• The Boroughs premieres May 21 on Netflix, with all eight episodes dropping at once.
• The Duffer Brothers exec-produce; creators Jeffrey Addiss and Will Matthews wrote and showrun the series.
• Alfred Molina leads a stacked cast including Geena Davis, Alfre Woodard, Clarke Peters, Denis O’Hare, and Bill Pullman.
• Critics are largely enthusiastic, praising the performances and the show’s sharp commentary on aging and ageism.
• The series has been widely described as “Stranger Things with grandparents” — but most reviewers say it earns that comparison rather than just coasting on it.

Netflix’s The Boroughs opens with a scene that tells you exactly what kind of show you’re in for. Genre legend Dee Wallace — best known as Elliot’s mom in E.T. — goes through her quiet nightly routine at an upscale desert retirement community, and then something with too many legs comes for her. Before you’ve even settled in, the tone is set: this is warm, funny, frightening, and smarter than it has any right to be.

The series, which drops all eight episodes on Thursday, is executive produced by Matt and Ross Duffer — the Stranger Things creators — but written and showrun by Jeffrey Addiss and Will Matthews, the Emmy-winning duo behind The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance and Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim. The Spielberg comparisons are unavoidable and entirely intentional — this is a love letter to Amblin sci-fi, Stephen King, and the kind of genre storytelling that makes you feel something while something horrible is eating people. The twist is that instead of a gang of kids on bikes, the heroes are all in their 70s.

Alfred Molina plays Sam Cooper, a recently widowed aerospace engineer who moves into The Boroughs — a too-perfect, retro-futuristic retirement community in the New Mexico desert — because his late wife Lily (Jane Kaczmarek, luminous in flashbacks) had signed the contract before her death. Sam had no say in the matter. He despises the place on sight. He’s described by one critic as “Carl from Pixar’s Up come to life,” and that’s not far off: the grief is real, the rage is palpable, and Molina plays it with the kind of layered restraint that makes you feel every inch of his isolation.

“My wife’s dead,” Sam tells his neighbor Jack early on. “And the world just keeps on turning, and people just keep living their lives. They shop and they laugh and they eat. And they go to sleep, and they get up, and they do it all over again. And I hate ’em for it.” It’s a gut-punch of a line, and Molina delivers it like he means every word.

Sam doesn’t stay isolated for long. Bill Pullman‘s Jack — a gregarious, laid-back neighbor who’s keenly aware that single men are a rare commodity at The Boroughs — drags him to a welcome barbecue, and that’s where the ensemble assembles. Geena Davis plays Renee, a former music manager with a convertible and a go-get-’em energy that earns her the show’s best line: “The gray rebellion rises, such as it is.” Alfre Woodard is Judy, a retired journalist the show lovingly dubs a “chatty Nancy Drew.” The Wire‘s Clarke Peters plays her husband Art, a philosophical stoner who tends to hallucinogens in the desert and has a therapeutic relationship with a crow. And American Horror Story alum Denis O’Hare is Wally, a doctor who was on the front lines of the AIDS crisis in the ’80s, is now dying of stage-four prostate cancer, and somehow remains the funniest person in any room. His line about death — that it’s “the real monster. Everything else is shadows” — lands with the weight of someone who has earned the right to say it.

The welcome barbecue scene, directed by Ben Taylor in the premiere, is being called by Hollywood Reporter the single most delightful scene the show has to offer — the whole crew gossiping about neighbors, ribbing each other about their respective “body counts” (the sex kind, not the death kind), trading their gnarliest medical anecdotes. It’s a blast. And then later that same night, Sam is woken by strange noises and discovers a giant spider-legged monster with a taste for human fluids outside his house.

The Premise Is Familiar. The Cast Makes It Sing.

Nearly every critic has reached for the same shorthand — “Stranger Things with grandparents” — and it’s fair. The retirement community that’s too good to be true, the overlooked group of misfits who can see what others can’t, the institutional conspiracy hiding something monstrous: these are well-worn genre moves. The series even opens in the New Mexico desert without ever once uttering the word “Roswell,” which feels deliberately, cheekily restrained. The community itself, with its pastel homes, a hard-wired in-home communication device called Seraphim (think 2001‘s HAL, but cheerier), and management that talks to residents in a patronizing, childlike manner, has the cultish, Stepford quality of a place that has something to hide.

