Top 15 TV Shows of 2021

If you can't tell by the fact that I dedicated an entire month to it, I love TV, and in 2021, I loved a lot of TV indeed. It may have started as the year where nothing was certain except for a full slate of MCU shows and ended with the world going gaga for the Roy family, but the joy of television in 2021 was discovering all of the exciting surprises along the way, the shows that came from left-field to turn this into one of the best years for TV in recent memory. From mind-blowing miniseries to international smashes, exciting debuts to follow-up seasons that upped the ante, 2021 delivered the goods in spades. There's no doubt about it, folks: Peak TV is alive and well

So alive and well, in fact, that compiling a comprehensive list has become something of a fool's errand. It's impossible to cover everything that defined the year, but what I have seen has left me so incredibly optimistic for TV going forward. What 2021 lacked in returning favourites it made up for with a deep bench of new shows that showcased some incredibly fresh and exciting ideas. As for the ones that did come back this year, they were (mostly) sharper and stronger than ever, perfectly picking up where their previous seasons left off to act as familiar tonics in a year that really needed them. Whatever you're in the market for, 2021 had the show for you, so let's look back before we move forward and celebrate the best shows of the year that was. All the regular stuff applies: this list only covers things I've seen and doesn't account for anything I've missed or haven't quite caught up with (which is a fair bit!), and the order is entirely based on how I feel about these shows as I'm writing this. This year was incredible, and putting an order on this- especially the top eight, any of which could've taken the top spot on a different day- was truly painful. All of these shows are great, and even better, all of them are totally different, so if you're looking for your next binge, there's a fair chance it's on this list

So with that out of the way, why don't we get into things?

15. Lupin (Netflix)

One of the best things about Netflix in 2021 is how much faith they put into their international productions, turning what could have been underseen curios into full-blown cultural phenomena, and rightfully so. Lupin was their first big hit of the year, handily released in two parts (the first was an early confirmation that TV this year was in good hands, the second was perfect summer escapism), with a flow and style straight out of a Soderbergh crime caper. Based loosely on the tales of the legendary jewel thief, Lupin drips with ice-cold charisma from the first episode, filled with slick heist sequences that frequently position the show, and its cunning protagonist, ten steps ahead of the audience at all times. It's massive amounts of fun to watch Assane's plans click into place, and Lupin is always able to back this up with enough heart and sly commentary to make for some of the year's most purely entertaining viewing. It's not hard to see why this show was such a big binge for so many people, especially when series lead Omar Sy is such charismatic company that those 10 hours absolutely fly by. Fortunately there's a third part on the way to pick up from the tenth episode's open ending, so lucky for us, it looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of this smooth criminal very, very soon

14. Time (BBC)

Time is not an easy show to watch. This is apparent from the harrowing opening moments, where Sean Bean's Mark spends his first night in prison. The subject matter is bleaker-than-bleak and the show is totally unrelenting in how it portrays it, but it's in that total unflinching honesty that Time really gains traction and becomes one of the year's most moving miniseries. In mirroring Mark's experiences with those of jaded warden Eric, Time is able to construct a comment on the prison system that massively benefits from the differing perspectives. Here, everyone is a prisoner, trapped not just by walls and bars, but by guilt, fear and the expectations of a broken institution. Again, it's difficult stuff to stomach, but writer Jimmy McGovern is characteristically sensitive, regularly finding the humanity in the most brutal of circumstances. Bean and Stephen Graham are on formidable form here as men living minute to minute, and the show strips away any sensationalism to focus on what really matters: the quiet compassion that the system is constantly trying to suppress

