The Power: Toni Collette’s electric performance steals the show

The first jolt of electricity in The Power isn’t just a narrative shock—it’s a visual one. When Roxy Monke (Ria Zmitrowicz) discovers her ability to electrocute, director Reed Morano frames the moment like a birth: a raw, primal scream cutting through the night. This series, adapted from Naomi Alderman’s 2016 novel, isn’t just about teenage girls gaining literal power; it’s about the world short-circuiting under the weight of that shift.

The premise is simple but potent: teenage girls wake up one day with the ability to emit deadly electric shocks, and soon enough, women worldwide can wield this force. The Power (Amazon Prime Video, 2023) follows a sprawling ensemble across continents as societies crumble and reform under this new order. Toni Collette anchors the Seattle storyline as Mayor Margot Cleary-Lopez, delivering a performance that crackles with intensity. Her scenes with Auliʻi Cravalho’s Jos—her daughter navigating the thrill of power—are electric in their own right, filled with quiet tension and unspoken fear.

Collette is the series’ secret weapon. As Margot, she oscillates between political pragmatism and maternal panic, her performance grounded in a palpable sense of dread. When she confronts John Leguizamo’s Rob Lopez (her husband) about their daughter’s dangerous new abilities, Collette’s micro-expressions—eyes widening, jaw tightening—convey more than dialogue ever could. The scene is a masterclass in restrained acting, proving that sometimes less is more.

Cravalho, too, holds her own. Jos’ arc—from wide-eyed curiosity to terrifying confidence—is one of the series’ most compelling. Auliʻi Cravalho’s portrayal of Jos is nuanced and captivating, making her character’s transformation from a naive teenager to a powerful force both believable and chilling. Her dynamic with Nico Hiraga’s Ryan (her boyfriend) adds emotional depth, grounding the fantastical premise in relatable human experiences.

The series’ strength lies in its ambition. It tackles themes of gender, power, and revolution with a global scope, weaving together narratives from London to Nigeria to Moldova. Toheeb Jimoh’s Tunde Ojo, an aspiring journalist documenting the chaos, offers a ground-level view that grounds the absurdity. His scenes in Lagos—filmed with gritty realism—are some of the most visually striking, capturing the frenetic energy of a city on the brink.

Meanwhile, Halle Bush’s Allie/Eve, a religious adoptee who becomes a prophet-like figure, brings a chilling unpredictability to the table. Bush’s performance is unsettling in the best way; her wide-eyed fervor and sudden bursts of violence make Eve feel like a force of nature rather than a character. The series’ exploration of religious extremism through Eve’s arc is one of its most thought-provoking elements, though it occasionally veers into heavy-handed allegory.

But ambition isn’t always execution. The sprawl sometimes feels unwieldy, with too many storylines fighting for attention. The Moldovan subplot—centering on Zrinka Cvitešić’s Tatiana Moskalev and her husband Vasily—while thematically rich, occasionally stalls under its own weight. The political maneuvering in Moldova feels detached from the rest of the series’ more visceral storytelling, making it hard to invest emotionally.

Some character arcs—like John Leguizamo’s Rob Lopez—feel underdeveloped compared to others. Leguizamo, usually a scene-stealer, is sidelined here, reduced to reactive frustration rather than active agency. His dynamic with Collette’s Margot feels unbalanced; where she’s a force of nature, he’s often just along for the ride.

The pacing is uneven, with episodes that drag in the middle before snapping back to life. The series’ nine-episode structure doesn’t always serve it well; some storylines feel rushed (like Roxy’s criminal empire in London), while others meander without clear direction. The finale, while satisfying on a thematic level, leaves several plot threads dangling—an issue that might frustrate viewers looking for neat resolutions.

Visually, Morano’s direction shines when it leans into symbolism. A scene where women gather in a church, their bodies glowing with power, is stunning—a literal and metaphorical charge of femininity reclaiming space. The soundtrack, composed by Morgan Kibby, amplifies the tension with eerie, pulsing beats that mirror the electricity coursing through the series.

Yet for all its boldness, The Power sometimes falters in its dialogue. Lines like “A better future is in your hands” feel heavy-handed, and some of the religious allegory stumbles into cliché. The series also struggles with tone; it wants to be both a gritty drama and a speculative thriller, and while that duality works at times, other moments feel tonally disjointed.

The Power isn’t perfect, but it’s undeniably bold. It asks uncomfortable questions about power, privilege, and revolution, even if it doesn’t always have the answers. The series is at its best when it leans into the messiness of its premise—when it acknowledges that upending the social order isn’t clean or easy. Scenes like Margot’s breakdown in City Hall—a raw, unfiltered moment of vulnerability—are what make The Power worth watching.

Who is this for? Fans of speculative fiction will find much to love here, as will viewers who enjoy complex female characters and political intrigue. Those looking for a straightforward thriller might be frustrated by the series’ meandering pacing and dense themes.