The Body 2026 Tv Series Review Trailer Poster

Quinn Shephard has crafted a horror-mystery comedy—highly addictive and charged with sexual tension—that will keep you thoroughly hooked and entertained.

To begin with, writer, director, and creator Quinn Shephard deserves credit for assembling a fantastic cast of fresh, young faces, imbuing each with a personality that is as distinct as it is amusing, making them all easily distinguishable from one another. *The Body*—a dark, suspenseful horror-comedy—is the kind of film where you remember every single character, regardless of their screen time; no one is boring, and no one is merely relegated to the background like a piece of furniture. 

Creator: Quinn Shephard
Stars: Kristina Bogic, Geena Meszaros, Sara Boustany

What makes them all so memorable—the young characters, in particular—is their behavior: they act as if they are high or "in the clouds" 24/7. There’s Tyler (Marcel Ruiz), who supplies drugs to the others and seems to be under their influence himself every time he opens his mouth. He might ask you, with complete seriousness, if you’re "turned on"—leaving you wondering whether he’s being sincere or if he’s about to burst into laughter at any moment. 

Then there’s Katie (Bella Neuspiel), who shares Tyler’s bluntness, though her mind isn’t quite as "dirty" as his; she often says sensible things, yet delivers them with a carefree air that suggests a total detachment from reality. There are also the twins, Brit and Bailey Bradley (played by Kyra and Phallon Pierce)—so identical that no one can tell them apart. 

At one point, during an interrogation, even Father Franklin asks whether the person standing before him is the same one he spoke to just moments earlier. All these girls (and there are others) attend a Catholic school and are part of a dance group called "Lions." Anya (Kristina Bogic) and Elise (Sara Boustany) are the group’s captains—and they are also in love with each other. However, because they belong to a conservative and deeply religious community, they cannot openly declare their homosexuality. Elise, for her part, doesn’t really mind being seen as Anya’s partner; Anya, however, is firmly opposed to this, and to hide her sexual orientation, she pretends to be Steven’s (Orlando Norman) girlfriend. 

Steven—like everyone else—is unaware of the relationship between Anya and Elise. Consequently, when he attempts to be intimate with her—whether by kissing her or performing oral sex—and she fails to become aroused, he blames himself, believing he is simply bad at sex. Anya is someone so deeply conditioned by conservative values ​​that she lives in a state of constant conflict: should she follow Elise, or embrace the tenets of Catholicism? In one scene from the first episode, as Steven performs oral sex on her inside his car, Anya fixes her gaze on a crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror and tries to force herself to feel aroused, hoping to "reverse" her lesbianism and become "normal." This is, in fact, one of the pillars upon which *The Body* is built: the guilt and tension that arise when someone finds themselves trapped between their religious beliefs and their carnal—or, in other words, "sinful"—desires.

While Anya likely wonders whether Jesus will punish her for being attracted to girls, Leo (Jackson Kelly) nearly collapses under the weight of his own remorse after experiencing an erection. When Grace’s (Sofia Wylie) advances—leaning in for a kiss, or perhaps something more—arouse him, he gets up and rushes out of the room, claiming he needs to use the bathroom; once in the hallway, he is overcome with profound guilt (he even ejaculates right there). Scenes like these are both pathetic and hilarious. 

Shephard turns the self-reproach, shame, and humiliation born of rigid moral conditioning into the butt of the joke, highlighting the futility of attaching guilt and resentment to activities that are, from a biological standpoint, entirely natural. The series’ message is clear: there is nothing inherently shameful about masturbation or sex. In fact, those who preach the opposite risk looking like naive fools; consequently, certain lines—delivered with complete seriousness—regarding sex and religion end up being, almost automatically, laughably absurd. Nevertheless, Shephard does not attack his characters for their immaturity; rather, his critique is directed at the ideas that have been instilled in them. You find yourself laughing at the statements and the concepts, while simultaneously feeling pity for the people themselves.

Moreover, Shephard does not limit herself to sex and religion. She also introduces psychosis, fanaticism, and hysteria through the obsession that radical religious groups have with miracles. This is where we must mention Lisbeth (Geena Meszaros)—an "awkward and isolated" girl whom everyone finds unsettling, and who is desperately seeking to make friends. Lisbeth has no eyebrows (she keeps them trimmed), and, much like the modern-day Carrie, she has no social media, mobile phone, or computer. Lisbeth is also called "Lizzie"—well, well. Unlike Carrie, however, Lisbeth possesses no telekinetic powers. 

Even so, she does have a power: the power of persuasion and manipulation. With her authoritative voice and her brazen attitude, Lisbeth is able to exploit the weaknesses of others—whether it be the shame they feel for breaking a Catholic rule, or their discomfort regarding sex. But the primary reason she is able to target them is their blind faith in superstition. In this regard, Lisbeth differs significantly from Carrie: she is lucid enough to see through all that superstitious nonsense—likely because she grew up watching people being deceived in the name of God. Her father was one of those false preachers who staged circus-like spectacles—involving snakes and other props—and passed them off as magical miracles.

