Ranking Every TV Show of 2018: #s 30-11

We’re ranking every TV show that we watched in 2018. For prior installments, check out the following links:

#s 93-71
#s 70-51
#s 50-31

30. Forever (Amazon, Season 1). What if you ascended to Heaven, only to discover that Heaven is boring? That’s essentially the premise of Forever, a strange, unpredictable, occasionally frustrating, often wonderful show starring Maya Rudolph and Fred Armisen as a married couple slated to spend eternity living in the same comfortably boring house; they’re supposed to be content, but they gradually realize that contentment is the opposite of fulfillment. Running a tidy eight half-hour episodes, Forever can nevertheless be listless in its storytelling, and its conclusion lacks the personal and thematic clarity that it clearly desired. But the show is still powerful and surprising, exploring human connection in ways both intimate and sweeping. The obvious high point is the sixth episode, a bottle installment starring Hong Chau and Jason Mitchell that exists entirely on its own yet boldly advances the series’ textured portrait of relationships and regrets. It may not last forever, but you’ll be thinking about it for a long, long time.

29. Westworld (HBO, Season 2; 2016 rank: 11 of 88). One of the main threads of the first season of Westworld involved “the maze”, a metaphysical search for meaning in a cruel, violent realm. So it’s ironic that Season 2 ends up chasing its own tail. Westworld has always been a plotty show, but it’s become so focused on mystery—the routine cliffhangers, the multiple timelines, the sudden deaths and resurrections—that it’s paid short shrift to the specter of sadness that made its doomed androids so compelling in the first place. And yet: This show still bangs. On a scene-by-scene basis, the execution is virtually perfect, with robustly orchestrated action scenes, exquisite environmental detail, and evocative displays of sound and color. The fourth episode, which repeatedly finds Peter Mullan grooving to Roxy Music, is a delicious sci-fi mind-bender, while the eighth—a largely self-contained story of loss and rebirth featuring Fargo’s Zahn McClarnon—reminds us of the towering heights that this show can reach. And while Evan Rachel Wood is sadly marginalized this season, the slack is picked up by Thandie Newton, who embodies the show’s relentless drive and intelligence. Westworld may have become too complicated for its own good, but its complex craft is its own reward.

28. Barry (HBO, Season 1). The premise—glum hit man decides to give up the gig and become an actor, ha!—sure seems dopey. And for its first few episodes, Barry threatens to subsist on shtick alone, winkingly melding its two absurdist halves into a cute but ungainly whole. But around the midway point of this eight-episode season, something strange happens: The show becomes real. Bill Hader’s restrained performance gains shape and dimension, while the one-note supporting characters start to feel like actual people. The final two episodes—which wrestle with the question of whether we can ever truly change our lives and who we are—feel almost miraculous, given the silliness of the series that spawned them. Barry is a generally funny show, with quippy dialogue and some hilarious supporting performances, particularly from Henry Winkler and Anthony Carrigan. It’s also a show about choices, destiny, and grief.

27. Jessica Jones (Netflix, Season 2; 2015 rank: 9 of 62). No, it isn’t as good as Season 1, which remains the best pound-for-pound piece of storytelling that Marvel has delivered since Robert Downey Jr. willed the MCU into existence way back in 2008. But Jessica Jones still has Krysten Ritter, and Krysten Ritter is still a baller. She makes the show’s pain real, and her intensity and dexterity elevate a season that occasionally stumbles in its plotting and pacing. And while the new big bad is an inevitable letdown—Janet McTeer does fine work, but she could never hope to replicate the awesome terror of David Tennant’s Kilgrave—the heart of the show remains the complex friendship between Jessica and Rachael Taylor’s Trish. Whenever these two strong-willed women spar with and support one another, Jessica Jones sheds its comic-book limitations and becomes the rich, character-driven show it’s always been.

26. Brockmire (IFC, Season 2; last year: 58 of 108). I enjoyed the first season of Brockmire, but it also felt a little gimmicky, coasting on Hank Azaria’s self-loathing and Amanda Peet’s vivacity without really digging under its characters’ skin. That changes dramatically in Season 2, which uproots the series from Pittsburgh to New Orleans and finds our alcoholic hero bottoming out in spectacular style. Azaria is still very funny, and he and Tyrel Jackson Williams have honed a whip-smart Abbot-and-Costello patter. (Also funny: Utkarsh Ambudkar as Brockmire’s cheerfully clueless rival.) But the damage lurking behind his acerbic charm is more evident now, and Brockmire explores it with a skillful combination of humor and sincerity. This doesn’t make the show unpleasant—Azaria’s next scabrous quip is always seconds away—but it does make its pleasures more resonant.

