In 2024, Baby Reindeer exploded onto TV screens and dominated the global consciousness in a way few series have. For first-time showrunner Richard Gadd, there were bucketloads of awards, endless talk show appearances and even high-profile court cases to deal with. See, the main buzz about Baby Reindeer (beyond a gripping portrayal of sexual assault, depression and substance abuse) had to do with its semi-autobiographical origins. And when social media sleuths tracked down the real-life inspiration for monstrous villain-stalker Martha, she sued for $170m. Legally, Gadd’s still not allowed to talk about the details.

This is probably why Half Man, his new project, is completely fictional. Set largely in Scotland across several decades, the six-episode BBC miniseries follows two totally different step-brothers. Niall, the younger, exists at the mercy of his school bullies. Terrorised for being nerdy and gentle, he is also gay but firmly in the closet. He’s most terrified of revealing this secret to psychopathic (and homophobic) elder sibling Ruben, recently released from a juvenile detention centre for biting off someone’s nose.

After Ruben dispatches Niall’s classroom tormentors at the point of a switchblade, they become friends. Well, sort of. Ruben runs extremely hot, liable to explode into a violent rage at the merest irritation and treats Niall as you would a beloved family dog. Fondly but never equally. Occasionally, this dynamic tips over into outright abuse. When Ruben – under the impression he is rewarding Niall – brings home a girlfriend for him to forcibly lose his virginity with, it is one of the most harrowing sequences you will see all year. Despite this, Niall retains a tenderness towards Ruben that leads him to excuse his repeatedly horrendous behaviour as they grow up together.

On the whole, these early episodes are pretty average. Mitchell Robertson gives Niall a downtrodden quality, which makes him sympathetic but frustrating to root for. Whereas Stuart Campbell, who plays Ruben, mostly just shouts and swings his fists around.

Much better are the later episodes, when Jamie Bell and Gadd himself step in as thirty-something versions of the two lads. Then Gadd’s knack for creating complex, compelling characters really comes to the fore. Niall, it turns out, has a vindictive streak of his own – and Ruben’s assumed wickedness gets examined through the lens of mental illness, rather than simple good and bad. Their toxic relationship develops into a chess-like revenge game, where one’s successes and failures impact the other, slowly unravelling their motivations. It’s a bit like the classic Japanese film Rashomon, where the same story is told from different, contradictory points of view. Though in this case, the truth is self-evident – it’s more about untangling blame, guilt and at what point traumatised men should take responsibility for their actions.

Ultimately, Gadd’s served up another unpleasantly captivating drama about a flawed victim and the psychologically unstable figure that haunts them. Baby Reindeer fans will drink it down.

‘Half Man’ is streaming now on BBC iPlayer. Episodes drop weekly on Fridays

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In 2023, Netflix’s Beef came out of nowhere to scoop Emmys, Golden Globes and just about every other telly gong going. Created by Lee Sung Jin and starring Steven Yeun, this tale of road rage turned full-blown feud further fed the world’s appetite for Korean-born drama following the success of Squid Game and Parasite. Now comes a second season, morphing this from a limited series to a True Detective-style anthology. New characters. New story. New beef.

•  READ MORE: Oscar Isaac talks about supporting Green Day with his ‘90s ska band: “It was an incredible time”

The show kicks off as well-to-do couple Josh (Oscar Isaac) and Lindsay (Carey Mulligan) are at each other’s throats, smashing everything in sight. No wonder Austin (Charles Melton), who works at the luxury country club Josh manages, and his fiancée Ashley (Cailee Spaeny) are left gawping. The pair arrive to see Josh at the height of his fury and rather than get involved, they reach for a phone to start recording.

This potentially damaging video soon has Josh jumping hoops. He employs Ashley to try to convince her to delete the evidence of his vile temper. “These fucking kids don’t know who they messed with,” spits his partner-in-persuasion Lindsay, a pitch-perfect embodiment of middle-class privilege gone off the rails. But that’s just one thread in Lee’s multi-layered story that doesn’t forget the show’s roots – with Josh’s country club bankrolled by wealthy Korean businesswoman, Chairwoman Park (Youn Yuh-jung).

