Per annual tradition, we at MovieManifesto are ranking every TV show we watched in 2022. If you missed prior installments, you can find them at the following links:
80. Made for Love (HBO, Season 2; last year: 36 of 108). I’ll never forget the very first shot of Made for Love: a damp and bedraggled Cristin Milioti, clad in an emerald dress, emerging from a portal in the middle of nowhere. It was the kind of image that announced the arrival of a show with its very own, very odd agenda. So it’s a bit disappointing that the second (and final) season of the series is more functional than memorable. Milioti still does strong work, and there are some intriguing ideas about the intersection of technological empires and patriarchal dominance. But the sense of pure discovery has vanished. It isn’t as though the show became timid; hell, there’s a subplot in which an undercover FBI agent falls in love with a genetically enhanced dolphin. It just doesn’t add up to much that’s new. I’m sad Made for Love got cancelled; I’m also sad it didn’t give me more.
79. The Ipcress File (AMC, Season 1). When it comes to spy fiction, I am both a sucker and a skeptic. I love the verbiage and the iconography: dead drops in the black of night; folders containing precious information; characters constantly donning camouflaging eyewear, wigs, and aliases. I also invariably struggle to process all of the information, and to unravel the central mystery that vexes our heroes. For its first few episodes, The Ipcress File (based on a novel by Len Deighton) walks the right (or at least pleasurable) side of this line; Joe Cole is the perfect balance of dastardly and debonair, Tom Hollander oozes condescension, and Lucy Boynton wears some truly wonderful hats. It’s intoxicating. But as the series progresses, it trades off enjoyment for intensity, draining its sense of fun in the process. (It doesn’t help that the master plot is essentially a cross between The Manchurian Candidate and The Naked Gun.) At six episodes, it’s an easy binge, and it’s always satisfying to watch hard-working spooks outmaneuver their duplicitous superiors. But I prefer glamour to grit, and as The Ipcress File mires itself in the latter, it neglects the former.
78. The Offer (Paramount, Season 1). For cinephiles of virtually any age, “Come see how The Godfather was made” is a faintly irresistible premise. And The Offer mostly makes good on it, featuring countless references and tasty behind-the-scenes goodies. (My favorite moment comes when Francis Ford Coppola, played by a not-especially-Italian Dan Fogler, tells a prop master to affix the famous bathroom pistol a bit higher on the toilet box than previously discussed, adding a element of genuine uncertainty to the scene where a nervous Al Pacino needs to retrieve it.) It is also resolutely, painfully straightforward, evincing little of the style or craft that made Coppola’s movie such a masterpiece. Now, it’s hardly fair to expect a fact-based miniseries to measure up to the freaking Godfather, but The Offer’s directness can feel obvious and clumsy; it’s embodied all too well by Miles Teller, who plays Al Ruddy as a dogged go-getter and diminishes his charisma in the process. But others in the cast are a bit more sparky—Juno Temple is always watchable as Ruddy’s loyal assistant, and Matthew Goode exhibits a wolfish charm as Bob Evans—and the material is just too interesting to be dull, even if it’s the subject of a show whose approach is almost comically workmanlike.
77. Starstruck (HBO, Season 2; last year: 50). It’s more of the same, which is both fine and frustrating. The appeal of Starstruck is its low-key vibe; it’s a romantic comedy that’s also a hangout series, and most of its pleasure derives from simply spending time with its well-drawn characters. It’s always cute, it’s often funny, and Rose Matafeo is a star. But am I churlish for wanting a bit more from its second season? It seems to be coasting on the charms of its cast and its script, which isn’t exactly a complaint; acting and writing are important! Yet while Starstruck doesn’t feature a single bad scene, it’s also a bit too relaxed for its own good, failing to really take chances or push the envelope. Then again, the sight of Matafeo tumbling from a canoe might be delightful enough.
76. Guillermo del Toro’s Cabinet of Curiosities (Netflix, Season 1). Hey, an anthology series! You know what you’re going to get here, both in terms of content and quality: an octet of horror episodes, each developing its own distinct premise while also tapping into a broader atmosphere of supernatural unease. Yet despite del Toro introducing each installment à la Hitchcock, there isn’t much thread connecting the various oddities in his cupboard; they practically demand to be judged independently. And on that score, their worth varies wildly. I quite liked several episodes: the rodent-infested terror of “Graveyard Rats,” the slippery slow build of “The Autopsy,” the neon-drenched vibes of “The Viewing.” Others, such as the one where Tim Blake Nelson gets stuck in an evil storage unit or the one where Rupert Grint searches for his sister in a sinister forest, flounder and flop, never tethering their strange worlds to interesting characters. It’s impossible not to keep watching Cabinet of Curiosities, because you never know if the next one might be the best one. But on the whole, the series is less a landmark than a curio.
