We all know there’s too much TV. But what if TV is under existential threat? One of the programs you won’t find in the upcoming series of posts—which, per annual tradition, will count down every TV show I watched in the prior calendar year, concluding with the top 10 on Friday—is the second season of Raised by Wolves. It’s not that I didn’t want to watch the series; it’s that I couldn’t. To be more precise, I saw the first six episodes of HBO’s weird off-world thriller last February before losing interest, promising myself I’d finish it when I had more time. But last week, when I resolved to power through the rest of the show at long last, I discovered that HBO Max had removed it from its library entirely.
As first-world problems go, this one would seem to be relatively insignificant. But it’s indicative of the broader, troubling trend in which streaming services banish existing programs—some of which have already been produced yet never actually aired—to avoid paying residuals and other associated, incomprehensible costs. This is new, and it’s bad. The utopian conception of the #PeakTV era was a glutted marketplace where viewers had infinite choices, and their only problem was deciding which shows to pluck from the sprawling meadow of lush entertainment. Now that meadow is morphing into a weedy garden, and providers are less interested in planting new seeds than in pruning moldy shrubs which don’t earn their keep. TV shows used to last forever; now, some of them die before they’re born.
Which doesn’t mean that television in 2022 lacked for options. I wound up watching 110 TV shows last year, and if only a handful were truly excellent, the vast majority were reliably diverting. In fact, most TV these days seems to have settled into a comfortable middle ground of adequacy—typically satisfying, rarely earth-shattering. For that reason, I’ve decided to stop grouping these rankings (which are already an absurd exercise) into detailed tiers, aside from the following macro classes:
Tier 1 (outstanding): #s 1-15
Tier 2 (deeply enjoyable): #s 16-28
Tier 3 (consistently watchable): #s 29-81
Tier 4 (eh they’re fine): #s 82-107
Tier 5 (bad!): #s 108-110
See the problem there? The whole theory of tiers is that you can shake up the entries within each group and rearrange them without making much of a qualitative fuss. But when I can honestly swap my 30th-favorite series of the year with my 80th and still have the rankings make sense, then the whole thing becomes rather silly.
Does that mean I don’t care about this exercise, or that I don’t encourage you to respond with your apoplectic complaints about how #67 is dramatically superior to #45? Not at all. Just remember that for me, this is more of a recordkeeping exercise than an ironclad list. To wit, the usual disclaimers apply: no, these rankings aren’t a bell curve (see above re: 80-plus shows grading out as “consistently watchable”); yes, I watched every episode of every series that I ranked (both current and prior seasons); no, I don’t care about your favorite random show that I ignored; yes, you should take that personally.
On to the list:
110. Peaky Blinders (Netflix, Season 6; 2019 rank: 88 of 101). I don’t know that Peaky Blinders was ever a good show, but it used to be a fun one, with its dastardly deeds and its steampunk soundtrack and its jolting violence and its dreadful haircuts. But a few years ago, it attempted to morph into A Serious Show, and it never recovered. The final season has its pleasures—Anya Taylor-Joy is typically magnetic in her handful of scenes, and Amber Anderson makes an impression as a licentious gorgon—but otherwise it’s an unpleasant slog: overplotted, overacted, and haphazardly stylized. I’m sympathetic to critics who lament shows being cancelled too early in their run; the flip-side risk is this kind of artistic atrophy.
109. Rick and Morty (Adult Swim, Season 6; last year: 88 of 108). In the immortal opening scene of The Social Network, Jesse Eisenberg asks Rooney Mara why she’s dumping him, and she responds with supreme irritation, “Because it is exhausting, dating you is like dating a StairMaster.” That’s how I feel about Rick and Morty, which flaunts its cleverness so relentlessly, the sheer task of processing it becomes a form of mental gymnastics. I’m sure that others will stop watching the series in light of the allegations against co-creator Justin Roiland (whom Adult Swim swiftly severed ties with, while insisting the show itself must go on). For me, I’d already decided that the only path forward was for us to break up.