13. Ted Lasso (Apple TV+)

Ted Lasso's second season is a little less consistent than its debut run, which ultimately costs it a spot in the top ten, but it's hard to stay mad at Jason Sudeikis' human-golden-retriever for long, and there's still a lot to love in this show's sophomore year. The character work is as strong as ever, with highlights being Roy's big rom-com moment with his ex-club, Beard's night on the town, and Rebecca's heartfelt Rickrolling of a church full of people (it makes sense in context). The longer episodes and more frequent leans into darkness are also welcome additions, allowing us to spend more time in the world of AFC Richmond and get further acquainted with the characters we'd already grown to love. The show's trademark wholesomeness was also back and stronger than ever, though this time tempered with the unexpected consequences of Ted's eternal friendliness. Sure, it struggles to arrange its (consistently very good) episodes into a compelling arc, and I'd really appreciate if they picked one storyline for Sam instead of having him pinball around three different plotlines before setting up a fourth in the finale, but the lines are as funny as ever, and being able to return to Richmond each week became a real comfort in a very long year. Who knows what's next for the Greyhounds, but one thing's for certain: the Lasso way hasn't run out of steam just yet

12. The Underground Railroad (Amazon Prime)

The way that television is distributed and consumed has changed so much in the last five years, and I think that some shows are completely underserved by the day and date release model that's essentially designed to be binged. Case in point, The Underground Railroad, Barry Jenkins' first made-for-TV project and one of the most striking shows of the year. Jenkins is a filmmaker known for woozy visual poetry and unflinching compassion, and in bringing this piece of historical fiction to life, he takes advantage of so many moments to flex his creative muscles. Like Time, this is frequently harrowing television that refuses to look away from the horrors of the past, but the thrill of watching The Underground Railroad was seeing how inventively the show brought one of the darkest periods of American history to life. It was formless and meandering, devoting an entire episode to the backstory of Joel Edgerton's terrifying slave catcher before slowing down the action two episodes later to reflect on the road so far. The show's focus drifts frequently, but because all of it is excellent, that's hardly an issue, and Jenkins' loose storytelling style is right at home in this chapter-based structure. Of course, none of it means anything without Thuso Mbedu, whose performance as Cora imbues the show with so much heart and humanity that every moment of pain is worth it for the insights that the show unlocks through her eyes. A worthy addition to Jenkins' catalogue of modern classics

11. Betty (HBO)

2021 thankfully didn't have as many notable cancellations as previous years, but among those that did get the axe, few stung quite as much as Betty. Crystal Moselle's beautiful, low-stakes comedy drama set around the New York skateboarding scene really came into its own in its second year, where it addressed the fears and frustrations of a post-pandemic world with compassion and honesty. No show on this list feels as contemporary, and no show I've seen has provided a better portrait of Gen Z to date. Moselle's follow-up to her film Skate Kitchen has always succeeded on the strength of its casual gaze, which captures the richness of its central friendships almost by accident. Season two is more of the gorgeously observed same, but Betty learns all of the right lessons from its debut year. The focus is as lovingly meandering as always, though the character work feels much sharper here, with each character providing a differing take on a world that really doesn't know what to do with itself. It's the exact kind of story that we need now, about young people just being in spite of the messiness and loudness of the world, which makes it all the more frustrating that it got cancelled so soon. All the same, it really doesn't change how much ground Betty is able to cover while seeming so effortless. If hangouts are your thing, get on this ASAP

10. Only Murders in the Building (Hulu)

Steve Martin and Martin Short's comic chemistry really needs no introduction at this point, and a lot of Only Murders will inevitably feel familiar to some, but in a year like 2021, that sort of instantly recognisable charm was very welcome, especially when the show didn't rely on cheap tricks in the pursuit of nostalgia points. No, this very much feels like the duo (along with stand-in third amigo Selena Gomez providing an excellent point of contrast to them both) taking the formulas that they found success with all those years ago and applying it to something that feels both of-the-moment and well-established, that being the murder mystery genre, and more specifically true crime. It was huge amounts of fun that displayed some of the most excitingly creative moments on TV this year (the recurring Sting cameo, the dialogue-free episode, the Broadway interludes), while also providing a really satisfying mystery to boot. It's familiar in all of the right ways but everyone involved with it is so clearly comfortable in what they do that the show really just picks up a rhythm early on and keeps it going up till the last minute. Every reveal is underscored by its impact on one of the three leads as well, and the show makes sure that you're invested in all of them, even if you're like the fans outside the building and you've got a clear favourite. Mine? Well that's Steve Martin's Charles Haden-Savage, one of the best curmudgeons he's played to date but also a character with a surprisingly soulful arc and a knack for sexy scrabble. Worth the watch for that alone

