Ranking Every TV Show of 2021: #s 83-61

We’re ranking every TV show we watched in 2021. If you missed the earlier episodes, you can find them at the following links:

#s 108-95 (tiers 11 and 10)
#s 94-84 (tier 9)

Tier 8: Passable, forgettable
83. Sweet Tooth (Netflix, Season 1). It’s a clever enough idea. Popular culture is rife with depictions of futuristic dystopias, so why not make one that’s oddly plucky and kid-friendly? As its title suggests, there’s a gentleness to Sweet Tooth that helps soften the familiar end-of-days doldrums. And yet, the series struggles to develop any real momentum, in part because it spreads itself too thin, attempting to thread together a hefty number of seemingly disparate characters instead of focusing on the ones who matter. It’s nice to see Nonso Anozie in a starring role, and Stefania LaVie Owen flashes some charisma, so there’s reason to hope for a second-season bump. For the time being, though, Sweet Tooth offers superficial pleasure rather than true nourishment.

82. Master of None (Netflix, Season 3; 2017 rank: 34 of 108). It’s been a weird last few years for Aziz Ansari. Among the bevy of successful male comedians accused of sexual impropriety, he handled the charges better than most, removing himself from the spotlight and appearing to legitimately grapple with his behavior upon his return. As for his art, his solution seems to involve consciously draining it of as much entertainment value as possible. Master of None was always an enjoyably odd show, but for this latest five-episode batch, it’s weirdly austere, channeling Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage by way of Ozu (to my recollection, the camera never moves until the season’s final image), yet devoid of emotional intensity. Ansari also virtually disappears as an actor, popping up only in a handful of scenes, as the series instead shifts its focus to Lena Waithe’s detached author. It’s an odd, poky, fragmentary collection of episodes, one that feels more like an academic experiment than a TV show. The notable exception is the penultimate installment, which centers on Naomi Ackie’s laborious IVF efforts; it’s intimate and detailed, with a sure sense of character. It’s an outstanding piece of television that also exposes the remainder of the season as a relative slog.

81. The Expanse (Amazon, Season 6; last year: 56 of 124). Oh well. I never fully connected with this popular science-fiction series, but I was nevertheless pleased that Amazon brought it back for a final abbreviated run, hoping that it might crest with some genuine excitement. Not to be. Most of the space battles are still too remote to be engaging (the show’s insistence on taking a “hard” sci-fi approach robs it of more conventional pyrotechnic thrills), and the plotting is too messy for the themes to reverberate. (It’s also irritating that the cold opens all involve an entirely different set of characters with no connection to the main narrative whatsoever, presumably setting up a new storyline in the unlikely event of a revival.) Still, the main characters on The Expanse have become impressively well-drawn, and most of the actors—in particular Wes Chatham’s sneakily sensitive brute and Frankie Adams’ no-nonsense marine—bring spark and color to their roles. (Sadly, the great Shohreh Aghdashloo is ill-served this time around.) I’m pleased that this show existed, and I appreciated spending time in its intricate, rigorously imagined universe. I just wish it had travelled somewhere more interesting.

80. Modern Love (Amazon, Season 2; 2019 rank: 50 of 101). I have a weakness for anthologies, as they recognize the value of the episode and embrace the challenge of telling short stories. They’re practically designed to be uneven, the better to provoke conversation: Which was your favorite, the one with the dude from Game of Thrones, or the one with the chick from True Blood? The problem with the new season of Modern Love is that, aside from its opening episode—starring Minnie Driver as a woman with an abiding affection for her sports car, a bizarre premise that suddenly and magically blossoms into a genuinely affecting weepie—none of the remaining episodes is especially memorable. I didn’t mind the riff on Before Sunrise (hi, Lucy Boynton!), and the one about the queer teenagers at a lock-in is halfway affecting. But they’re more suggestive than powerful, which only makes the inevitable duds (wait, is that a Rashomon tribute?) thud even harder. I’d be happy to watch more episodes of this show, but Modern Love isn’t really a show at all; it’s more of a lottery in which only the occasional vignette hits the jackpot.

79. Snowfall (FX, Season 4; 2019 rank: 83). If you’ll permit me a brief confession: My memory is getting worse and worse. So when I write this column summarizing an entire year’s worth of television, sometimes I struggle to recall the details of specific series. The fourth season of Snowfall aired from February to April in 2021; that was a long time ago. My lingering impression was, er, I think I liked it fine? I’m sure I admired Damson Idris’ finely textured lead performance, and I’m equally sure I was exasperated whenever the series focused on Carter Hudson’s shenanigans in Central America. I remember that the new big bad was crudely drawn, but that the tension which sprang up amid the central characters was fairly compelling. I’m reasonably confident that all of this is accurate. Reasonably.

