a long-overdue act of preservation. ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS: THE LEGACY COLLECTION is firmly in the second category. This enormous 34-disc set doesn’t simply gather random episodes—it restores a landmark in television history. It reminds viewers just how ahead of the curve Hitchcock was in shaping the anthology format. In all my years since creating Overly Honest Reviews, I’ve covered countless restorations from boutique labels, but few releases arrive with this level of scale and cultural weight. This isn’t an accessory to Hitchcock’s filmography; it’s a foundational pillar that helped define suspense storytelling on television, and this box set treats it that way.

From the opening gunshot echoing across the Aegean, THE ASSASSIN makes one thing clear — this isn’t your standard spy thriller. Keeley Hawes stars as Julie, a retired contract killer trying to live quietly on a sun-drenched Greek island, only for her estranged son Edward (Freddie Highmore) to arrive with questions that crack open her carefully sealed past. What begins as an awkward family reunion quickly unravels into an international chase, testing both their survival skills and their ability to trust each other.

THE MIGHTY NEIN marks the next step for Critical Role’s expanding universe. Following the success of THE LEGEND OF VOX MACHINA, this animated adaptation of the tabletop campaign dives headfirst into darker, stranger, and more emotionally complex territory. Where VOX MACHINA leaned on boisterous energy and humor, THE MIGHTY NEIN sharpens its focus on fractured characters and the messy “humanity” behind their heroics. The result is an eight-episode first season that balances adventure, absurdity, and anguish in equal measure.

Season Eight of RICK AND MORTY proves that even interdimensional brilliance can hit a bit of a snag (relative to its norms). The show’s identity is so deeply ingrained in pop culture that its latest chapter feels almost self-aware of its own longevity. Every explosion, philosophical quip, and dissection of family dysfunction feels polished but routine, as though the creators are revisiting once-revolutionary ideas that now function more as comfort food than daring innovation.

Prime Video clearly wants to broaden the entry points into Gotham, and BAT-FAM embraces that idea with both arms and a batarang. Carrying forward the energy of the holiday special MERRY LITTLE BATMAN, the series shifts into a more episodic rhythm — family first, crime-fighting second, and comedy leading the charge. It’s a tonal departure from the brooding Batman mythos most fans know, but that’s the point: this isn’t a story about The Dark Knight lurking in the shadows. It’s about a father trying to make breakfast while supervillains lurk outside — often at the same time.

DOWN CEMETERY ROAD is like a lingering echo — soft, deliberate, and full of buried truths that refuse to stay hidden. Apple TV+ continues its fascination with morally complex thrillers by adapting Mick Herron’s debut novel, turning the sleepy streets of Oxford into a stage for obsession, guilt, and reckoning. It’s something slower and heavier — a meditation disguised as a mystery.

In BROADWAY BOOKS: THE TIPPING POINT, writer-director Carianne King transforms the crumbling foundations of retail culture into the setting for one of the most self-aware and quietly hilarious pilots of the year. Set in a Manhattan bookstore caught between gentrification and extinction, it captures that unmistakable New York energy where hope and futility share the same shelf. It’s a series born from the trenches of part-time jobs, artistic compromise, and that singular mix of intellectual pride and exhaustion familiar to anyone who’s ever spent a paycheck on coffee and a book instead of rent.

ANNE RICE’S TALAMASCA: THE SECRET ORDER shows up with an unusual mission: to expand Rice’s Immortal Universe beyond its familiar bloodlines and covens, into the minds of those who’ve spent centuries watching from the shadows. It’s part gothic mystery, part supernatural espionage thriller — and against all odds, it mostly works. This six-episode series finds a balance between character-driven tension and world-expanding spectacle, creating something that feels both familiar and new around every corner.

DEVIL IN DISGUISE: JOHN WAYNE GACY makes an early promise—it’s not here to mythologize a murderer. It’s here to look at the people left behind, the ones who refused to stop asking questions. Instead of another “monster study,” the series reframes the story through victims’ families, determined investigators, and a city that failed to see what was in plain sight. It’s a patient, unsensationalized retelling that trades spectacle for consequence, and in doing so, finds a rare kind of power: empathy without indulgence. (There’s still plenty of Gacy for the diehards out there, and I would argue this was one of the most chilling portrayals put to screen.)

There’s a reason the Peanuts holiday specials burrow so deeply into memory: they treat childhood with the seriousness it deserves. Underneath Snoopy’s doghouse theatrics and Lucy’s sarcasm is a worldview that accepts disappointment and still chooses kindness. PEANUTS: 75TH ANNIVERSARY ULTIMATE TV SPECIALS COLLECTION captures that tone across forty remastered TV specials, wrapping decades of televised memories into a single set. It’s less a “product” than a trip on nostalgia—the kind of release that restores a family tradition.

SOLAR OPPOSITES: SEASON 6 arrives knowing it’s the end, and that shapes everything from the opening jokes to the final note. Stripping the family of its diamond-making machine is the right constraint for a show that’s often delighted in wild gadgetry—by putting the brakes on unlimited sci-fi spending, the season forces Terry, Korvo, Jesse, and Yumyulack to face who they are without instant fixes. It’s a clever narrative throttle: when you can’t buy your way out of a mess, you either adapt or implode. Across ten episodes, the series' final season leans into that mandate with tighter episodes, meaner in the best way, and surprisingly reflective without losing the show’s signature energy.

The story is simple, but the execution walks a tightrope: MURDAUGH: DEATH IN THE FAMILY dramatizes a well-documented tragedy without pretending the audience is coming in cold. That changes how suspense functions. Instead of asking what happened, the show keeps asking why and how—how influence hardens into impunity, how denial becomes a survival tactic, how a community can be both complicit and wounded by the same story. Grounding those questions is a character-forward approach that turns headlines into a lived-in world.

ROBOT CHICKEN has always been a sugar-rush of stop-motion mayhem—blink and an entire sketch can go off the rails. Collected as a complete-series set, the show’s two decades crystallize into a collection of pop-culture obsessions: toys, comics, late-night TV, forgotten cereal mascots, video-game NPCs, and every blockbuster myth we’ve collectively carried around since childhood. The stop-motion craft, the tactile charm of roughed up action figures, the caffeinated timing—none of it should age well, and yet it does, because the core is specificity. The jokes don’t just reference the satire; they reconstruct tiny universes with the zeal of kids on a bedroom floor at 2 a.m., then torch them for a punchline.