9. I Think You Should Leave (Netflix)

Inconsistency is a tough hurdle to overcome in sketch comedy: what do you do if a joke doesn't work, or you play it for too long and it feels awkward? If you're Tim Robinson, you make it part of the joke. I Think You Should Leave had a great first season full of enough glorious weirdness to garner an instant cult following, but the show's second run is where Robinson's 17 minute capsules of genius really hit their full potential. The show is much more reliable this time around, with almost every joke and concept delivering something so incredibly specific but consistently hilarious. Robinson and co. obviously have an incredible handle on skit-based comedy, to the point where they can break the rules and reshape the conventions again and again and always hit the mark, usually coining some incredibly quotable dialogue in the process. Here, the highlights included a prank show that turned into an existential nightmare, a man who owns every kind of classic car (he's even got triples of the Barracuda), and the absolute epic that is the Dangerous Nights sloppy steak sketch. ITYSL has always been a stellar portrait of our collective awkwardness but the second season gets it down to a science, showing how the things that make us cringe can also be what unites us, and Robinson invites his audience to share in the discomfort with him. Maybe there was a time I wouldn't have had this show on the list, but if that one baby taught us anything, it's that people can change

8. It's a Sin (Channel 4)

Oh yeah, we're in the big leagues now. There was a lot of great TV this year, and the next eight shows are the ones that I really think define 2021 as a great year for television. Russell T. Davies' groundbreaking chronicle of the AIDS epidemic as seen through the eyes of five friends was one of the first big smash hits of the year, and for good reason. It would have been easy for this to become a miserable, grueling affair-and Davies spares none of the heartbreak or devastation in bringing this story to life- but the real magic of It's a Sin comes from how celebratory the show feels. Davies champions a community that came together in the face of shared adversity, taking a stand against not just the virus, but the bigotry and misinformation that repeatedly stood in the way of productive action. It's honest above anything else, and while the show never shies away from how harrowing its subject matter is, the way Davies incorporates moments of love, tenderness, sex and solidarity really makes this feel like a landmark in British television. Special mention as well to the cast, especially the five leads who are all absolutely stunning, and never anything less than 100% human

7. The White Lotus (HBO)

2021 was such a hellish, inescapably awful year that even our fictional getaways were dripping with venom. Mike White's excellent comedy-drama-almost-horror miniseries was frequently uncomfortable, cringe-inducing viewing, and yet it was one of the hardest shows to put down this year. Essentially using its setting (an idyllic Hawaiian resort) as a backdrop for exploring ideas of privilege, entitlement and social dysfunction, the show was as bitingly relevant as it was electric and hilarious. It pulses with a real sticky heat that makes it that much more tense, perfectly offset by some of the most deliciously unlikeable characters of the year, especially Jake Lacy's deeply despicable Shane. It's important without ever sacrificing its sense of fun, and there's a real wicked kick about watching the most horrifically entitled people in the world constantly outdo themselves in terms of their awfulness. And then there's Murray Bartlett as beleaguered manager Armond, a character who's immediately more striking than a shit in a suitcase. Through him, The White Lotus makes some damning comments on the sorry state of the service industry that linger long after the sun sets on the masterful last episode. Originally intended as a one-and-done, the show was so popular that a second season is on the way, and despite the unpleasant clientele, the sound of another stay in The White Lotus is oh-so-welcome