If we look closely, amidst the cries of faith and the orgasmic moans, we realize that if Lisbeth ends up manipulating the other girls, it is because manipulation is the only thing she ever learned, given the upbringing she received. In her father’s eccentric church, she was presented as "the daughter of God." At the same time, Lisbeth finds friendship and acceptance—or, at least, the illusion of them—when she begins delivering sermons about angels and demons, just as her father used to do. There is an intense, feverish sequence in the fifth episode in which the series cuts between confessions, sex, and exorcisms. It should be noted, however, that Lisbeth is, in a sense, nudged into taking on this role. 

It all begins at a Halloween initiation party, where Lisbeth and Anya discover Grace’s body lying outside in the dark. Lisbeth sensibly suggests calling an ambulance, but Anya dismisses the idea, fearing that police involvement could lead to serious trouble (it was Anya who gave Grace ecstasy for the initiation). Desperate to be friends with this "cool" girl, Lisbeth helps Anya cover up the incident; the two secretly take Grace home and leave her, quietly, on her bed. Oh, did I mention that Grace dies during the car ride? Don’t worry: she starts breathing again, though she remains unconscious.

In short, Shephard has created a horror-comedy with a touch of mystery—highly addictive and charged with sexual tension—that will keep you thoroughly entertained and hooked. Even so, by the end of the series, one gets the feeling that a tighter, grittier, and more unbridled version could have existed—perhaps with fewer episodes, or structured as a feature film lasting two to two-and-a-half hours. Given the arc covered in the first season, the whole thing could have been executed with greater boldness and discipline. 

The eight long episodes tend toward repetition—something that becomes especially apparent in the way the girls seem to "reset": at one point, they are having an intense argument about supernatural terrors, trembling with fear; The very next moment, they are laughing, gossiping, and making sarcastic remarks, only to fall prey once again to a terror that leaves them trembling. I understand that the intention is to highlight how, deep down, they are all playing a role—in that sense, they are not so different from Lisbeth’s late father—but this idea could have been conveyed more effectively without repeatedly falling back into the same dynamic.

Something similar happens with the on-again, off-again relationship between Anya and Elise: it becomes a cycle where Elise gets upset by Anya’s lies and poor attitude, only to soften toward her again in the very next scene—or even seconds later—before the whole pattern repeats itself. Over time, this becomes rather irritating. Are the creators being pressured by their superiors to unnecessarily stretch out their series to reach a specific number of episodes, all in the name of boosting viewership figures? I also would have liked to know what Lisbeth thought of her father’s church back when she was actively involved in it. Did she look upon the congregants with contempt, or did she, in fact, enjoy the attention? And how did she manage to develop a perspective different from her brother’s, given that they both grew up in the same environment? Likewise, how is it that Elise feels so secure in her sexuality—to the point where she doesn’t mind being seen as Anya’s girlfriend? How did she come to accept herself? Are her parents more open-minded.

In its depiction of mass hysteria—where even a non-believer ends up converted—*The Body* brings to mind Ritwik Pareek’s *Dug Dug*. Grace’s father, played by Motell Foster, initially rejects the theory that his daughter can perform miracles, but eventually accepts it when, like everyone else, he begins to see Grace in that same light. Meanwhile, the show’s tendency to mock religious organizations that instill absurd moral notions in the minds of their followers calls to mind Paul Verhoeven’s *Benedetta*. 

Unlike Verhoeven, however, Shephard does not dismiss all authority figures; he presents Father Franklin as a genuine devotee of Jesus, avoiding the trap of turning him into a mere punchline or a grotesque, ridiculous, clownish caricature. When he confesses—with complete naivety—that he believed in the girls’ visions and supernatural apparitions, one doesn’t just laugh; one also feels pity for what he has to endure in a world full of charlatans. I believe this is Shephard’s greatest achievement: he manages an unorthodox blend of sex, faith, lies, guilt, uninhibited vulgarity, and violence—all without mocking his own creations. 

Shephard is more interested in exploring the forms that rigid beliefs can take, and the lengths to which people will go to validate absurd superstitions. He never loses sight of his central objective, which is why it’s impossible to truly hate any of the characters. That said, one wishes the series hadn’t run for eight episodes; this length gives the impression that a single idea—or a one-line joke—has been stretched, battered, mistreated, and squeezed dry, causing it to lose some of its original charm. Even so, the conclusion is highly enjoyable: a delightful cliffhanger. It wouldn’t surprise me if many viewers end up clamoring for a second season. In fact, I might well be one of them myself.

Watch The Body 2026 Tv Series Trailer