From the first argument, Beef season two keeps the melodrama sizzling throughout – a mazy tale of marriage, murder, cover-ups and corruption. It’s a story that builds with pressure-cooker intensity, as characters try and out-manoeuvre each other like pieces in an increasingly vicious game of chess. Sometimes, the beef is a little overdone – Ashley throwing herself from a moving car, for example – but mostly its prime cuts.

Reuniting with her Inside Llewyn Davis co-star Isaac, Mulligan hasn’t had a role this juicy in years, as a disenchanted woman fuelled by anger (“You’ve wasted my whole life,” she yells at Josh, in one of many top rants). If you’ve ever wanted to see the Promising Young Woman star yelling at a coyote or holding her own in a mass brawl, now’s your chance. Ditto watching Isaac play keyboards to a cover of Hot Chip’s ‘Over and Over’.

Melton is another stand-out, showing – as he did in films like May December and Warfare – just what a mature actor he’s turning into post Riverdale. Fans of Korean cinema will also get a kick from seeing Parasite lead Song Kang-ho as Chairwoman Park’s hubbie, a top-rated cosmetic surgeon whose own issues back in Seoul have ramifications for everyone concerned. And it’ll come as no surprise to hear that Minari’s Oscar winner Youn Yuh-jung is utterly imperious as Chairwoman Park.

While there are slightly needless pop culture nods to everything from Top Gun: Maverick to The Hunger Games  and its star “J-Law”, it remains a compelling look at ambition and avarice gone awry. With enough memorable scenes to prompt another helping – not least Carey Mulligan doing something utterly grim in an airplane toilet cubicle – Beef season two serves up another deliciously savage hunk of drama for you to sink your teeth into.

‘Beef’ season two is available to watch on Netflix now

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Biting superhero satire The Boys is easily one of Amazon Prime Video’s most popular shows with its extreme violence and characters that have launched themselves into the zeitgeist. The fifth season wraps up this bloody comic book story and manages to avoid the pitfalls that so many lacklustre farewells have fallen into in recent years.

• READ MORE: Jack Quaid and Sophie Thatcher talk horror, drunken karaoke and new robo-thriller ‘Companion’

We rejoin an alternate America run by manic Superman parody Homelander (Antony Starr), who’s installed a puppet president and placed his allies in positions of absolute power. He might have achieved his goal of total domination but he can’t stop a descent into madness as his grip on reality loosens. Meanwhile, the brash, supe-hating Billy Butcher (Karl Urban) and Annie ‘Starlight’ January (Erin Moriarty) fight to break Hughie (Jack Quaid) out of one of Homelander’s “Freedom Camp”. Armed with a virus that kills all superheroes, the ragtag freedom fighters must decide how much they will sacrifice in order to get their revenge.

The beauty of this final season lies in its cultural relevance – it’s the first season of The Boys to air during the second Trump Administration. You’ll see Homelander’s supporters driving his enemies from their homes, the weaponisation of religion, allies promoting his message through podcasts… you don’t need us to draw the line between the screen and real life. What once threatened to be a Marvel parody gone full circle has something deeper and darker to say for its finale.

Most of the season’s episodes follow The Boys and Homelander once again going up against each other but the sharp wit keeps the chase interesting. One stand-out example of its invention is episode five, which puts supporting characters in the spotlight (including Butcher’s adorable dog, Terror) in an anthology that follows storylines set in the same day. Its ability to consistently offer more than empty shock value is precisely what keeps you watching. Every twist, every death, drags those who remain deeper into darkness.

On The Boys’ side, Urban and Quaid provide a fascinating contrast that’s defined by friction. Hughie remains a good man in a world where everyone has lost themselves to some degree, and his superpower remains his commitment to doing the right thing. Butcher is a soul beyond saving. His thirst for revenge means he has become the very thing he hates. The Cockney accent remains unconvincing, but this is still Urban’s greatest role.

Other characters have interesting arcs. Annie tries to atone for the wrongs she has done while The Deep (Chace Crawford) embraces a full-on manosphere persona to hide his fear of Homelander. However, the most fascinating subject remains the star-spangled psychopath. To call Starr’s performance as Homelander a Trump parody would be far too simple. Season five finds him in the deranged endgame of absolute power. We watch him grapple with the emptiness of success, as paranoia and spite consume him more with every scene. Fretting as much about memes as his would-be assassins, it’s a startling piece of work that cements him as one of television’s all-time villains.