25. Wynonna Earp (Syfy, Season 3). I will always be partial to Buffy clones, but Wynonna Earp becomes something special in its third season, carving out its own territory in the neo-mythological landscape. Sure, the special effects will always be lame with a budget this low, and the series still hasn’t supplied a sufficiently compelling villain who’s worthy of battling its fiery protagonist. But the central cast is now so comfortable, so inhabiting, that it’s an enormous pleasure just to watch them fight, flirt, collaborate, and bicker. As the heroine, Melanie Scrofano remains wonderfully caustic and quietly wounded, while the romance between Dominique Provost-Chalkley and Katherine Barrell is one of the most joyous relationships I’ve seen depicted on the small screen. And while the character dynamics tend to outstrip the broader mythology, the writing still flashes enough imaginative spark to keep things lively. That’s most true in this season’s fifth episode, which threatens our heroes in ways both hilarious and legitimately suspenseful. Wynonna Earp may always live in Wyatt’s shadow, but Wynonna Earp is defiantly, gloriously its own.

24. A Very English Scandal (Amazon, Season 1). At just three hours, A Very English Scandal is closer to a movie than a TV show. But it still follows the rhythms of television, swiftly establishing its setup—an initially sweet romance between Hugh Grant’s politician and Ben Whishaw’s hapless nobody turns sour in a hurry—before turning to the twisted, stranger-than-fiction fallout. The leads are both excellent, especially Grant, who once again spikes his pretty-boy charm with a toxic pinch of narcissism. (Separately, Adrian Scarborough is very good as an amoral barrister.) But what’s really compelling about A Very English Scandal is the way it demonstrates how the levers of power can be manipulated to suppress the weak in favor of the strong. That sounds depressing, and in a way it is, but the show is also indecently entertaining, with sharp dialogue and a breezy pace. Quite right.

23. Dear White People (Netflix, Season 2; last year: 37). Following a bracing first season that boldly examined American race relations in the context of a troupe of privileged college kids, Dear White People digs even deeper in Season 2, grappling with how a national history of prejudice continues to shape and distort modern life. But while the show is proudly intellectual—it’s set at a fictional university, after all—it isn’t academic. Instead, it’s punchy and playful, with a structural rigor—each episode again centers on a single student—that enhances the clarity of its message. The craft is as sharp as ever, while the performances—particularly Logan Browning as a biracial radio host attacked by armies of trolls—are nuanced and nimble. America in 2018 is a messy place; Dear White People evokes that messiness with startling precision.

22. The Deuce (HBO, Season 2; last year: 27). David Simon’s shows are devoutly democratic to the point of being scattered, which is what made Maggie Gyllenhaal’s tour-de-force performance in Season 1 of The Deuce something of an anomaly; Gyllenhaal’s self-made sex worker-cum-pornography auteur was such a luminous character, the series tended to dim whenever she was off screen. Gyllenhaal isn’t as front-and-center this time around, which has its pros and cons. She’s still the highlight of the show, particularly her creation of a Deep Throat-esque skin flick, a thrilling behind-the-scenes study of guerrilla filmmaking that also makes great use of Gbenga Akinnagbe as a lethargic pimp who suddenly discovers a passion for acting. But Season 2 also makes room for another highlight, namely the toxic relationship between Emily Meade’s prostitute and Gary Carr’s pimp; as she struggles to break free of illicit sex work for the relative paradise of legalized pornography, he tightens his grip, resulting in a disturbing cycle of freedom and subjugation. These stories are so good, and told with such a keen eye for period detail, that the rest of The Deuce—such as James Franco’s nagging dissatisfaction at working for the mob, or Lawrence Gilliard Jr.’s struggle to police the streets in the face of rampant corruption, or Chris Coy’s dreams of opening an upscale night club, or at least a half-dozen other subplots—can feel somewhat slack. Still, this portrait of 1977 New York teems with evocative flourishes, understated drama, and mordant humor. It may meander, but it still knows how to deliver a money shot.

21. The End of the Fucking World (Netflix, Season 1). It just seems so schematic: Two misfits with nothing in common join forces and run away, leaving a trail of hilarious wreckage in their wake. Yet it doesn’t take long before The End of the Fucking World starts defying expectations, delivering a tender, impressively honest story about two damaged people who end up clinging to one another for warmth and salvation. Alex Lawther is solid as the seemingly psychopathic boy, while Jessica Barden is terrific as the spitfire girl; their performances complement one another without ever veering into showmanship. And while the twin voiceovers seem gimmicky at first, they end up generating their own form of power, particularly in a throwaway moment at the end of the sixth episode. “I’m scared,” Barden’s fragile firebrand confesses, first to herself and then to her companion. It’s hard to blame her, but in the hands of storytelling this confident and insightful, there’s nothing to fear.