75. The Boys (Amazon, Season 3; 2020 rank: 72 of 124). I just can’t quit this show. It’s silly and unpersuasive and bizarrely immature; its obsession with spattery violence (just how many times do bodies explode into piles of bloody mush?) only makes it seem even more childish. And yet, The Boys is at least trying. It possesses actual ideas on topics du jour—toxic masculinity, cancel culture, superhero worship—and if it doesn’t always express them with intelligence or clarity, it’s nevertheless wrestling with the real world. It’s also genuinely unpredictable in a way that’s rare for genre shows—not just with its shifting allegiances and goofy flashbacks, but in the sense that its characters are difficult to pin down. That’s arguably a mark of inconsistency, but it’s enough to keep me engaged. Throw in Antony Starr’s sneering performance as a cracked-mirror superman, and there are ample reasons to keep watching, even if the show never seems to go anywhere.
74. Bad Sisters (Apple, Season 1). The weird thing about crime fiction is how it makes you sympathize with grifters, thieves, and murderers. In theory, when Bad Sisters introduces us to the character of J.P. Williams by showing him lying in a coffin, we should perceive him as a victim. But because J.P. is played in flashbacks by Claes Bang, an actor blessed with high cheekbones and an utterly repellent level of smarm, it takes all of five minutes before we’re rooting for his killers. And for its first few episodes, Bad Sisters is a deliciously entertaining whodunit, teasing us with tidbits of its mystery while establishing the sororal bonds of the titular siblings. Sadly, at 10 episodes the series drags on too long, often doubling back on itself and repeating the same dubious patterns regarding chemistry and mistrust. (One key relationship in particular features countless sequences of the lovers passionately falling into bed, only to immediately call it quits, again and again.) Still, the company here is very fine; Sharon Horgan is an effortless comic anchor, Eve Hewson glows, and Sarah Greene (from Normal People!) shivers with menace. If modern television has taught us anything, it’s the pleasure that lies in watching seemingly upstanding people break bad.
73. A League of Their Own (Amazon, Season 1). Let’s get this out of the way: The baseball scenes are terrible. Like, as purported depictions of actual sporting events, they are not remotely persuasive. But this reimagining of the 1992 movie isn’t really about baseball; it’s about feminine camaraderie and national prejudice. On those counts, it goes one-for-two, and while a .500 batting average is a terrific mark for a ballplayer, it isn’t great for a TV show. As a comedy, A League of Their Own is pretty good, loaded with ace performers—Abbi Jacobson and D’Arcy Carden are the standouts, but Kate Berlant steals a few scenes, while Roberta Colindrez improves everything she’s in—and demonstrating solid writing. As a study of racism, it’s less successful; the series acknowledges the open bigotry of the era (which the film itself dispensed with in a matter of seconds), but it doesn’t really know how to handle it, making the character of Max (Chanté Adams) an awkward fit. Then again, the show is admirably frank when addressing both suppressed queerness and virulent homophobia, and illustrating how the latter impacts the former. It’s a largely straightforward show, but it manages to mix in a few welcome curveballs.
72. The Rehearsal (HBO, Season 1). What he said.
71. Kevin Can Fuck Himself (AMC, Season 2; last year: 19). I was happy to see more of this show, given that its first season toyed with its brilliant conceit—it vacillates between a dopey, dude-centric, multi-camera sitcom (complete with laugh track) and a gritty prestige crime drama (with exaggeratedly harsh lighting)—in fascinating ways. But early in Season 2, it becomes clear that the series has overextended itself. The characters’ behavior grows inconsistent, and the plot starts looping back on itself, failing to push things forward or explore new possibilities. Strangely enough, though the dramatic elements falter, the delightfully silly sitcom sequences salvage the season; Eric Petersen is wonderfully self-absorbed, and Annie Murphy expertly sprinkles in sweetness with her constant exasperation. The show also sticks the landing, delivering a climax that’s inevitable yet deeply cathartic. I wish its writing had been a little sharper, and that its narrative had progressed with greater confidence. But Kevin Can Fuck Himself gave us something that’s hard to find on contemporary television: a show that felt genuinely new.