78. American Rust (Showtime, Season 1). Now this one, I remember, even if it took me roughly five months to finish it. American Rust is one of those laudable Serious Dramas that wrestles with Important Themes and involves Conflicted Characters. I’m being unnecessarily snarky, because the show honestly isn’t bad. Jeff Daniels is reliably excellent as a weary, short-tempered cop, Julia Mayorga is a find, and the frequent stabs toward Shakespearean tragedy occasionally produce moments of genuine sorrow. The problem with American Rust is that it strives so earnestly to chronicle the crises afflicting contemporary Appalachia—opioid addiction, carceral corruption, union-busting, police brutality—it frequently verges on parody. I don’t mean to scoff at the struggles of the working class from within the snug confines of my first-world bubble, but the relentless dourness on display here cripples the series’ stabs for resonance. Everyone on this show needs to take a pill.

77. Big Mouth (Netflix, Season 5; last year: 64). If you’ll forgive yet another personal detour: One of my tenets of modern television viewing is a refusal to binge. While I obviously watch a ton of TV, I never watch multiple episodes of the same show in a given night, the better to let individual installments marinate in my brain. So even though Netflix and other streamers insist on dumping out their #content all at once in the expectation that viewers will ravenously consume as many episodes as they can, I prefer to let series breathe. I bring this up not for navel-gazing purposes, but to suggest that when the opposite scenario results—when new episodes of a streaming series sit unwatched in my putative queue for weeks at a time—it likely implies a lack of enthusiasm. And so: Why did it take me so long to finish the latest season of Big Mouth? Why did I constantly turn to other viewing options, only grudgingly pressing “Play” on the next round of raunchy middle-school chicanery when nothing else was available? I suspect it’s because the show seems to have exhausted itself. It isn’t bad; its messaging is still valid, and a solid number of jokes are funny. But what’s left to do? Season 5 seeks to escalate the gross-out extremity beyond an already shattered crass ceiling, which has diminishing returns, and the new invention of a love bug (which can morph into a hate worm, get it?) isn’t especially imaginative. This show is fine. But it’s time for it to grow up.

76. Invincible (Amazon, Season 1). “Oh, great, another fucking superhero show,” you say. And, well, yeah, there’s no denying that. This animated series features the usual costumed crusaders, and despite some surprisingly bloody violence, it still can’t add tangible weight to its many sequences of tiresome mayhem. The real hook of Invincible is that it’s less about saving the world than about growing up and learning who your parents are as people. The idea that superheroes are actually supervillains is nothing new, but channeling that conceit into the story of an overbearing father (voiced with gravelly perfection by J.K. Simmons) seeking to mold his son (Steven Yeun) in his own image carries a certain kick. The show is familiar but also weirdly hard to classify: It’s playful and imaginative, yet also somber and spooky and even a little bit ugly. At this point, it’s struggling to weave these elements into a cohesive package, but its messiness is at least interesting. Keep an eye out for the inevitable, hopefully improved sequel.

75. Insecure (HBO, Season 5; last year: 24). Another show that took me months to finish, this one stings because Season 4 of Insecure was fantastic: a gripping study of female friendship that also examined modern relationships with piercing clarity. The final go-round feels like a severe regression, and not just because it conveniently resets the status quo regarding its leads’ closeness. It also disappointingly morphs into a “Whom will she end up with?” melodrama, like one of those Team X/Team Y young-adult franchises. It’s annoying, because the characters on Insecure are still well-drawn, and it retains its identity in exploring how Black women can (and must) use their intelligence and resolve to thrive in a world that preternaturally disfavors them. Placed within that compelling context, who gives a shit which dude Issa Rae is going to marry?

74. Kin (AMC, Season 1).
73. Gangs of London (AMC, Season 1).
Wait, are we sure these are different shows? They’re both about a British criminal empire (OK, fine, one is Irish) struggling to maintain its foothold in the drug trade while beset by powerful enemies. Dramatically speaking, Kin is the sharper series—narrower in scope, with more clearly defined character dynamics. It’s also kinda dull, wasting Charlie Cox as a reformed ex-con and only really flaring to life when Aidan Gillen shares the screen with a gleefully malevolent Ciarán Hinds. Gangs of London is far more sprawling, with an incomprehensible plot and a pointlessly convoluted structure. What it does provide, though, are scorching set pieces, courtesy of The Raid’s Gareth Evans. If you’re going to bore me with solemn tales of gangland feuds and familial betrayal, at least dazzle me with some bone-crunching brutality. Only one of these competent, tedious shows appreciates that tradeoff.