20. Sharp Objects (HBO, Season 1). Yikes. This show is decidedly imperfect, almost proudly so; the frenetic editing scheme alone seems designed to give viewers a headache. But good lord is it intense. As a mystery series, Sharp Objects is about what you’d expect, with loads of red herrings and shady suspects and gossipy neighbors and louche public servants, all leading up to an admittedly jaw-dropping ending. (The finale also inspired my first and only tweet that could remotely be dubbed viral.) But as a character study, it’s a force of nature, powered by Amy Adams’ searing performance as a reporter who cuts through bullshit in more ways than one. Patricia Clarkson is utterly terrifying as a mother with an emotional deficit, while Eliza Scanlen makes a major impression as a teenager with an impetuous streak. You may admire Sharp Objects’ ruthlessness; you may be horrified by its unflinching ugliness. But whatever you do: Don’t tell mama.

19. Homecoming (Amazon, Season 1). I’m generally a Mr. Robot apologist, but even I’ll concede that it’s grown bulky over its past two seasons, abandoning all discipline in favor of outsized thrills. So it’s a relief that Sam Esmail reminds us what he can do with Homecoming, a superbly taut series that doesn’t sport an inch of fat. (Of course, it’s possible that this changes with future seasons, but we’ll deal with that then.) The central mystery of Homecoming is intriguing, and Esmail teases out its details with masterful patience. But as with Mr. Robot, it’s his craftsmanship that really shines—his command of framing, the way he wields the camera with such brio. Julia Roberts and Stephan James are both very good—and keep your eye on Hong Chau, doing a lot with little—but the highlight is Shea Whigham as a drained bureaucrat with a niggling conscience. He’s convinced that there’s more here than meets the eye. He’s right, of course, but also wrong; straight from the start of Homecoming, there is plainly so much to see.

18. The Magicians (Syfy, Season 3; last year: 30). The danger with science-fiction shows is that they fail to abide by their own rules, constantly contradicting their internal logic in the name of raising the stakes. The Magicians doesn’t really have this problem, not because it’s scrupulously faithful but because I don’t know what the hell its rules even are. And that doesn’t matter in the slightest, because this show has developed its own revitalizing style, with a welcome focus on individual episodes that tell discrete stories with wit and élan. Season 3 serves up a bevy of these fascinating installments: an hour focused entirely on Arjun Gupta’s Penny, screaming to be noticed in the wake of his apparent death; the mesmerizing “A Life in the Day”, where two friends somehow spend an eternity together in the blink of an eye; a partitioned episode that plays out the same sequence of events from six different perspectives, including one that takes place in absolute silence. This level of imagination would be worthwhile on its own, but The Magicians marries its inspired storytelling with a terrific cast, highlighted by Gupta, Hale Appleman, and the pitch-perfect Summer Bishil as a takes-no-shit queen bee who in the third season becomes an actual queen. The show’s rules may be unclear, but it keeps breaking them anyway, with spectacular results.

17. Succession (HBO, Season 1).
16. Billions (Showtime, Season 3; last year: 7).
I can’t help but group these shows together, as they’re both about absolute power corrupting absolutely. They’re also both obscenely entertaining, mining the exploits of largely disreputable characters for vicarious thrills and vulgar humor. But there’s an emotional sophistication to both series that shouldn’t go overlooked. Succession is in some ways a King Lear-like tragedy about a cadre of selfish children scrambling to assume control of their father’s empire; they’re pretty much all assholes, sure, but there’s some real pathos in their respective predicaments. That’s heightened by the deft performances, most notably from Jeremy Strong, Kieran Culkin, and Sarah Snook.

As for Billions, it isn’t quite as electrifying as it was in Season 2, partly because the demands of the serialized plot mean that Paul Giamatti’s ferocious prosecutor and Damian Lewis’ shady hedge fund manager are now fighting their own separate battles rather than circling one another. But the writing remains exhilarating, with loads of delicious pop-culture references and a keen eye on the present political moment (enter Clancy Brown as the new Attorney General, whose persona here is essentially Jeff Sessions, but smart). The show also continues to make strong use of its exceptionally deep bench; Maggie Siff remains the series’ heart and soul as a psychiatrist with intimate ties to both leading men, while Asia Kate Dillon and David Costabile continue to spar beautifully as respective ego and id. (Also, John Malkovich shows up as a Russian mobster, because why not?) Succession and Billions are both imperfect, but they also exemplify the pleasures that can arise when smart writers work with smart actors to tell interesting stories. My money’s on both of them.