108. Killing Eve (BBC America, Season 4; 2020 rank: 92 of 124). What a waste. There’s something weirdly noxious about the final season of this once-great show. Its glibness has become affected, its violence has shifted from playful to pointless, and its character work feels completely random. Even the moments where stars Sandra Oh and Jodie Comer share the screen, already precious few in number, are forced and uncertain. And the ultimate conclusion is laughably arbitrary. If nothing else, at least it’ll stay dead.
107. Archive 81 (Netflix, Season 1). The dual-timeline premise, in which an archivist researches grimy old footage and stumbles upon cultish atrocities, carries some noirish potential. But despite some spooky atmosphere, the series hinges too heavily on obscure plotting and ghastly twists. When a show prioritizes its mystery over its characters, it reduces its appeal to a tedious exercise.
106. The Girl Before (HBO, Season 1). I love Gugu Mbatha-Raw, and I wish TV producers loved her too. (I’m still bitter about her character’s fate on The Morning Show.) She’s instantly compelling here as a woman who moves into a technologically fancy art-deco home designed by a potentially evil architect (David Oyelowo), then wonders if she’s become the target of a perverse game of psychological cat-and-mouse. But the promise of the early episodes soon fizzles into rote theatrics, accompanied by the usual snarls and shrieks. Mbatha-Raw remains talented, but for her, I’m less interested in The Girl Before than in what comes after.
105. 1899 (Netflix, Season 1). We seem to be experiencing a run on “overwritten mystery whose puzzle-box structure drowns out its humanity” shows. From the creators of the alluring, impenetrable Dark, 1899 features its share of spooky images, and its otherworldliness is initially intriguing. But that sense of intrigue eventually devolves into nonsense, and because the show treats its characters as victims rather than people, it never acquires any resonance. At various points, the passengers here wonder if they actually exist, a fitting metaphor for such slickly packaged nothingness.
104. Our Flag Means Death (HBO, Season 1). From a distance, I can see how this series—about an ineffectual dandy (Rhys Darby) who attempts to slough off his first-world ennui by becoming a gentlemanly pirate—might play as charming. It’s certainly whimsical, and there’s a sweetness to its tone that’s difficult to fake. But shouldn’t it be, like, funny? Taika Waititi earns a few laughs as Blackbeard, but overall the show feels weirdly smug, as though its offbeat setup is inherently rewarding. When Claudia O’Doherty pops up in the finale and instantly seizes command, it’s enough to make you wish the entire series revolved around her from the start; she possesses a spirit, an energy, that Our Flag Means Death doesn’t so much lack as actively disregard.
103. Snowfall (FX, Season 5; last year: 79). Seriously, Season 5?? And it’s still going, with the (blessedly) final batch airing later this month? Snowfall is possibly the most adequate show on TV, which is another way of declaring it the least memorable. Sure, stuff happens—there’s one episode, featuring Raymond J. Barry as a sadistic taxidermist with a pet tiger, that’s an absolute banger—but for the most part the series is just there, without enriching its characters or juicing its narrative. Originally created by John Singleton, this show is meant to comment on the institutional prejudices of American democracy and how they impacted an entire generation of enterprising Black men. It shouldn’t be so forgettable.
102. Snowpiercer (TNT, Season 3; last year: 85). I take it back; this is the most aggressively adequate show on TV. Even worse, I’m forced to root for its return—not because I want to watch it, but because TNT is currently pulling that “Just because production wrapped on Season 4 doesn’t mean we need to actually air the episodes” bullshit. In any event, Daveed Diggs is far too charismatic an actor to be running in place on this show, and the same goes double for Jennifer Connelly (I thought she escaped, but no!). The series’ basic structure—the survivors of an apocalypse must learn how to rebuild society, and also there’s lots of murder on a train—will always be appealing, but Snowpiercer is just too damn average to be interesting. Time to disembark.