The Boys avoids the traps that most final seasons stumble into by chasing a clear endgame, instead of trying to constantly subvert expectations. Funny, crass and devastatingly poignant, those hoping for a suitable send-off will get the bloody masterpiece they were searching for.

‘The Boys’ season five is available to watch on Amazon Prime Video from April 8

This review is based on episodes one to six

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Fiancés Rachel Harkin (Camila Morrone) and Nicky Cunningham (Adam DiMarco) are driving to his family’s cabin in the woods, where they’re due to get married in less than a week. It should be a time of butterflies and excitement, but Rachel has a nagging feeling – a stomach-churning feeling – that something very bad is going to happen.

• Read more: Stranger Things season five, volume one review: the big, bold beginning of the end

Is this an extreme case of pre-wedding jitters, or is she right to trust her gut? Rachel’s mother died when she was a baby and she’s estranged from her father, but Nicky has a close-knit family who are just dying to meet her. Could this be the root of her tension? Either way, Rachel’s stress levels are so high that when a gnarly old guy approaches her in a dive bar, she stabs him in the hand.

The Cunninghams’ “cabin” is actually a snow-capped mansion with its own atrium – a design detail that will come into its own later – and his family turns out to be, well, intense. Nicky’s brittle sister Portia (Gus Birney) has decided to supersize their supposedly low-key wedding, while his rude brother Jules (Jeff Wilbusch) greets Rachel with a grim childhood story of being terrorised by a supernatural figure in the woods. His own marriage to relatively level-headed Nell (Karla Crome) hardly seems to be on solid ground.

Rachel quickly becomes convinced that one or all of the Cunninghams want to kill her, but in this instance, her paranoia proves to be misplaced. Exec produced by Stranger Things masterminds the Duffer Brothers and created by Haley Z. Boston, who’s written episodes of Brand New Cherry Flavor and Guillermo Del Toro’s Cabinet Of Curiosities, this series is never that straightforward. It’s deliberately bewildering and asks you to keep your wits sharp – just as Rachel has to as her backstory becomes more outlandish.

Though it’s sometimes derivative – the early episodes borrow liberally from Twin Peaks in the way they evoke a sense of smalltown menace – this series doesn’t skimp on style or surprises. Crucially, it’s both scary and funny along the way. Whenever she wafts in as the Cunninghams’ vague matriarch, Jennifer Jason Leigh fills the cabin with a sinister inertia that adds to the mounting dread. A wedding rehearsal montage in which Rachel and Nicky are forced to trot out their meet-cute story time and time again is one of several clever moments.

If anything, there’s a bit too much going on. Though none of the eight episodes outstay their welcome, it’s probably two too many overall – and the pace slackens in the series’ overstuffed second half. Still, Boston brings her disparate threads together for an operatic finale that’s a right bloody mess in the way she intended. Something very bad does indeed happen, but you definitely won’t see it coming.

‘Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen’ is streaming now on Netflix

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Jury Duty was a surprise sleeper hit when it launched on Amazon Freevee in 2023 thanks to its cracking concept. The mockumentary/prank show mash-up was built around an unsuspecting lead who doesn’t realise he’s surrounded by in-on-the-joke actors. Ronald Gladden – the construction worker who found himself in the middle of a calamity-strewn court case – turning out to be a genuinely nice guy was the show’s secret sauce. That warm-heartedness, combined with the meta thrill of wondering if this elaborate experiment would collapse any minute, lifted a show that would’ve felt light on laughs and drama were it fully scripted.

• READ MORE: Here’s everything you wanted to know after watching ‘Jury Duty’

The first season also benefited from the joy of discovery (on an otherwise unremarkable and now-defunct streaming service) and viral buzz. The second, Company Retreat, comes pre-loaded with expectations. The good news is that the team behind it – led by creators Lee Eisenberg and Gene Stupnitsky, who cut their teeth on The Office US – clearly understand what made the first series so appealing. They have doubled down on the likeable everyman lead and generally good-natured vibe. But, with the novelty value diminished, the shortcomings of the format aren’t quite so easily excused.