15. Supergirl (The CW, Seasons 3.5 and 4.0; last year: 12). It still has problems. The action can still be spotty, the villains can still be dicey, and the writing can still be clunky. And I still don’t care. Supergirl has the biggest heart of any show I’ve ever seen, and its warm glow of empathy makes it absolutely essential viewing. Plus, after a shaky wrap-up to its third season, Season 4 has played like gangbusters, with an astonishingly direct rebuke of the insidious, hateful rhetoric of the MAGA movement. This is what comic-book storytelling can do: hold up a mirror to our own world and reveal its defects in exciting and thought-provoking ways. Beyond its invaluable messaging, the series remains deeply pleasurable, with strong chemistry across the entire cast, led as always by Melissa Benoist’s incandescent portrayal as the Girl of Steel. She may not be the hero we deserve, but she’s certainly the one we need.

14. Jane the Virgin (The CW, Season 4.5; last year: 21). How many shows reach their fourth season and keep getting better? You’d think that Jane the Virgin would eventually run out of steam, that its nervy amalgam of telenovela tropes and character-focused storytelling wouldn’t be able to mesh indefinitely. Nope. This series has grown downright beautiful, with powerful themes and a ceaseless ability to reinvent itself. What hasn’t changed is the warmth of its characterizations, and the gentle fire of Gina Rodriguez’s lead performance. (Frankly, the only reason the show didn’t land in the top 10 is that it only aired 10 episodes in 2018.) Throw in a momentous cliffhanger in its finale, and the return of the Villanueva family—which is a lot like yours, even if it’s also decidedly not—can’t come fast enough.

13. My Brilliant Friend (HBO, Season 1). Hoo boy. I’ve never read any of Elena Ferrante’s novels, so I can’t speak to the fidelity of this adaptation. What I can say is that this series is achingly raw, with a tremendous sense of time, place, and atmosphere. It isn’t perfect; there are a few too many indistinguishable male characters, and the pacing can feel a little sluggish. But in chronicling the burgeoning camaraderie between two gifted young women, My Brilliant Friend taps into the excruciating pain of adolescence, not to mention articulating the queasy dynamics of a patriarchal society. Gaia Girace is coiled fury as a perpetually objectified prodigy, while Margherita Mazzucco is pure heartbreak as her withdrawn, faltering companion. In certain moments—particularly in the closing scenes of several episodes—the show uses its formal audacity to deliver something transcendent, an elemental agony that seems to shatter the screen. The universal process of teenage awakening has rarely been realized with such grief, and such beauty.

12. BoJack Horseman (Netflix, Season 5; last year: 16). I wasn’t expecting to compare this show to Jane the Virgin, but BoJack Horseman is another rare example of a series that manages to stay fresh while still hewing to the same formula that made it so good in the first place. For Season 5, that means squarely addressing Time’s Up and #MeToo, which the show does with its uncanny combination of acerbity and sincerity. BoJack Horseman is always acridly funny, and the writing continues to sparkle in its final season; an extended eulogy in the sixth episode builds to a killer punch line, while the following installment toys with animation to brilliant comic effect. But this show is always going to be about pain, and it continues to find new ways for its protagonist to descend into darkness. That may sound dire, but the storytelling on BoJack is too bracing to be miserable; there’s an inventiveness on display that feels historic in its versatility and depth. Maybe someday, it’ll finally reach its limit, but if the past five seasons are any indication, there’s no bottom in sight.

11. Pose (FX, Season 1). As a show starring a number of black and Latinx trans actors, Pose would have been a commercial impossibility as recently as, say, five years ago. That makes its very existence rewarding, but appreciating its presence also risks diminishing the sheer verve that the series exhibits, a creative confidence that borders on brashness. Highlighted by its many, uniformly delightful ball sequences, Pose is grandly entertaining, telling big, bold stories with style and charm. It also has a lot to say, and its messages—about tolerance, bigotry, and humanism—are important. But they feel tangential next to the show’s vibrant characters, all of whom are portrayed with subtlety and grace. The standouts are Dominique Jackson as a glamorous diva forced to reckon with her suddenly reduced social status, Billy Porter as a boisterous emcee who insists on keeping his tragic circumstances private, and Indya Moore as a dejected sex worker who tumbles into a complex affair with a New Jersey businessman. Their journeys don’t fit the typical template of American television, but their sorrow and joy are universal. And so is the sensation of pleasure elicited by this unique, majestic, wonderful show.

Coming tomorrow: the top 10.