The show’s creators have said openly that they chose elderly heroes precisely because older people are dismissed and ignored in the same way children are — which makes them, counterintuitively, the perfect protagonists for this kind of story. The Boroughs community even has “The Manor,” a long-term care facility where residents who report seeing strange things tend to end up. Anyone who talks about creatures gets institutionalized. It’s a horror premise that doubles as a pretty pointed commentary on how society treats the elderly, and the show wears it lightly enough that it doesn’t feel like a lecture.

Each member of the gang brings a specific skill to the mission — Sam the engineer, Wally the doctor, Judy the journalist, Renee the connected former industry player — and the Avengers-style assembly is part of the fun. Ed Begley Jr. appears as Edward, an Alzheimer’s-suffering resident in The Manor whose ramblings about “a creature in the walls” turn out to be anything but delusional. Seth Numrich plays Blaine Shaw, the community’s CEO, whose face is as smooth as his manners and whose motives are exactly as sinister as they appear. Alice Kremelberg plays his wife Anneliese — and notably, Numrich and Kremelberg previously appeared together in The Sinner Season 4, a reunion that fans of that show will clock immediately.

The conspiracy involves secret tunnels, underground caves, mysterious thefts of anything containing quartz, mass bird deaths, a tree bearing glittering orange fruit, and creatures that leave shiny blue blood droplets when shot. The show keeps most of the graphic horror off-camera, which is the right call — the suggestion is more unsettling than the spectacle, and it keeps the tone from tipping into relentless darkness.

Composer John Paesano’s score draws on 1980s orchestral cinema — think the emotional sweep of early Spielberg — and multiple reviewers have singled it out as something worth seeking out on its own. The soundtrack choices are equally deliberate, with songs selected to reflect each character’s era, and Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” playing a significant role in Sam’s emotional arc.

Where Critics Land

The consensus is warm, with most reviewers landing between 4 and 4.5 out of 5. The performances are the runaway highlight everywhere you look. O’Hare in particular is getting attention across the board — his Wally provides genuine comedy without ever deflating the horror stakes. One review describes him preparing for a mission by packing a tote bag containing granola bars and a meat cleaver, and watching a YouTube tutorial to pick a lock at a funeral parlor. That’s the show in a nutshell.

Where critics diverge is on the mystery itself. Hollywood Reporter’s review is the most measured of the bunch, arguing that the show’s greatest flaw is spending too much time on the sci-fi plot at the expense of the ensemble chemistry that makes it special — that after the barbecue scene in episode one, the show scatters its characters to separate storylines before bringing them back together, and something is lost in the gap. The Boston Globe is similarly reserved, calling it “a copy of a copy” and suggesting the nostalgia is so layered — Spielberg evoking Stranger Things evoking Stranger Things evoking Spielberg again — that the show occasionally feels like it’s running on borrowed warmth.

But even the less enthusiastic reviews agree that the cast alone justifies the watch. Collider puts it well: “If Sam, Wally, Renee, Art, and Judy can remain perceptive, brave, and capable in a world that has already written them off, then aging itself becomes less frightening.”

The show is also lighter in tone than Stranger Things got by its final seasons, which works in its favor. It never pretends the stakes aren’t real, but it doesn’t wallow either. At its best — and it is frequently at its best — The Boroughs is the kind of show that makes you laugh, then makes you feel something ache, then puts a monster on screen before you’ve had time to recover.

The whole season is available to stream now on Netflix. The cast walked the red carpet at The Egyptian Theatre Hollywood on May 18 ahead of the premiere. All eight episodes drop Thursday, May 21.

“Death is the real monster,” Wally says. “Everything else is shadows.” With a cast this good bringing lines like that to life, the shadows are very much worth sitting with.

The post The Boroughs Review: Netflix’s Best New Sci-Fi Show appeared first on Cream.

• Nemesis, from Power creator Courtney A. Kemp and co-creator Tani Marole, is now streaming on Netflix with all eight episodes available.
• Y’lan Noel plays master thief Coltrane Wilder and Matthew Law plays LAPD detective Isaiah Stiles in the Heat-inspired cat-and-mouse thriller.
• The series opened at a star-studded red carpet screening in Inglewood on May 12, with the full cast and creative team in attendance.
• Critics are largely positive on the action sequences and lead performances, with some noting the family drama drags pacing in early episodes.
• A cliffhanger finale leaves both storylines wide open, with a second season already on the horizon.