6. Midnight Mass (Netflix)

Mike Flanagan has really made a name for himself when it comes to horror on TV with the Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor, and Midnight Mass is a worthy, wordy addition to his canon. Yes the show is a dialogue-heavy slow-burn but Flanagan excels at painting a small-town community with so much depth and empathy that the slow pace becomes part of the charm, and the monologues frequently devastate. And when the show does depict its central horror, it's as bleak and cruel as Flanagan has ever been. While the Haunting shows argued that love is a force capable of surviving any evil, Midnight Mass is decidedly more nihilistic, suggesting that destruction comes for us all, so we might as well face it together. Along the way, there's profound insights on faith, redemption and addiction, brought to life by a cast that combines some of Flanagan's main players (great to see Rahul Kohli come back as yet another standout character), as well as a couple of new faces, such as Hamish Linklater's deeply disturbed Father Paul Hill, who proves that the road to hell really is paved with good intentions. It was as meticulous and beguiling as TV got this year, and absolutely worth the patience for the jaw-dropping, gut-wrenching final episode

5. Mare of Easttown (HBO)

Arguably the most prestigious show of the year was Brad Inglesby's masterful slow-burning mystery, where the mystery itself was far from the most interesting part of the story. This was one of the most anticipated shows of the year before it even aired; Kate Winslet embodying a haunted detective in a lush HBO crime-drama was a guaranteed hit from the off. And yet Mare still managed to deliver a number of real surprises over its seven-episode run, not least in how it spun a yarn set in a community that felt lived in and real straight from the start. Here, the people are the stories and their secrets make up the world they live in, a world that Inglesby and co. take great pleasure in digging deeper and deeper into. Every layer unearthed is another step closer to the truth that also really serves this show's weighty, sensitively handled themes. Motherhood, grief, love and guilt are all firmly at the forefront, and the show is smart enough to use the mystery to Trojan horse its frequently devastating insights into an utterly engrossing story of a town reeling from a collective tragedy. But none of this would mean anything without Kate Winslet, giving a career-best turn as a woman navigating unspeakable pain as she strives to do right by those who rely on her. In a year where the debate about streaming killing appointment TV rumbled on, the frequently unmissable twists and turns of Mare were proof that there's still some life in the watercooler moment yet

4. We Are Lady Parts (Channel 4)

Arguably the most joyful show of the year was this six-part dose of pure electricity that followed an all-girl Muslim punk band in their pursuit of greatness. We Are Lady Parts has as much on its mind as the titular band, from representation (more specifically the idea of representing yourself through your art) to friendship, the act of creation and the process of overcoming anxiety, but what really makes this show pop is the sheer ecstatic sense of joy radiating out of it at every possible moment. Every character is instantly loveable, the gags are spot-on and the soundtrack is packed with wall to wall bangers (good luck getting Bashir with the Good Beard out of your head), but what makes We Are Lady Parts soar is how it takes all of these elements and makes them work in total harmony. The show finds its flow pretty much from the first scene and somehow manages to keep the glee going right up until its fist-pump of an ending. It's punchy and sharp, constantly making some really inventive creative decisions and always delivering on them with some real good naturedness. Few sitcom debuts in recent memory have been this energetic and purely fun right out of the gate, and I cannot wait to see where this show goes from here. It just rocks, plain and simple

3. Reservation Dogs (FX)

As TV gradually becomes more cinematic with each passing year (2021 literally saw several shows act as tie-ins to big screen franchises), it's perhaps useful to remember that a great show can do an awful lot with very little, and that's where Reservation Dogs comes in. Created by Sterlin Harjo and Taika Waititi, the show feels like a coming-of-age companion to the latter's Boy, tackling teenage listlessness where that film explored the idealism of childhood. The beauty of this show lies in how uneventful it is, following a group of teenagers on a quest to escape their hometown and using each episode to break down what makes each character want to leave before asking what could potentially make them stay. But in the slowness, there is a great amount of genius, and the way the show gradually starts to break form and play more and more with its medium is a real thrill. And as the eight episodes go on, Reservation Dogs starts to reveal itself as something entirely different than what it started as: a depiction of how grief changes everything it touches. It's deeply moving and frequently hilarious, a thoughtful and heartfelt portrait of native life that may not have the immediate punch of some of the year's flashier shows, but reaches levels of depth that few other comedies or even most dramas this year could muster