70. Billions (Showtime, Season 6; last year: 24). Stock markets always crash eventually, and if they keep running long enough, so do TV shows. Billions remains thoroughly watchable, with its constant pop-culture references and its serpentine plotting and its preening one-upmanship. But it no longer feels vital, and the jokes and insults aren’t as funny and fresh as they once were. It was never going to be easy to replace Damian Lewis, and while Corey Stoll sensibly portrays a different sort of antagonist—less confrontational, more stealthy—the drop in energy is noticeable. But the bigger issue is the season’s bizarre focus on… hosting the Olympics? You have a bunch of alphas smashing their egos against each other, and that’s the center of your serialized story? It’s a weird choice—the finale’s reveal hinting at next season’s trajectory seems to be similarly misguided—and it reduces the show’s once-monumental sense of scale and conflict. Showtime just announced its plan for spinoffs titled Trillions and Millions, which is strange, given that Billions itself seems to be bleeding revenue by the episode.
69. WeCrashed (Apple, Season 1). I recognize that Jared Leto’s antic style isn’t to everyone’s taste. He’s playful, flamboyant, over the top. Yet it’s those qualities that make him a perfect casting choice to play Adam Neumann, the enigmatic founder of the spectacularly ill-conceived “shared space” company WeWork. Only a true huckster could have bilked investors for so much money from such a stupid idea, and Leto plays Neumann as part vampire, part rock star, bamboozling everyone around him through the sheer force of his exuberance. Next to him, Anne Hathaway is weirdly diminished as his wife Rebekah, but she manages to bring glimmers of humanity to her own pathetic failures. As yet another story of shady scammers, WeCrashed doesn’t provide much new insight. But it’s persistently entertaining, and it gives us personalities who are very much worth following. Call me a sucker, but I’m happy to buy stock in whatever Leto does next.
68. Avenue 5 (HBO, Season 2; 2020 rank: 55). It won’t ever be as politically trenchant as Veep, but Armando Iannucci’s space comedy is still very funny. It also maintains an episodic focus that’s gratifying, allowing its characters to bumble into a sort of “Satire of the Week”: a jovial run-in with well-meaning cannibals; a fraught election that mixes real people with fictional characters; a blitz of “rankings” that inspires selfish passengers to try to manipulate an all-seeing algorithm. With a joke volume this high, it’s inevitable that Avenue 5 has its share of dead spots. But the show knows its characters, and so do its actors, who lend snap and spice to Iannucci’s trademark barrage of insults and quips. “I need you to treat me like a human being,” the perpetually put-upon Suzy Nakamura insists to a clueless Josh Gad, who responds with utter sincerity, “You are like a human being.” Now that’s poetry.
67. Wednesday (Netflix, Season 1). Is this show good? Not really. In terms of plot, it’s another one of those young-adult mysteries that’s designed to keep you guessing (look, a red herring!) but which really just drags things out for too long. And in terms of world-building, it’s pretty half-assed, contemplating a Harry Potter-like academy for “outcasts” without featuring the requisite level of detail. (The few scenes in which the students attend class—including one taught by Christina Ricci!—are downright painful.) And yet: Jenna Ortega (from Scream and X) simply demolishes the title role. The whole idea of Wednesday Addams is that she’s impervious to emotion; to the extent she feels anything, it’s because she’s basically a sadist who takes pleasure in others’ pain. The brilliance of Ortega’s performance is that she softens the character’s rigid shell just enough to allow some genuine feeling to sneak through, yet she still maintains the unflinching, robotic façade, never relinquishing Wednesday’s innate nastiness. There’s a scene in the fourth episode where she dances to a punk hit, and it’s awesome; her facial expression never changes, her movements are somehow awkward and fluid at once, and she conveys unbridled joy without ever cracking a smile. Moments like that, along with some spiffy design choices—the bifurcated color scheme of the gothic dorm room Wednesday shares with an amusingly effervescent roommate (Emma Myers) is an especially nice touch—rise above the show’s underlying vagueness. Wednesday is kinda dumb. I can’t wait to watch more.
66. The Peripheral (Amazon, Season 1). Now this is world-building. In fact, the main strength of The Peripheral is also its obvious weakness; it focuses so heavily on mapping the contours of its dystopian future that it deprives its characters of the necessary oxygen, preferring to focus on its sprawling, incomprehensible plot. Still, the show looks very cool, and it harnesses technology in ways that are legitimately interesting. And even if I never know what the hell’s going on, I can at least appreciate the delicate texture that Chloë Grace Moretz provides as the lead, along with the silky menace that emanates naturally from T’Nia Miller. (Charlotte Riley is mostly wasted after a strong introduction, though Alexandra Billings compensates once she shows up as a haughty investigator.) The addictive VR simulator at the series’ center serves as a handy metaphor; despite its very busy story, The Peripheral is the kind of show you don’t so much understand as absorb. Sit down, gear up, and jack in.
