Critics, according to the Netflix show Green Mothers’ Club , suffer from (and make careers out of) Salieri syndrome: a raging jealousy directed at those with actual talent. Whatever the truth of that, it isn’t a simple task to identify who is envious of exactly whom among the club’s five women, who must be the most dour and depressing group of parents obsessed with sending their children to South Korea’s finest universities. That the children aren’t much older than toddlers as the 16-parter tells us, somewhat predictably, to the serial’s theme of scrutiny of the Asian education system – one that’s loaded in favour of the socially elevated. But as much as they are concerned about their children’s prospects, the infamous five seem consumed by preening overconfidence or an enervating inferiority complex (something else that apparently identifies critics). The former is manifested in prize-winning artist and product of privilege Jin-ha (played by Kim Gyu-ri); the latter in lesser artist (she believes) Eun-pyo ( Lee Yo-won ), now a professor. Eun-pyo has inadvertently moved into Jin-ha’s neighbourhood, but this immediately leaves her so downbeat she often seems unable to speak. Fair enough: Jin-ha was her best friend in school, but then stole Eun-pyo’s boyfriend and married him, and now lives in a penthouse flat and has resurrected her sly campaign to undermine her former sidekick (whose main usefulness was only ever to make Jin-ha look good by comparison). Or perhaps it’s because Jin-ha drives a Maserati, and Eun-pyo a Ssangyong. Among the five, the tittle-tattle has no bitchiness boundaries, every social interaction has an ulterior motive and the wider neighbourhood, arrogant junior school teachers included, would like to run Eun-pyo and her disruptive son, who can’t concentrate in class, out of town. So much for the joys of childhood. Is Jin-ha really so sure of herself? Will saintly, silent Eun-pyo slay her tormentor? Is the group’s acidic one-upwomanship sustainable? Four episodes from now, we’ll know. Each of the quintet, even Eun-pyo, is as green-eyed as the other. With friends like these, who needs … friends? Netflix stand-up comedy special Ronny Chieng: Speakeasy isn’t funny Killing time Spare a thought for your local assassin: he, too, wants to be loved. Rubbing people out might be his métier, but that doesn’t mean the likes of Bill Hader, starring as titular (anti-)hero Barry (HBO and HBO Go) aren’t worthy of your compassion. Series three of one of the bleakest, most surreal comedies this side of Terry Gilliam finds lonely hitman Barry Berkman – ex-Marine, current misfit – still wrestling with those tricky existential problems surrounding the pros and cons of whether to shoot people point-blank. Or whether to take the remote option and blow them up. Barry, desperate for work, gingerly collects a ticking bomb in a cardboard box earmarked for a bunch of criminals running “the Chechen operation”. He plants it himself, but then ploughs into the sort of irritating little teaser that regularly messes up his day. “My app isn’t synching with the Bluetooth on the device I’m trying to detonate,” he tells the relevant helpline. “Sure, OK, I can help you with that,” comes the reply. “What’s your username?” Complicating the picture, and being worth at least a bullet each themselves (courtesy of Barry’s twisted visions) are confused and abused actress girlfriend Sally (Sarah Goldberg), gay organised crime boss NoHo Hank (Anthony Carrigan) and acting coach Gene (the inimitable Henry Winkler) – because Barry, when not surfing Hitman Marketplace for work, has developed a talent for acting as a sideline. Well, obviously. To be, or not to be, a murderer, that is the question. Shoot!