2. Squid Game (Netflix)

The TV phenomenon that defined the year, Squid Game is a show that really needs no introduction at this point, and like most things that become very popular very quickly, it attracted a fair few detractors, but I think it's one of the best things Netflix has ever put out. The conversation around this show has been so huge and covered most of what makes it work, and there's not an awful lot to add at this point. Squid Game takes a lot of familiar themes and ideas but puts them together with so much brio that even the most well-worn of its beats hit the mark. The show renders each character's reason for playing with so much sincerity, and as a result, every moment of every game bursts off of the screen. It's rollercoaster TV, but that's precisely what makes it work. It's exciting and tense, and once the show has your attention, it forces the audience to interrogate why they're so shocked and devastated. Again, the ideas it's playing with are mostly simple, but it's through being broad and direct that Squid Game found such an audience, uniting most of the world with a straightforward attack on things we all know to be true. As long as the system pits the have-nots against each other for the entertainment of the haves, this show is going to hold a lot of weight. The second season promises to expand the show's universe, but after a run this electric, what else is there to say?

1. Succession (HBO)

Sometimes I wonder if there's a bias towards the familiar with lists like these. Most of the shows I loved in 2021 were debuts or miniseries, but does Succession top the list just because it's the latest installment of one of my all time favourite shows? Is this a cop-out based on a love of the already familiar? If you've seen this season-a whirlwind of weaponised Nirvana songs, misplaced dick pics and abrasive Scandinavian billionaires- you'll know that the answer is obviously not. Succession is the best it's ever been, gracefully picking up from that second season finale with week after week of perfection, each episode somehow better than the last. It's another example of the show's real episodic power, where each episode explores an event or a setting and uses it as the backdrop of a very specific corner of the Waystar saga. There's Kendall's birthday with all of its Freudian horror, Caroline's Tuscan wedding and the decades of family drama it dredges up, and my pick of the bunch, the Future Freedom Summit, the setting for the most horrifying episode of the year, where the 1% decide what the next four years of American politics could look like

Along the way, the show excels at deepening the already complex and intricate characters. Tom in particular goes from being an enjoyably pathetic hanger-on to the season's MVP, while Kendall doubles down on his status as the most unfortunate boy and Logan goes full pantomime villain. Most of what I said about it in my list of favourite shows still holds weight, but what thrilled me about this season in particular is how it places so much more emphasis on how awful the wicked world of Waystar really is. The show isn't interested in retracing comfortable territory (even if the middle few episodes feel a smidge familiar), and the show digs deep into the social commentary to make this the most aggressive season yet. No one is spared, and the near-the-knuckle references are consistently cringe-worthy in the best way possible

I've said before that this is the one show on TV right now that everyone should be watching, and sure enough, the third season of Succession really lives up to that. It's essential viewing for its commentary alone, but the acting and dialogue are the best they've ever been, plus the show has really found its groove by making every shareholder meeting and party conference roar with the high drama of the Battle of the Bastards. It's the show of the year on just about every level, and if the second season dropped the mic with its ending, then the third season's finale has me champing at the bit to see what happens next. Succession: my favourite show of 2021

REVIEW: Scream (2022)

Do you like scary movies? Because Hollywood does, and they've got the franchises to prove it. Scream has always been a series built on a real love for slasher films. The films may be sly, satirical and self-aware, but there's always been a good natured meta-tinged fun to Scream, and with this fifth entry helmed by the directors of modern-horror classic Ready or Not, that's very much still the case. The following review will be entirely spoiler free, at least as far as the reveals and the kills go, but I will be discussing some of the broader themes and ideas that this film is commenting on, so consider yourself warned if you've yet to return to Woodsboro

