Ranking Every TV Show of 2020, Part I: #s 124-110

2020 was a terrible year for the world. It was also a spectacular year for TV.

These two truths are complementary, not contradictory. To begin with, many of the TV shows that aired in 2020 were filmed pre-pandemic, so the continued flow of high-quality comedies and intense dramas from sets to homes was simply a function of the pipeline’s normal operations. But beyond that, once COVID-19 upended our daily lives and thwarted even the most basic aspects of communal experience—the play dates and restaurant outings, the long trips to see relatives and the short visits to the theater, the subway commutes and water-cooler conversations—the normally private world of television became a shared haven. Powered by our natural craving for interaction, it morphed from a naturally recessive space into a digital cooperative; it was where we went to find each other, to eagerly debate the best premieres and the worst finales, to collectively laugh and cry and cheer and bicker and maybe just distract ourselves from the all-too-real horrors of the world raging beyond our screens. Forget about cancel culture being a phony grievance; in 2020, TV culture was virtually the only thing that wasn’t cancelled.

Of course, some of us participated more than others. I myself watched 124 different TV shows in 2020, a truly absurd number (and a personal record, up from 108 in 2017) that also seems weirdly low, given how COVID amplified my already-hermitic tendencies. This means that I definitely watched more than you did, but given the sheer volume of #content available over the airwaves (or through the interwebs), it also means that I didn’t watch everything you watched. As ever, I do not care; I am constitutionally incapable of being shamed for not watching a particular series because, in case you hadn’t noticed, I already watched 124 fucking shows in a single year. Match that number, then maybe we can talk.

One more note before we get to the rankings. This is, as ever, a profoundly silly exercise, and it’s susceptible to bad-faith inferences. (To the extent anyone ever comments on my work, it’s usually an angry remark along the lines of, “You seriously ranked 70 shows ahead of The Expanse, what the hell is wrong with you??”) I’ve repeatedly stressed that these rankings don’t represent a bell curve, because (a) I don’t intentionally waste my time watching bad TV, and (b) most TV these days is pretty good anyway. But that never seems to stick, so this year, in addition to the rigid numerical structure—and in conformance with a similar change I made in my annual movie rankings, along with my overall Twitter persona—I’m imposing tiers. The goal here is to group shows together based on their overall quality, and to remove nitpicky focus on the particular slots.

Will this work? Probably not. But whatever, the more times people yell at me for ranking 52 different shows above The Mandalorian, the more I’m doing the lord’s work of informing people about the existence of those 52 shows. I am, as ever, just a humble servant, as well as an addict who watches way too much TV.

Let’s get to it. Here are our rankings of every TV show we watched in 2020:

Tier 12: Shows that were, in fact, bad
124. The Sinner (USA, Season 3; 2018 rank: 85 of 93). The Sinner was never good, but in its first season—starring Jessica Biel as an enigmatic murderess, with Bill Pullman as the empathetic detective assigned to her case—it had its moments of riotous sleaze. Its follow-up replaced Biel with Carrie Coon, ditching the kitsch and replacing it with something more solemn, portentous, and dull. Round 3 is somehow the worst of both worlds: a laughably pompous philosophy seminar on the nature of human evil, combined with a phenomenally stupid story about a sensitive teacher who goes off the rails. Sure, Matt Bomer is a dreamboat, and Pullman is always watchable, but they can’t make this psychobabble meaningful; even worse, they can’t make it entertaining.

123. 13 Reasons Why (Netflix, Season 4; last year: 94 of 101). The trajectory of this show has been typical and also weirdly fascinating. After a tremendous first season and an uneven but underrated second, it tanked completely in Season 3, forgetting why it was good in the first place (strong characters, sensitive insight into teen angst) and instead transforming into a ghoulish murder mystery. Its final batch of episodes is an unmitigated disaster, a fever-pitched thriller with hairpin turns and wildly unpersuasive character shifts. Yet it’s also perversely interesting. How did a series that was once so earnest and thoughtful become so completely unhinged? Future students should examine the issue, though hopefully not in a school that suffers as many inexplicable, high-strung torments as the campus that’s the setting of this once-great, ultimately demented show.