Wisely switching up the setting, Jury Duty Presents: Company Retreat takes place over the course of an extended getaway for the fictional Rockin’ Grandma’s hot sauce brand. This season’s unsuspecting dupe? Anthony Norman, a HR temp hired via Craigslist who finds himself in plenty of awkward situations on the important team-based excursion. Anthony is poised, charming and empathetic, which is a double-edged sword as the season progresses. He’s a pleasure to spend time with but is almost too well-equipped to deal with the chaos that’s carefully flung in his direction.

Perhaps because of the obligation to up the ante for the sequel, Company Retreat often feels more like a sitcom than a meta mockumentary. The supporting cast are more overtly actorly this time around and the scenarios are more outlandish. The retreat kicks off with an ill-judged romantic gesture that sees one staff member fleeing in embarrassment, leaving Anthony to try and pick up the pieces. There’s also a more distinct echo of The Office, particularly with a deliberate storyline involving Rockin’ Grandma’s fake CEO Doug (Jerry Hauck) looking for a successor with his puppyish son Dougie Jr. (Alex Bonifer) and corporate suits both with their eyes on the sauce empire.

That more pronounced narrative arc might invite cynicism from jaded viewers, as could Anthony’s almost heroic decision to go all in with his new family so quickly. Season two also lacks the equivalent of Jury Duty’s secret weapon James Marsden, who had no problem sending himself up as part of the outrageous tale. Company Retreat does feature a pop star cameo, but it’s much less freewheeling.

Still, Jury Duty Presents: Company Retreat is a very easy show to coast along with. There are a couple of laugh-out-loud moments – a TMI lecture from an inspirational speaker is a gut-busting highlight – and if it lacks the element of surprise this time round, the amiable cast and oblivious protagonist still make for very pleasant company.

‘Jury Duty Presents: Company Retreat’ is available to watch from March 20 on Amazon Prime Video

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This rollicking comedy drama about sex, obsession and the generation gap never plays it safe. There are frequent fantasy sequences – many of them steamy – and the fourth wall is obliterated from the start. Rachel Weisz’s unnamed protagonist doesn’t just quip to the camera like Phoebe-Waller Bridge in Fleabag; she turns us into her confidante and co-conspirator. As her life spirals into chaos and potential calamity over eight pacy episodes, there’s a lot to unpack – not least her growing infatuation with a dashing younger man.

Weisz’s character has a charmed life but cracks are beginning to show. She’s a respected English literature professor at a liberal college in an affluent New England town where the local “boulangerie” sells chocolate log cakes for $48. However, her professional reputation has been dented by the sexual escapades of her academic husband John (John Slattery) who’s been suspended for sleeping with several students.

His affairs were consensual and happened 10 years ago, but he’s being held to account now for abusing his power. The protagonist’s refusal to condemn his behaviour, at least publicly, upsets some of her Gen Z students and presents her colleagues with a problem. They may agree that his topsy-turvy trysts took place “at a different time” – pre-#MeToo, essentially – but they need to be seen doing the right thing in the current climate.

The couple have a vague arrangement that they can’t quite bring themselves to call an open marriage, but their attachment to one another seems closer to routine than love. Her career is also stuck in stasis. She wrote a highly successful novel many years ago but has since been thwarted by writer’s block. Now, well into middle age with a grown-up daughter (Ellen Robertson) whom she proudly announces as “a bisexual woman”, she’s worried she’s losing her sexual allure. We find out later that she’s not above using this to her advantage.

Into this psychological tinderbox swaggers Vladimir (Leo Woodall), a hotshot novelist who’s taken a teaching job at the college. It’s lust at first sight for the protagonist, but as Vladimir flatters her by showing an interest in her novel, she becomes emotionally invested as well. Soon she’s befriending his brittle wife Cynthia (Jessica Henwick) in a bid to ease her conscience and get closer to the object of her obsession.