65. Russian Doll (Netflix, Season 2; 2019 rank: 12 of 101). Give credit to Natasha Lyonne: She didn’t repeat herself. After the smashing first season of Russian Doll breathed new life into the moribund Groundhog Day trope, Lyonne now shifts her focus to actual time travel (“I prefer the term ‘time prisoner’”). It’s a characteristically big swing, and it yields some correspondingly big payoffs; Lyonne expands her focus beyond her own character and leaps back generations—exploring her Jewish heritage and tracing it back to the days of the Holocaust—and some of the results are striking. (That the show resists supplying garish reenactments of historical tragedy is a testament to its intelligence.) And yet, this new Russian Doll doesn’t quite work. It’s odd and angular and shifty, and those are good qualities, but its messiness fails to cohere into a satisfying catharsis. There’s a clear imagination at work here, and I applaud Lyonne’s ambition. But her reach too often exceeds her grasp.
64. Abbott Elementary (ABC, Seasons 1 and 2). I enjoy this show. Its characters are incredibly well-defined, its themes are progressive without being clunky, and it understands the rhythms of the episodic sitcom. The cast is uniformly excellent, to the point where it feels cruel to single anyone out. (I will note that, whether out of modesty or obliviousness, Quinta Brunson has assigned the most annoying part to herself.) I just wish it didn’t feel so familiar. It’s reductive to compare this series to The Office, because Abbott Elementary is doing its own thing with its own personalities, but man are there a lot of times where I think to myself, “Oh, right, like in The Office.” Throw in too many indifferently constructed B and C stories, and the show falls comfortably short of greatness. Whether it eventually gets there will depend on how well it educates itself and learns from its mistakes.
63. Gaslit (Starz, Season 1). Well this is awkward. As its title suggests, the whole point of Gaslit—which chronicles the Watergate saga from the perspective of Attorney General John Mitchell (Sean Penn) and his coterie of buffoonish subordinates—is that the tribulations of one woman (Mitchell’s wife, played by Julia Roberts) are minimized, disregarded, and manipulated in the service of obnoxious and egotistical men. So it’s strange and possibly counterproductive that the Roberts material is the least interesting and most strident thing about the show; she gives a fine performance, but her character’s challenges are obvious and forced. Gaslit works better as an office comedy, watching with impassive disbelief as Mitchell’s goons—all played by stellar character actors, including Hamish Linklater, Chris Bauer, and a wildly entertaining Shea Whigham—make one boneheaded decision after another. If anything, the show’s emotional fulcrum proves to be John Dean (Dan Stevens), whose conscience dawns too late if not too little. But perhaps this is all some sort of meta exercise. After all, what is the ultimate form of gaslighting if not establishing that the weakest part of a prestige miniseries is the stuff featuring Julia Roberts?
62. Ozark (Netflix, Season 4; 2020 rank: 32). Given its reputation as Breaking Bad Lite, it’s impressive that Ozark maintained its level of suspense and entertainment throughout its run. Its final season, which concludes with a hilariously obnoxious non-ending, continues its trend of bad parenting, shocking violence, and countless betrayals. The cast is good; Julia Garner remains the series’ MVP thanks to her brittle intensity, and Laura Linney boldly assumes the role of chief villain. It’s enveloping, unpredictable, and fun. But for all its competence and savagery, Ozark ends up feeling weirdly inessential. It’s a sturdy crime saga, and that’s fine, but you get the sense it longs for a place in the annals of great American crime fiction, and it never earns that. Maybe that’s because it’s too plotty, or because its twists and turns feel regimented rather than organic. Regardless, Ozark inadvertently feels like a different kind of standard-bearer. It’s the platonic ideal of a streaming series in the #PeakTV boom—the well-made, enjoyable show you eagerly binge, then swiftly forget about.
61. Five Days at Memorial (Apple, Season 1). Cheerful stuff, this. Running eight gloomy and troubling episodes, Five Days at Memorial initially scans as an intense ground-floor depiction of one hospital’s nightmarish fight against Hurricane Katrina. But as it goes on, the fact-based series expands its scope and timeline, bent on uncovering bureaucratic intransigence and medical criminality. The paradigm in this regard is Chernobyl, which managed to be both a gripping study of human heroism and a devastating indictment of institutional corruption. Five Days at Memorial isn’t as electric or as damning, but it’s still got the goods, and it stakes out interesting territory that lies somewhere between observational and judgmental. Some scenes will make you hold your breath; others will make you scream at the top of your lungs.
Coming later today: astronauts, superheroes, porn stars, and other dangerous professions.
Jeremy Beck is the editor-in-chief of MovieManifesto. He watches more movies and television than he probably should.