122. Moonbase 8 (Showtime, Season 1).
121. Space Force (Netflix, Season 1).
We really needed two of these? I’m all for mocking the inanity of the Trump administration, but at least do it with some energy or wit. In empirical terms, Moonbase 8 is probably the less bad series; it’s shorter, which means it has less time to waste on nonsense. But there’s something irritatingly smug about it, as though it’s suggesting that throwing three talented comedians (John C. Reilly, Tim Heidecker, and Fred Armisen) into a desert igloo is inherently hilarious, and that if you don’t automatically find them funny, it’s because you’re not smart enough to get the joke. Space Force is a more traditional TV show, in that it attempts to actually be funny, and also to develop a sliver of plot. But despite the comic gifts of Steve Carell, John Malkovich, and others (please, someone, give Booksmart’s Diana Silvers a decent role), it’s a total dud, with entire episodes that just feel feeble and listless. The concept of the U.S. government mobilizing to send soldiers into space is fertile ground for an inventive and incisive comedy. Maybe someday, somebody will make one.

120. The Pale Horse (Amazon, Season 1). No Agatha Christie adaptation should ever be this boring.

119. Warrior Nun (Netflix, Season 1). OK, this show is bad. Its writing is clunky, its action is silly, its effects are patchy, and its acting is, shall we say, uneven. Still, there’s something about this malformed Buffy clone that’s kind of… sweet? I don’t mean it’s tender, because it lacks the emotional sophistication for that. But a series about a disabled suicidal teenager who magically transforms into a Bible-touting superhero is, if not intelligent, at least intriguing. There’s an entire episode here that just follows two young women as they’re hiding out in a small Italian town while being hunted by some gargantuan demon, and the execution is quite poor, but conceptually it shows some promise. Just replace the writers, the directors, and half of the cast, and Warrior Nun might become halfway-decent.

118. I Know This Much Is True (HBO, Season 1). I have no standing objection to depressing material; in fact, I’m all for characters suffering, so long as I’m invested in their fates. But I Know This Much Is True, which adapts Wally Lamb’s novel over seven languorous episodes, is punishing in its miserabilism, with no nuance or texture. It’s just an unpleasant slog, and despite Mark Ruffalo’s committed performance(s) as two very different twins, it lacks the emotional clarity that’s needed to make its brutality meaningful. That it concludes with a sudden and inexplicable ray of sunshine is a cruel feint; I thought for a moment that I felt something, until I realized it was just relief that the series was finally over.

Tier 11: Not completely worthless
117. Ratched (Netflix, Season 1). 2020 was a productive year for Ryan Murphy, if only in the quantitative sense. The first year of his lucrative deal with Netflix, he cranked out three different series that sported his usual trash, a mixture of heightened technique and tawdry themes. Ratched—starring Sarah Paulson as Nurse, well, you know—isn’t without its pleasures; there’s a seductive sheen to the cinematography, along with colors that are downright voluptuous. But despite its fancy trimmings, the show is pure shlock, with ugly twists and outré violence standing in for developed characters and coherent staging. Didn’t you ever wonder about Nurse Ratched’s origin story? Neither did I, and this series’ extravagant absurdity didn’t change my mind.

116. The New Pope (HBO, Season 2; 2017 rank: 73 of 108). The title sequences—whether it’s nuns dancing to techno in their underwear or a bare-chested Jude Law striding along a beach—are spectacular. Pity about the rest. Honestly, I admire this show’s ambition and its refusal to play by typical prestige-TV rules, but it’s far too proud of its own oddness. John Malkovich’s winkingly arch performance doesn’t help, and neither does keeping Law on ice for most of the second season. And while Paolo Sorrentino’s craft is impressive, it’s now dwarfed by his ponderousness. I know that keeping the faith is a challenge, but finding it shouldn’t be this hard.

115. Black Narcissus (FX, Season 1). I have no philosophical rule against remakes; if there’s a valid artistic reason for rejiggering a classic, then go for it. The problem with FX’s three-episode miniseries of Black Narcissus is that it does virtually nothing to distinguish itself from the Powell and Pressburger film. It’s longer, obviously (the movie clocks in at a trim 102 minutes), but there’s no meat to all of the extra padding, no added depth of character. There certainly isn’t any of the lush melodrama that splashed across screens in 1947, and that’s the series’ greatest failing. Gemma Arterton is suitably soulful, and Aisling Franciosi supplies a touch of madness, but the series seems positively devoid of the original’s suppressed desire, instead supplying wan sensitivity. The same pieces are in place, but the bell never tolls.