72. The Shrink Next Door (Apple, Season 1). The logline of The Shrink Next Door—Will Ferrell plays a sad-sack New York businessman who receives therapy from an unusually hip psychologist portrayed by Paul Rudd, who proceeds to ruin his life—might suggest that it’s a riotous comedy, like an inverted version of What About Bob. It isn’t. This doesn’t mean it’s devoid of laughs; there are moments of bleak humor amid the darkness. But the fact-based series is really a perverse study of twisted manipulation, and it’s honestly a pretty rough sit; parts of it play like a horror movie, where you scream at Ferrell’s character to stop making stupid decisions. Rudd’s performance as a viperous predator is kind of extraordinary; he steps right up to the line of mustache-twirling villainy but never crosses it, and his justifications for his vile behavior only make the character more loathsome. Next to him, Ferrell is suitably pathetic but also less plausible, regardless of actual events. Regardless, this is a well-made series starring two gifted comedians, and it’s deeply unpleasant. Welcome to 2021.

Tier 7: Perfectly acceptable
71. In Treatment (HBO, Season 4). It’s funny to remember just how revolutionary In Treatment felt when it premiered in 2008. A new episode for every day of the week? They can do that?!? In 2021, with streamers regularly unloading 13-plus episodes of a new show all at once, the series’ hybrid release schedule—two new installments on Monday and Tuesday over a six-week span—felt positively quaint. And so does the show’s substance, honestly. The premise— Uzo Aduba replaces Gabriel Byrne as a brilliant therapist who treats a trio of troubled patients while also struggling with her own problems—lacks the pep and bracing energy it once possessed. But it still features sharp writing, and the new clients—a do-gooding caretaker (Anthony Ramos), a rebellious queer teenager (Quintessa Swindell), and an entitled rich prick (John Benjamin Hickey)—are sufficiently varied and detailed to avoid repetition. It’s the Aduba-specific segments where the show falters; she’s a gifted actor, but her traumas feel too engineered within the context of such a finely personalized drama. She needs her own shrink in the worst way, but then, HBO’s release plan probably couldn’t accommodate that.

70. Curb Your Enthusiasm (HBO, Season 11; last year: 44). It’s always handy when a TV show critiques itself.

69. Shadow and Bone (Netflix, Season 1). Hey, dragons! Wait, are there dragons in this show? I can’t remember. But there’s some nifty world-building about a sinister void that has cleaved a nation into two warring factions, and there are noble kings and evil sorceresses and pretty horses and ominous creeps skulking about in dimly lit taverns. None of this intrigue translates into an especially compelling story, but it’s also secondary, because Ben Beefcake Barnes plays the love interest/antagonist, and good lord does he have sex appeal. I wish that Shadow and Bone’s set pieces were executed with a bit more snap, that its characters were more sharply defined, and that its writing were a little less clunky. It has plenty of room for improvement. But it looks cool, Jessie Mei Li does solid work as something called a sun summoner, and it’s sufficiently rooted in human emotion so as not to feel like pure fan service. More lusting, please!

68. Cowboy Bebop (Netflix, Season 1). Speaking of world-building, this (much-maligned) adaptation of a popular anime series is impressively realized, fusing strains of Firefly, Blade Runner, The Fifth Element, and countless others. It’s a cool-looking universe—part gleaming innovation, part spit-and-glue construction—and it promises to house some classic stories. Whether any of those stories make it to the screen is another matter. Despite leaning toward a promising bounty-of-the-week structure, the writing is awkward and forced, and the big bad (Alex Hassell) is a pitiful villain, rendering the serialized narrative a dud. Still, the nominal heroes are a fun bunch: John Cho is aces as the devil-may-care lead with a tediously haunted past, Mustafa Shakir brings some quiet poignancy as his exasperated partner, and Daniella Pineda deserves to headline her own show immediately. I understand why Netflix canceled Cowboy Bebop, but I’m still oddly bummed. It wasn’t great, but it had potential. This universe contained more stories to tell.

67. Reservation Dogs (FX on Hulu, Season 1). I get why this show is critically beloved. It has a strong sense of place, it’s moving but unassuming, and it seems to take up space in heretofore unoccupied territory on TV. And yet, the series’ essential shagginess is a real impediment for me. Some of the characters feel so slack that they aren’t so much exploring the concept of teenage ennui as perpetrating it. Thankfully, the show’s strong episodic format allows it to deliver some standout installments, during which secondary characters gain greater definition. (Bonus points for landing the great Zahn McClarnon as a lackadaisical cop.) Reservation Dogs is sweet, sincere, and lived-in. But it could use a bit more oomph.