The first thing to know about Scream 5 is that it's a legasequel, softly rebooting the franchise with a lot of new faces, while still keeping them connecting to the original characters and bringing back a murderer's row of fan-favourites before following this mix of old and new players as they try to survive a whole new wave of Ghostface killings. The film leans into the meta-fun right from the start with an impressive opening that retraces the original's steps before thrillingly subverting it in a way that blends the familiar with some new spins on old ideas. Get used to that, because it's really the bulk of this film, and for that reason, it's a movie that really plays to the fanbase. Maybe that's an obvious thing to say about the fifth entry of a beloved franchise but Scream 5 is so packed to the gills with references to the previous 4 that anyone who's had a passing interest in any of these films will find something to enjoy. Most of these are throwaway nods or tie into the idea of legacy reboots but even the core components that bring back older ideas really feels like its directly addressing anyone who has even the most remote connection with this franchise

The new additions here are strong across the board. The turns from the younger cast-especially Jenna Ortega, Jack Quaid and Jasmin Savoy Brown- are properly exciting, and the way the film leans into the idea of the killer targeting legacy characters is a nice touch. As for the older faces, they're fairly well integrated for the most part too. David Arquette is maybe the best he's ever been in these films, while Courtney Cox holds back a little in her first few scenes before coming back with a bang(s) in the climax. And then there's Neve Campbell. I'm slightly torn on how Sidney is brought back: on one hand, her return to Woodsboro feels a little contrived, but come the climax, it's hard to feel like that's not a deliberate choice on some level given how knowing this film approaches its own legacy. The way both sets of characters handled is even handed and rendered with a lot of love. No one feels shortchanged here, and everyone fits into the wider mystery fairly organically

The film's thrills are constant and effective. I'm not entirely sold on a lot of the commentary on display but the tension is high and the film impresses with some really bold narrative choices that it has the chutzpah to stand by. No neat rugpulls or half-hearted reversals, just a totally unsparing approach to the mortality of its main cast. It's decisions like these that serve as a reminder of how shocking that first film's opening is, and the fact that these films still have teeth after twenty six years is really welcome in a world of late-stage sequels that lose their luster over time. Without spoiling anything, the kills are pleasingly gruesome and enjoyably creative, constantly making use of Scream's trademark weapon: tongue-in cheek irony

Just as previous Screams have taken aim at sequels, trilogies, and reboots, Scream 5 is totally centered around the state of horror in 2022, which means lots of commentary on legacies and notions of elevated genre, and it's here where I think the film sags slightly under the weight of its ideas. Self-awareness has been baked into the series from day one but Scream 5's take on a horror landscape fascinated with legacy sequels and familiar iconography is heavily flawed to say the least. The constant references to Stab are repetitive and really lack variety, making a few strong points early on before really hitting a point of diminishing returns as the film progresses. The film overlabours its point and really retreads a lot of the same ground as the previous entries, which nearly demonstrates a lack of the kind of self-awareness that gave the others-especially Scream 2- a lot more bite. The thrills, chills and kills always deliver but for a franchise that defines itself on its genre-savviness, the most shocking reveal of all is how trite a lot of this feels

Thankfully, all of this is worth it for a climax that is unsparingly critical of toxic fan culture and petty entitlement. It might spend the bulk of its run spinning its satirical wheels, but the last 20 minutes are as sharp and on-point as these movies have ever been, and the whole sequence saves the film as a result. Everything clicks into place with an ending that really understands the rhythms of fan discourse, bringing to mind the contentious reactions to films such as The Last Jedi and kicking a lot of life back into the film in the process. It's a pleasant surprise after such a mixed bag of a second act, and the film ends on a note that is almost as gleefully wicked as Ready or Not's explosive finale