114. Belgravia (Epix, Season 1). Say this for Julian Fellowes: He never lies to you. Downton Abbey was appealing in part for how fluidly it steered its high-and-low characters toward their predetermined destinations; if its later seasons felt dispiritingly repetitious, that’s only because it kept giving viewers what they wanted. Belgravia, which Fellowes adapted from his novel, is very much more of the same, replete with two-dimensional characters (they’re all frightfully honorable, except for the few who are utterly irredeemable), chaste desire, and lifestyle porn. It is obscenely predictable, which isn’t entirely a bad thing; guiding an audience toward a manifestly engineered outcome requires a certain skill. The real problem with Belgravia is that its heroes, designed to be avatars of either wholesome nobility or common-man decency, are mostly a bunch of bores. The series feels more alive when it alights on Adam James’ mustache-twirling count (or viscount, or earl, or whatever); James brings a sense of true malevolence that goes beyond garden-variety wicked and seems genuinely appalling. I found myself rooting for him, even though I knew that I—unlike most of the series’ genteel do-gooders—would end up disappointed.

113. War of the Worlds (Epix, Season 1). The title is a misnomer, and not just because this odd little series obviously can’t compare to Steven Spielberg’s mammoth sci-fi marauder. Really, despite the premise of a terrifying alien invasion, this War of the Worlds doesn’t have much to do with the classic H.G. Wells novel at all. It’s instead a gritty survivalist tale, watching grimly as humans band together or—more often—splinter apart. It’s intriguing material in the abstract; the problem with the show is that it struggles to create compelling characters or dynamic situations. The aliens themselves resemble larger versions of the robot dog from that one episode of Black Mirror; they’re creepy, but most of the set pieces are devoid of true suspense, while the cast is too diffuse for any of the terrorized figures to acquire any real definition. The possible exception is Daisy Edgar-Jones’ young blind woman who develops a disturbing symbiotic kinship with the attackers. Had the series focused exclusively on her, it might have been genuinely thought-provoking. As it is, it’s a decently sketched idea that features more frills than thrills.

112. Dash & Lily (Netflix, Season 1). In its opening stretch, Dash & Lily hints at becoming a cute deconstruction of romantic-comedy tropes. By the time it ends, it reveals itself as neither a witty send-up nor a satisfying rom-com in its own right. It’s a shame, because there are some strong elements at work here: a bifurcated structure; some casually progressive ideas; a wistful ode to books and bookstores. But the problem with keeping your leads apart for most of your series’ run is that it prevents them from developing any real chemistry; the dorky best friend, the exasperated older brother, and the sexy-but-wise ex-girlfriend can only carry things so far. And without a rooting interest in the central romance, the winsomeness starts to feel trite. More like You’ve Got Fail, amirite?

111. Hollywood (Netflix, Season 1). [Anna Kendrick in Scott Pilgrim voice] Ryan Murphy! Again? Hollywood isn’t quite as ridiculous a show as Ratched, but what it lacks in grisly murders and extreme bloodletting, it makes up for with sugary sweetness and cornpone silliness. It actually starts off promisingly, depicting the glamour of 1940s Tinseltown while also revealing the industry’s rank bigotry and crude corruption. As it proceeds, however, it shifts awkwardly into a crowd-pleasing fantasy, sacrificing texture in favor of wish fulfillment. There’s nothing wrong with characters receiving a happy ending, but the gooeyness of Hollywood feels unearned, and untethered from the lacerating satire that the series initially purports to be. It’s very pretty, and pretty dumb.

110. Year of the Rabbit (IFC, Season 1). I have conclusively established, on various platforms, that I am Bad At Comedy. One symptom of this disease is that I struggle to determine whether or not a comedy series is, in fact, good. Year of the Rabbit is… funny, I guess? It has a reasonably inventive premise, casting Matt Berry (from What We Do in the Shadows) as a loose-cannon detective rampaging his way through turn-of-the-century London. It has some clever jokes and anachronistic humor. Everyone involved seems to be enjoying themselves. I bear it no ill will. And yet it makes vanishingly little impact. Perhaps it’s a work of comedic genius, but I’m more inclined to suspect that it’s a wacky little curio—a trinket that you mindlessly pick up at a thrift shop and then, not long after and just as carelessly, swipe into the trash.

Coming later today: interstellar adventures, Texas noirs, jealous assassins, and feminist comedies.