Adapted by Julia May Jonas from her own 2022 novel, Vladimir‘s zingy irreverence and heightened tone is jolting at first but soon becomes infectious. Weisz plays her frenetic role with gusto, while Woodall is suave and charming as Vladimir, a character whose inscrutability confuses the protagonist but also allows her to project her fantasies onto him. Does he actually want to be seduced, or is he just a massive flirt? This show keeps us guessing as it pings between pulpy plot twists and amusing passive aggressive encounters between Weisz’s increasingly unhinged professor and her smug, virtue-signalling colleagues.

The final episode ties up certain plot strands a little too neatly, but Weisz’s parting shot is suitably ambiguous and witty. You’ll end the series wondering whether you should have been rooting for her, but feeling glad that you did. Well, maybe. Vladimir is far too smart to leave us with any easy answers.

‘Vladimir’ is streaming on Netflix now

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Just a year after she said goodbye to sitcom stardom with the final episode of The Big Bang Theory, Kaley Cuoco struck TV gold once again with The Flight Attendant. The HBO comedy drama started with her waking up next to a dead body following a one night stand, kickstarting a complex mystery for her to solve. Cuoco’s new show Vanished sees her on familiar ground as she makes a bid to become the small screen’s favourite sleuth.

Cuoco plays Alice, a globe-trotting archaeologist enjoying a long-distance relationship with her boyfriend Tom (Sam Claflin), a charity worker who also travels for work. They meet in France to spend some time together but after their romantic train journey is briefly halted, Tom disappears, leaving Alice distraught. When she arrives in Marseille, she continues to search frantically for him but finds shocking truths about his background instead.

The comparisons to The Flight Attendant are difficult to ignore. Just like the first season of the HBO hit, we see Cuoco in a glamorous location, relying on her wits to keep herself out of trouble and find the truth in a rapidly changing situation. Vanished does tread a more serious, familiar path though. We have all the expected mystery archetypes on display, including a gruff French police inspector (Simon Abkarian) who waves away Alice as another tourist who got dumped. Her new allies all have a suspicious air about them and there are plenty of twists that, while not ludicrous, are extremely convenient. Those looking for the same mix of humour and character development from the Emmy-nominated series will find a much more hollow experience.

That’s not to say following Alice’s investigation isn’t fun. Cuoco is great at playing the role of an everywoman caught in extraordinary circumstances, and wades through the web of deceit with enough charisma to get you on her side. She makes a great team with Helene (Karin Viard), a no-nonsense journalist who takes a cynical view of Alice’s angst but forms a likeable odd couple as they team up to uncover the truth or, as Alice puts it, “play Cagney and Lacey in a French dive bar”.

There’s also something to be said for a show that doesn’t waste your time. At four episodes lasting around 40 minutes each, Vanished is eminently bingeable compared to your average Netflix contemporary. It also moves at a fast pace that doesn’t fill episodes with needless subplots. There’s not an enormous amount for Claflin to do, as the majority of his scenes are there to portray him as the perfect boyfriend who couldn’t possibly be mixed up in something dark, but he comes into his own as the big reveal emerges.

Vanished is unlikely to be your next streaming obsession in the same way The Flight Attendant was but if you’re pining for that similar rush of intrigue and suspense, you’ll easily disappear within this swift, enjoyable series.

‘Vanished’ is released February 27 on Amazon Prime Video

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Cartoon sitcoms aimed at grown-ups can be a mixed bag, often thinking rude language and 2D nudity are enough to justify their existence. Thankfully, Strip Law avoids that pitfall because it’s just really funny. This surreal legal comedy has a dense gag rate, with zinging dialogue and tons of background sight gags that warrant your full attention.

• READ MORE: 20 massive TV shows to look forward to in 2026

It also feels like a show that could’ve only been told in animation: set in Las Vegas, there are garish billboards and actually amusing amusements everywhere. This is a show that understands – and toys with – TV conventions too. The first episode is called ‘Finally, A Show About Lawyers’ (and the last ep pleasingly calls back to that), but it’s far from a straight-up legal-drama parody. Lawyer Lincoln Gumb (Severance’s Adam Scott) has a failing firm that’s on the brink of collapse, and the 10-episode series follows what happens when he recruits wild-card magician Sheila Flambé (Abbott Elementary‘s Janelle James) to bring some presentational razzmatazz to their cases.

