The Beauty is a body horror with substance

Exploding supermodels, sinister cosmetic serums, a hyper-camp blend of sci-fi body horror and capitalist morality tale … It has to be The Beauty (Disney+), the latest from the indefatigable US showrunner Ryan Murphy (Feud, Pose, American Crime Story, 2025’s critically lambasted ratings smash All’s Fair and more). If the series is much anticipated – the trailer racked up 190m views in the first seven days – the high-octane opening segment doesn’t disappoint. Real-life supermodel Bella Hadid exits a catwalk, frenzied, gulping down water and attacking bystanders, until finally she self-combusts.

After more beautiful people explode in sumptuous locations – Paris, Venice, Croatia – their sizzling remains giving a whole new meaning to “hot”, FBI agents Cooper Madsen (Evan Peters) and Jordan Bennett (Rebecca Hall) are called in. A new injectable serum called “the beauty” is transforming people – crunching through bones, scrabbling out of membranes – into younger, perfected versions of themselves.

If this sounds strangely familiar, it is because the series was commissioned after the success of The Substance, starring Demi Moore. But while the acclaimed 2024 film focused on the reclamation of youthful allure, The Beauty – co-written with Matthew Hodgson and based on Jeremy Haun and Jason A Hurley’s 2015 comic book series – works a more expansive brief.

Running over 11 episodes of varying lengths, The Beauty is a satire on beauty, fashion, Ozempic, and incel and influencer culture (“I’m giving them an injectable Instagram filter”); a commentary on the commercialism fuelling lookist paranoia, with Ashton Kutcher playing a villainous tech mogul known as the Corporation (“No more ugly – no fucking more!”); and a HIV parable (one form of the serum is sexually transmitted, with talk of “viral load”). It’s also a fever dream of fear and cynicism: “The world is on fire, right? Live, laugh and fuck.”

The show lacks subtlety – every moment garish, overblown – but bursts with energy, guest stars (from Meghan Trainor to Nicola Peltz Beckham) and spiky humour. Playing the Corporation’s repulsed wife, Isabella Rossellini has a riot, swanning around yachts and mansions in outrageous couture (crinolines, mohawks), while castigating her husband: “You’re the same dumpster with a fresh coat of paint, clown boy!”

Murphy is prolific: for every work of brilliance (The Assassination of Gianni Versace), there have been disappointments (Ratched, say, or the recently lambasted All’s Fair). There are times here, too, when the similarities to The Substance – not least the transformations – make The Beauty feel a bit too much like an extended sequel. It is bloated with subplots and characters; does anything need to be 11 episodes long?

That said, Murphy knows his subject: in his 2000s series Nip/Tuck he was already musing on the perils of beautification. The Beauty is seductively mischievous, and if you’re of the opinion that Zoolander didn’t have enough CGI gore and socio-commercial commentary, then this is the beyond-camp body horror for you.

Another day, another Game of Thrones spin-off. While we await season three of House of the Dragon, which is expected in the summer, there’s Ira Parker’s six-part A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (Sky Atlantic/Now), based on George RR Martin’s novella The Hedge Knight (1998) from the Tales of Dunk and Egg fantasy series. Set in Westeros about 90 years before Game of Thrones, in a Targaryen era, it stars Peter Claffey – an Irish rugby union player turned actor – as Dunk, AKA Ser Duncan the Tall.

Amiable, lumbering, Dunk is a hedge knight – a lower-class, non-noble. In fact, he’s not even that, as his mentor died before knighting him. Dunk must prove himself in a jousting contest – to impress the Targaryens, among others. A charismatic bald child called Egg (Dexter Sol Ansell) pleads to get taken on as his squire. The start is off-putting, its bizarre tone meshing puerile comedy (Dunk defecates propulsively) with swearing, violence and minor nudity. It also feels underpowered and low-budget – a kind of bargain-bin Game of Thrones. Forget about seeing dragons; they only appear in a puppet show.

Halfway through, however, the series fires up, as Dunk and Egg’s odd-couple dynamic (both actors are superb) sparks into life with the revelation of a secret. The supporting cast (including Bertie Carvel and Daniel Ings) is equally strong. The jousting scenes are genuinely harrowing, while the core message – the importance of a knight’s integrity – burns through.

This series has something special. It’s certainly a lot better – more layered and profound – than the quasi-medieval sitcom slop that was late-period Game of Thrones. Despite the decidedly unpromising opener, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is worth your time.

On Netflix, Kidnapped: Elizabeth Smart, a feature-length documentary from Benedict Sanderson (Atomic People, See No Evil), explores how the 14-year-old was taken from her bedroom in Salt Lake City, Utah, in 2002. The abduction was witnessed by her nine-year-old sister, Mary Katherine, who initially struggled to recognise the voice of the lead kidnapper. The abductors were Brian David Mitchell and his wife, Wanda Barzee.

Mitchell believed that he was a holy prophet called Immanuel, given the divine right to rape the devout schoolgirl multiple times a day and intimidate her with death threats. Hiding mainly in woodland, Mitchell and Barzee would take Elizabeth to city areas, wearing flowing white robes, with the girl’s face concealed behind a veil. After nine months, Mitchell and Barzee were apprehended, with Elizabeth offering a scared, desperate “Thou sayest” in response to police questions. Mitchell received life imprisonment for kidnapping and taking a minor across state lines for sexual activity, while Barzee got 15 years.

This is a robust documentary, featuring extensive interviews with the composed, articulate Elizabeth, Mary Katherine, their father Ed, other family members and detectives dealing with the investigation. Interrogation footage reveals Mitchell as terrifying, repeatedly snarling: “Get thee behind me, Satan!” The miracle is not only that Elizabeth managed to survive her ordeal, but that she went on to become an impressive spokesperson for survivors of sexual violence.

Photographs by Copyright 2025, FX. All Rights Reserved/HBO