You've never seen child actors so beautiful, nor kitchens so vast, not on British television, at any rate. But once your vision has adjusted, it is, I must admit, almost fun.
An intriguing mystery, a stonking cast and a poignant performance by Reese Witherspoon look like making Big Little Lies appointment viewing for the next couple of months.
The great thing about Big Little Lies is: The murder is almost beside the point. The vicious battle for power and status waged between the Monterey moms is gripping enough, and serves as a showcase for some fantastic female performances.
The basic structure is compelling enough -- viewers don't even know who the identity of the murder victim is through much of the series, and the layered performances keep us in flux over who we'd like to kill off, and who we wish would do the killing.
The miniseries does the compelling work of looking at each woman as a person whose identity is forged at this busy intersection of possibilities, obligations, and roads not taken.
The genius of Big Little Lies is that it is not -- primarily, at least -- a satire. Nor is it really a crime thriller. Instead it uses the apparatus of these forms to deliver something far more personal.