101. The Book of Boba Fett (Disney, Season 1). Once you accept that Disney is a soulless corporation whose sole function is to bleed every one of its properties for maximum profit, artistic relevance be damned, then a Boba Fett TV series seems kinda cool. The Mandalorian already proved that an episodic show about a bounty hunter set in the Star Wars universe could be versatile and compelling. So why is The Book of Boba Fett so blah? Returning to Tatooine doesn’t help; despite taking place in a purportedly vast galaxy (with the correspondingly rich potential for innovation), the commercial caretakers of Star Wars insist on setting a disproportionate amount of action on the same arid planet. Beyond that, the series feels downright lazy in its fan service, at one point breaking away and delivering a bonus Mandalorian episode. That would be excusable if the show provided more robust action or interesting characters, but it’s frustratingly self-satisfied, as though the mere existence of a Boba Fett show is sufficient. Fett may just be a simple man trying to make his way in the universe, but the series itself would benefit from a bit more complexity.
100. First Kill (Netflix, Season 1). The premise here—a vampire and a slayer fall in love, pitting their families against one another like a supernatural Romeo & Juliet—is irresistible. So it’s a bummer that the execution is so poor, with half-baked world-building and feeble character development. There are some interesting ideas: about identity, friendship, family obligations, and the like. But then you get a risible sequence like, “The researcher arrives through the secret basement door and hacks into the guild’s sacred library,” and the whole thing is just too indifferently conceived to work as either potent fantasy or poignant allegory. I’m all for a show about queer vampires and monster hunters who pursue a forbidden romance while embroiled in a millennia-old conflict that seethes with tension and pulses with desire. Somebody should make one!
99. His Dark Materials (HBO, Season 3; 2020 rank: 57). It’s been nearly 20 years since I read Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials saga, but to the best of my recollection, the HBO series is rigorously faithful to the books. That, of course, is part of the problem—not just because blind fidelity inevitably dampens the spark of true creativity (which Pullman himself prizes so desperately), but also because the final installment doesn’t lend itself easily to the screen. To be sure, there’s sincerity in this telling. There are also ridiculous scenes where witches scream and fly toward random entities, where shapeless deities grapple with human apostates, and where hollow souls wander in darkened caverns. On the page, it’s provocative (if not exactly coherent); on TV, it’s just goofy. I applaud the cast (Dafne Keen needs to be in more things), and I appreciate the earnestness. But for a series whose central theme is the importance of bucking established authorities, His Dark Materials is painfully, prohibitively reverent.
98. The Righteous Gemstones (HBO, Season 2; 2019 rank: 100). Nope.
97. The Crown (Netflix, Season 5; 2020 rank: 12). Now this is how you fall off a cliff. I was stubbornly loyal to the first four seasons of Netflix’s flagship drama, which evaded the trap of Anglophilia thanks to its nimble construction and arresting structure. But its latest batch of episodes falls victim to the merciless vagaries of chronology. The whole point of Queen Elizabeth II (rest in, er, peace?), which the series previously made clear with painstaking accuracy, is that she subjugates her own humanity in the service of her country. That tradeoff once carried the sting of irony and loss, but by this point in the show’s retelling of history, the process is complete, and dramatic interest can no longer attach to the monarch; Imelda Staunton plays her as a zombie, incapable of registering the faintest emotion or desire. What’s left of value falls to the slow-motion destruction of the marriage between Diana and Charles, but while Elizabeth Debicki is effortlessly charismatic and Dominic West is perfectly cast (who else exudes “insufferable asshole” so effortlessly?), even here the details are too sordid and pitiful to be moving. Some reigns go on too long.
96. Wolf Like Me (Peacock, Season 1). This feels like a leading contender for the “Wait, is this a thing that actually exists?” award. Josh Gad plays a single father living in Australia who falls for a winsome beauty (Isla Fisher) who happens to be—spoiler alert—a werewolf. It’s cute and pleasant and even kinda touching. But at the same time: What does it do? Why is it here? The answer, I suppose, is that it affords us the opportunity to spend time in the company of appealing actors, which is arguably reason enough. But shouldn’t a TV show where Isla Fisher plays a fucking werewolf be more, I dunno, interesting? Wolf Like Me is tender to a fault, never exploring its allegorical premise beyond the surface ideas of lingering damage and fear of commitment. It may as well take place in the dark of the moon.
Coming later today: wizards, time travelers, entrepreneurs, and Kansans.
Jeremy Beck is the editor-in-chief of MovieManifesto. He watches more movies and television than he probably should.