The first thing you see in Nemesis is Y’lan Noel arriving at a Halloween party in a black Kangol and a bulky gold medallion, and if you know your cinema, you clock it immediately: he’s dressed as Nino Brown from New Jack City. It’s a deliberate opening move, and it tells you exactly what kind of show this is going to be — one that knows where it comes from, respects the tradition it’s working inside, and has every intention of doing something new with it.

The new Netflix crime drama from Power creator Courtney A. Kemp and co-creator Tani Marole dropped all eight episodes on May 14, and it arrives with the confident energy of a show that has done its homework and isn’t apologizing for any of it. The casting of Mario Van Peebles — director of New Jack City — to helm the first two episodes isn’t a coincidence. Neither is the Clipse lyric that closes Episode 3: “Heat come, I’m De Niro.” Nemesis is in active, explicit conversation with the history of Los Angeles crime storytelling, and it earns the right to be.

Netflix celebrated the series with a red carpet screening event at Cinépolis Luxury Cinemas in Inglewood on May 12, drawing the full ensemble cast along with creators Kemp and Marole for a Q&A moderated by radio personality Big Boy in partnership with iHeartMedia. The room included Matthew Law, Noel, Cleopatra Coleman, Gabrielle Dennis, Michael Potts, Sophina Brown, Cedric Joe, Domenick Lombardozzi, Quincy Isaiah, and more — nearly every significant name in the show’s sprawling cast. It was the kind of premiere event that signals Netflix is genuinely behind this one.

Two Men, One City, No Room for Both

The setup is familiar by design. Noel plays Coltrane Wilder, a poised and respected real estate developer who is also, quietly, a criminal mastermind planning to walk away from it all after one final score. Law plays Detective Isaiah Stiles, a combustible LAPD investigator convinced that the string of high-end heists moving through Los Angeles is the work of the same crew responsible for the death of his former trainee. Isaiah knows it. Coltrane knows that knowing it and proving it are two entirely different problems.

Coltrane’s crew — former sniper Choi (Jonnie Park), prison buddy Stro (Tre Hale), and the mercurial Deon (Quincy Isaiah) — pulls off four carefully planned robberies per year, no more and no less. The jobs are elaborately staged: a Halloween party at a Beverly Hills estate, a jewelry store robbery, a bloody freeway shootout. They never repeat an M.O. Isaiah, meanwhile, is a man coming apart at the seams. His wife Candace (Dennis) has him sleeping in the guest house. He’s missing his son Noah’s basketball games. His boss, Captain Sealey (Michael Potts), keeps telling him he’d make captain if he’d just let this particular obsession go. He won’t.

“I think that they are two institutionalized men in their own ways,” Law told TV Insider. “The way that Coltrane comes from having time served, and the way that Isaiah has his own method, like a prison, which has sort of shaped him.”

Noel puts it more simply: “Why is this person doing what they’re doing? And it just depends on who’s telling the story, whether somebody was good or whether they were bad. And if we’re honest, we all have a little bit of both in us.”

That moral ambiguity is the engine of the show. The more dangerous each man becomes in pursuit of the other, the harder it gets to decide who you’re rooting for. Noel says that’s entirely intentional. “My goal is always to humanize people who could easily be stereotyped and discarded. So if grandma can say, ‘Wait a second! Coltrane has a point! Like, I’m rocking with him,’ then I think we achieved something.”

https://youtube.com/watch?v=M9nc3simqAE%3Fsi%3Dmo8c55-uO3dJq-94

The Heat Connection (and What Nemesis Does Differently)

Nemesis draws so heavily from Michael Mann’s Heat that it would be strange not to talk about it directly. The big mid-season action setpiece — robbers in hockey masks engaging in a broad-daylight shootout with police in the middle of a Los Angeles street, Century City standing in for Downtown L.A. — is the kind of sequence that makes the debt explicit. One Hollywood Reporter critic noted that if you were told Nemesis had been developed as a straight-up series remake of Heat only to transition from “adapted from” to “inspired by,” it would be entirely believable.

But Kemp and Marole aren’t just imitating. They’re having a conversation with the film — asking what the shape of that story looks like with two Black protagonists, with Baldwin Hills replacing the Hollywood Hills, with female characters who have actual inner lives rather than existing purely as reflections of their husbands’ obsessions. “Tani and I are excited to bring a hard-hitting psychological crime drama to Netflix, specific in location but broad in universal themes of right and wrong, love and loss, and loyalty vs. self-preservation,” Kemp said in a statement ahead of the premiere.