66. The Serpent (Netflix, Season 1). Suggested tagline: “It’s 1973. Do you know where your staggeringly attractive children are?” The Serpent is a deeply creepy show, examining a horrific (and purportedly true) story in which good-looking, charismatic sociopaths preyed on unsuspecting tourists through a devious combination of flattery, deception, and extreme violence. As an eight-episode narrative, it’s far too sprawling and confusing to fully track; one tends to sympathize with poor Billy Howle, who plays the Dutch diplomat who becomes obsessed with catching a ghostlike serial killer but constantly runs into investigative walls and red tape. Yet even if The Serpent doesn’t work as a procedural, it’s impressively chilling as a portrait of a manipulative monster. Tahar Rahim leverages his innate magnetism to disturbing effect, while the obscenely gorgeous Jenna Coleman nicely straddles the boundary between victim and accomplice. Feel free to watch this show; just be prepared to cancel your daughter’s summer trip to Thailand.

65. This Is Us (NBC, Season 5.5; last year: 77). Nothing has changed. This show has always been fine, and it will be fine forever. The weird part is that, while This Is Us is extremely adequate in the aggregate, its individual episodes vary wildly, sometimes even from scene to scene. This is largely character-specific. At this point, I’ve given up on Chrissy Metz and Chris Sullivan, a relationship that seems to exist simply to prove the maxim that happy marriages can’t exist on TV. And yet, within the very same show, Sterling K. Brown and Susan Kelechi Watson continue to do strong work as a steadfastly loyal couple, even if some of their challenges also feel engineered. The highlight of these past few seasons has been Justin Hartley’s Kevin, who wrestles with his own shallowness; the gentle disintegration of his romance with Caitlin Thompson’s genuinely sweet Madison can feel similarly artificial, but there’s real poignancy in the crumbling. And I haven’t even gotten to the dead dad who’s still a mainstay on the show because time means nothing, so why not constantly play with time and introduce new retcons and twists? Everything is subject to drastic change, even if, qualitatively speaking, nothing ever does.

64. The Head (HBO, Season 1). The setup of The Head—in which a group of scientists in Antarctica find themselves stranded, then become terrorized as someone (or something) begins killing them one by one—might sound awfully familiar if you’ve seen a certain John Carpenter picture. And sure, it’s fair to call this mystery series an extend homage to/rip-off of The Thing. But even if The Head feels derivative, it’s suspenseful enough to keep viewers engaged, with a clever flashback structure, a strong sense of pace, and some sly twists. It also benefits from its chilly setting; the show just feels cold, and the deadly nature of the wilderness adds some charge to its whodunit familiarity. It doesn’t have the biggest heart, but it has a working brain.

63. Lupin (Netflix, Season 1). The first few episodes of Lupin—starring Omar Sy as a master jewel thief, master of disguise, master of pretty much everything—are so easily pleasurable, it’s a shame the series tries to add a bit of grit as it goes on. It makes sense, of course; if everything came too easily to the title character, then there wouldn’t be any sense of conflict or risk. Still, once Lupin lowers itself into the muck—the complex, decades-spanning central storyline involves a necklace, an evil aristocrat, a corrupt cop, yadda yadda—it struggles to reconcile itself with its flashier escapades. That said, Sy is an enormously appealing presence, and the show’s one-man variation on Ocean’s Eleven is consistently alluring. We’ll see if it can better blend its tones in its inevitable second season. In the meantime, less faux intensity, more effortless thievery.

62. Everything’s Gonna Be Okay (Freeform, Season 2; last year: 79). Most 2021 TV shows either ignored COVID-19 entirely or simply gestured toward it in incidental ways. Everything’s Gonna Be Okay, by contrast, leans into the pandemic, confining its main cast within its central house, with departures only for outdoor activities. The results are weirdly fruitful; the claustrophobia lends the character dynamics greater punch, and it also deepens the “chosen family” theme that animates the show. The series can still feel inert on occasion, but the characters are more vividly drawn in Season 2, and the atmosphere of oddness for oddness’ sake has been replaced by a more probing personal curiosity. Throw in the occasional belly laugh (often courtesy of Lori Mae Hernandez’s Barb), and you’ve got a sweet, funny show that doesn’t try too hard yet still manages to lift you up.

61. Dopesick (Hulu, Season 1). Hey, are you familiar with the opioid epidemic in America? If not, then you may find yourself utterly horrified by this series, which chronicles the rise of OxyContin and the fall of countless families in its wake. Issues of factual accuracy aside (Michael Stuhlbarg doesn’t quite play the president of Purdue Pharma as Satan himself, but he comes pretty close), the show is proudly one-sided and defiantly unsubtle. This makes it a little difficult to swallow, especially when certain figures (such as Kaitlyn Dever’s addicted miner) function as instruments of the series’ polemical attacks rather than as actual characters. Still, there’s something compelling about Dopesick’s genuine rage, and its depiction of how bureaucratic gridlock can throttle wholesome idealism is fascinating, if not nearly as nuanced as it could be. The show is far from stellar drama, but it accomplishes its goal: After you watch it, you’d rather your doctor prescribe you shock therapy than Oxy.

Coming later today: cold winters, cruel summers, springy heroes, and autumnal murderers.