There are plenty of in-world ads, flashbacks and other fourth-wall-breaking meta moments throughout. While undeniably scattershot, it’s a relief that a lot of it lands. There’s a loose ‘Case Of The Week’ structure, but Strip Law is too unhinged to ever really feel like it’s following a formula. Early cases involve a male stripper whose degrading workplace treatment sees him forced to eat car keys while two elderly men are scrapping about which one is the real Santa Claus. Later, Lincoln finds himself becoming a famous “elite liberal firebrand” when he has to prove God doesn’t exist.

There are some ongoing plot strands weaved throughout the season (a hook-up between Lincoln and Sheila that eschews the will-they-won’t-they expectations) and we get to know the other employees at Gumb Legal too, including Lincoln’s Gen Z niece Irene (Shannon Gisela) and Glem Borchman (Stephen Root), a disbarred lawyer with creepy uncle energy who is best enjoyed in small doses.

Strip Law is never going to replace Suits in anyone’s comfort-viewing roster, but it’s worth strapping in for the inventive places that creator Cullen Crawford (a writer and producer on Star Trek: Lower Deck) goes to. How about ‘Automobile Land’, a kind of theme park for driving offences where the performers have an unwavering commitment to character? Or a virtual-reality HR course that’s presided over by Rocco Prosecco, an amalgamation of every member of the Rat Pack?

Occasionally the standard animation style will change for the sake of a bit, from the stop-motion antics of the Hot Dates (imagine a sleazier version of the California Raisins) or a live-action movie trailer. One pivotal episode is even framed as a completely different law show, with the protagonists appearing as supporting characters in that version of events. These knowing fourth-wall breaks and stylistic shifts allow the juvenile humour to be enjoyed with a little less guilt.

There’s often the sense that Crawford and co are just chasing the laughs, rather than working towards a cohesive whole with Strip Law. But when the result is this funny, who is going to raise an objection?

‘Strip Law’ is available on Netflix from February 20

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It’s impossible to understate the impact of Derry Girls. An irreverent poke at life in 1990s Ireland, seen through the eyes of a bunch of don’t-give-a-shit teens, it’s easily the best sitcom to emerge from the country since Father Ted. So no surprise that creator Lisa McGee finds herself bathed in its shadow. So much so, she offers a cheeky meta-nod to it midway through her new Netflix-backed eight-parter, How To Get To Heaven From Belfast, with a shot of the real-life, wall-spanning Derry Girls mural – one that’s almost as famous as the show itself.

• READ MORE: 20 massive TV shows to look forward to in 2026

In truth, though, it’s hard to imagine the characters in How To Get To Heaven From Belfast awarded a similar artistic rendering in the Northern Irish city, or anywhere else. A convoluted, blackly comic murder-mystery, it’s often quirky for quirky’s sake. It starts when three thirty-something women get a call that nobody would ever want to receive – their old schoolfriend Greta (Natasha O’Keeffe), who they haven’t seen in 20 years, is dead. It’s a tragic passing that sends them back to the tiny Donegal village of Knockdara.

The problem is, it’s hard to believe these bickering ‘besties’ would ever want to stay in touch. Robyn (Sinéad Keenan) is a permanently harassed, sharp-tongued mother-of-three. Dara (Industry’s Caoilfhionn Dunne) is the kooky one, her pudding-bowl haircut hidden under her collection of coloured beanie hats. And then there’s Saoirse (Roisin Gallagher), the showrunner for hit BAFTA-winning procedural ‘Murder Code’ who seems adrift even from her partner (The Ballad Of Wallis Island’s Tom Basden) when she, like the others, learns that Greta has fallen down the stairs to her death.

A trip to Greta’s family home reveals there’s more to this story than meets the eye when the hapless trio realise that a past tragedy bonding them as tightly as their matching tattoos has risen from the grave. With a plot yo-yo’ing back and forth in time, all cut to an early aughts soundtrack as the characters’ younger selves intrude upon their psyches, so begins an increasingly exasperating drama that never quite knows what it wants to be. The White Lotus, Bad Sisters and, of course, Derry Girls all feel like templates reworked (or rehashed) here.