The result is, as one critic put it, Heat without De Niro and Pacino — which is a real diminution, and the show knows it can’t fully close that gap. But it compensates with a supporting cast so stacked that the leads sometimes feel like the least interesting people in the room.

The Women, the Crew, and a Wire Reunion Nobody Saw Coming

Coltrane’s wife Ebony (Coleman) and Isaiah’s wife Candace (Dennis) develop a genuine friendship across the season, neither aware that it’s being built directly on top of a fault line. Coleman plays a woman quietly managing grief — she and Coltrane lost a child to miscarriage before the events of the series — with a depth the role could easily have demanded less of. Their friendship gives the show its emotional center and makes the eventual collision of both families feel genuinely costly in a way that plot mechanics alone rarely achieve.

Sophina Brown, as Charlie — Ebony’s older sister and Coltrane’s mysterious criminal facilitator — brings a cool, enigmatic menace that consistently outshines the material around her. Several critics noted that Brown and Coleman are doing more interesting work than the show’s writing fully supports, and that the female characters’ storylines are set up more richly than they’re paid off. Ebony and Charlie’s sisterly dynamic does earn a genuinely beautiful scene in the finale, but the underdevelopment of those threads is one of the season’s real missed opportunities.

For anyone who spent years watching HBO’s The Wire, the later episodes of Nemesis hold a specific reward. Wire veterans begin appearing in clusters as the season builds — Domenick Lombardozzi, Michael Potts, and Chris Bauer all show up in the precinct scenes, and watching them share space in a police procedural context carries the kind of quiet pleasure that only devoted television viewers get to experience. Potts in particular, playing Isaiah’s gruff and principled Captain Sealey, delivers what may be the season’s best supporting performance — layering genuine authority and dry humor into a role that a lesser actor would play as pure archetype.

Quincy Isaiah, as Deon — the crew member whose impulsive decisions eventually pull the story toward its most painful moment — gives the show one of its most human performances. The early episodes take care to make him someone worth caring about, which matters considerably when the later ones arrive.

Where It Soars and Where It Stumbles

The action sequences are, without question, the season’s greatest strength. The opening Halloween heist — complete with 1930s bank robber disguises and a poker game full of obscenely wealthy targets — announces the show’s intentions immediately. The street shootout in the middle of the season is the kind of setpiece that streaming television rarely attempts at this level of execution. One-liners land with genuine snap (“my intent is malicious” will live in your head for days). The choreography is seamless. The camerawork is crisp. When Nemesis is firing, it’s genuinely thrilling.

The domestic drama is a more complicated story. The tensions within both marriages are real, but the show has a tendency to repeat arguments rather than deepen them. Isaiah’s obsession — the emotional core of his entire character — takes too long to earn its weight because the show initially focuses on his circumstances rather than his relationship with the trainee whose death drives him. His father Amos “Nightmare” Stiles (Moe Irvin), a former gangbanger whose nickname tells you everything, introduces an intriguing intergenerational trauma thread that the show only pursues when it intersects with the main plot. The subplot involving Candace and a hunky deputy DA (Jeff Pierre) adds complication without adding much depth.

Episode 6, “The Die is Cast,” is where the show stalls most visibly — opening with six minutes of gunfire and explosions that feel more soapy than earned, then spending much of its runtime on a chase that doesn’t meaningfully advance the story until its final minutes. Tighten those sequences and the season’s rhythm holds considerably better.

Law and Noel are both magnetic presences, but some critics have noted they read as slightly too polished, too young, too buttoned-down to fully sell the weight of what their characters are carrying. With Noel, it’s easier to accept — Coltrane’s composed public face is deliberately a mask over something more volatile. With Law, the gap between what other characters say about Isaiah’s unraveling and what the performance actually shows is a recurring friction.

None of this is fatal. Nemesis is a pulpy, propulsive, occasionally ludicrous eight-episode B-movie that earns its finale and leaves you wanting more. Kemp got 63 episodes and multiple spinoffs out of Power, a show with similar DNA and similar contradictions. The bones here are good. The cast is exceptional where it counts. And the cliffhanger that closes the season leaves the damage on both sides considerable and the question of what comes next genuinely open.

“What will the total annihilation of another cost you?” is the question Nemesis keeps asking. By the time the finale lands, both Coltrane and Isaiah are finding out — and neither answer is clean.

Nemesis is streaming now on Netflix.

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