Depicting Ireland with heightened visuals that make it seem like the American Midwest of a Stephen King horror, McGee deserves credit for creating a show that could serve Netflix’s global reach, far removed from Irish social realism. But there’s a lot that feels derivative, and a lot that’s tonally enamoured with the ultra-violence of Quentin Tarantino. Like the nurse, reading a copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses, who appears every bit as deadly as Daryl Hannah’s whistling assassin in Kill Bill.

True, there are some snappy lines (“you own a motel and your name is Norman?”) and a support cast made up of Ireland’s best and brightest, including Father Ted’s Ardal O’Hanlon, Gangs Of London’s Michelle Fairley, The Commitments’ Bronagh Gallagher and Saipan scene-stealer Jamie Beamish. Yet for all its favourable credentials, the story isn’t mysterious or mischievous enough. Nor are the characters so likeable you’ll be wanting to spend whole episodes with them, let alone a potential second season. You’ll be second-screening before you know it.

‘How To Get To Heaven From Belfast’ is available now on Netflix

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Netflix‘s documentary series about Britain’s best-ever boyband benefits from fortuitous timing. Just four days ago, the group’s prodigal son Robbie Williams broke The Beatles‘ all-time record for the most UK Number One albums – he now has an astonishing 16. It’s a handy reminder of Take That‘s enduring appeal and lofty place on the pop landscape.

• READ MORE: Robbie Williams – ‘Britpop’ review: a love letter to the ’90s and bid to live forever

Directed by David Soutar, who’s previously made decent docs about Bros and Ed Sheeran, this three-parter tells their story chronologically. Audio interviews with the band members are laid over archive footage and scrapbook-style visuals that evoke the ’90s Smash Hits era that Take That dominated. This may well be a stylistic choice but it also feels like a practical one. While the band’s current three-member line-up – Gary Barlow, Howard Donald and Mark Owen – recorded new interviews for the series, Williams and fellow departee Jason Orange did not. Their recollections are all sourced from the archive.

The first episode zips through the group’s rise so briskly that it risks becoming boring – quite an achievement given that Take That’s first music video, for 1991’s dance flop ‘Do What U Like’, involved jelly, mops and band members baring their buttocks. A little more of the group’s spiky svengali Nigel Martin-Smith would be nice but there are some sweet and revealing moments. “Myself and Howard, we were the dancers, we just made up the numbers at the back,” Orange recalls self-deprecatingly. Barlow, who set himself apart from his bandmates by penning early signature hits like ‘Back For Good’ and ‘Pray’, says in a very old-before-his time way: “I always dreamed of a [songwriting] copyright.”

The second episode is more compelling, sensitively covering their breakup. An increasingly erratic Williams – by this point, he’s sinking neat vodka in his hotel room – quits in 1995. The remaining band members go their separate ways a year later after a valedictory eighth Number One single. Barlow was famously tipped to become the next George Michael but after a wobbly start, Williams comprehensively eclipses him. Barlow struggles with an eating disorder and low self-esteem as a result, while his former bandmates also flounder: Owen is dropped after his first solo album sells poorly and Donald feels so directionless that he contemplates jumping into the Thames.

Take That have shared these harrowing stories before but Soutar does a good job of placing them in the context of a more overtly cruel media climate. Asked about his bandmates’ solo prospects at a press conference, Williams quips: “Jason will be a really good painter and decorator, I’m sure.” It’s hard to imagine any pop star making such a dig now. The final episode is just as illuminating, reminding us that Take That’s triumphant 2005 comeback – as a four-piece without Williams – was no foregone conclusion. It also reveals that Orange, once there to “make up the numbers”, grew into a source of soft power. It was he who pushed for Barlow to start sharing songwriting duties (and royalties) and for Williams to return to the fold for 2010’s ‘Progress’ album and tour.

Smartly, Soutar frames this as the series’ dramatic crescendo, because from this point on, Take That’s story becomes less interesting. Williams leaves to resume his solo career, Orange beats a retreat from the public eye, and Take That settle into an extended third act as a beloved legacy act – the odd alleged tax discrepancy aside. Fittingly, the series ends with the three-piece singing one of Barlow’s wisest lyrics: “Never forget where you’ve come in from.” After all of Take That’s ups and downs, you don’t doubt they believe it.

‘Take That’ is available to watch on Netflix now

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