Scream will undoubtedly play better to those who love the previous films, and is unlikely to convert anyone who's been skeptical about the franchise in the past, but the fun scares and killer third act are consistently fun, and really make up for some of the film's more awkward moments of self-reflection. The novelty doesn't fully hold up, but there's enough here to suggest that this franchise still has some fight in it yet, and I'm going to go ahead and give this a 6/10

REVIEW: The Tragedy of Macbeth

The Coen Brothers' filmography is laden with stories of people unknowingly plotting their own downfalls, so it's perhaps fitting that Joel Coen's debut as a solo director is a retelling of the Scottish Play, a work renowned for its portrait of a man in self-inflicted moral freefall. And yet the thrill of The Tragedy of Macbeth lies not in how the story is told, but in how it's specifically adapted for the screen. If you're the kind of person that values faithfulness in your literary adaptations more than anything else, then I think The Tragedy of Macbeth could be the film for you. Coen obviously isn't the first director to take this story on (see also: Welles, Polanski, Kurtzel and my personal favourite, Kurosawa), but he's arguably the one who has stuck the closest to the source text to date, providing the most straightforward cinematic take on the play.... possibly ever?

For example, the dialogue here is nearly exactly how it appears on the page, a decision that will undoubtedly take a little getting used to for some, but the film keeps the context clear enough that the lack of any real translation doesn't really matter. This isn't a film that's interested in diluting its source text just to draw a wider audience, and Coen makes sure that he's doing it justice straight from the start. The film won't meet you halfway if you're not already familiar with Shakespeare, but that also means that it bears massive rewards for anyone willing to put the work in. If you engage with this film fully and meet it on its terms, then it presents you with the purest and most honest understanding of the story of Macbeth possible, perfectly preserving each of the story's rich themes, and it's worth the price of admission for that purity alone

Although if I had to criticise the film's approach to its text on anything, it's that maybe it's a little too straightforward of an adaptation, and what I mean by that is that the film's narrative doesn't do anything new or different with the source. It's your meat-and-potatoes Shakespeare adaptation, at least in terms of the dialogue, characterization and larger context. To be fair, it's not trying to revinvent the wheel, but fans of Coen's previous work with his brother may be disappointed with how wholly the filmmaker immerses himself in the source text, totally shedding his own narrative voice in the pursuit of authenticity. Still, it's worth it in the end, because it really takes an artist of Coen's caliber to understand how best to adapt such a weighty, thematically charged text, and again, the aim here was to bring Macbeth to the screen as faithfully as possible, and I think it succeeds at that for the most part

The film doesn't mess around with the source text too much, but I didn't say it doesn't bring anything new to the table. Because it's adapting the story to a purely visual medium, the film takes full advantage of the conventions of screen storytelling to create the most eye-watering images in recent memory. Drawing heavily from German expressionism and silent cinema-especially silent horror- the film knows that the strength of an adaptation lies in its ability to, well, adapt itself to its new medium, and to that end, it's a massive success. Coen and cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel are masters of their respective forms, consistently topping themselves in terms of how inventive and expressive each of the images are, and the monochromatic presentation lends a sort of irony to the story's moral focus by literally painting Macbeth's descent in black and white. For as faithful as the dialogue is, the film knows that the real advantage of cinema is the ability to communicate through imagery rather than straight text, and that's where this adaptation shows real wisdom, letting the words speak for themselves, and making more room to craft some eerie, thematically loaded tableaux that gives The Tragedy of Macbeth a uniquely cinematic edge 

Of course, any production of Macbeth lives and dies on the strength of its Thane of Glamis, and it's here where Coen comes out swinging by casting Denzel Washington as the doomed nobleman. He's no stranger to playing men isolated by their violent tendencies, and so he feels right at home in bringing Macbeth's corruption to life. Washington's trademark intensity really lends a lot of weight to Macbeth's cowardice and underhandedness, and he perfectly matches the straight-faced faithfulness of Coen's script. It's the exact kind of dedication to the craft that you'd expect from such an accomplished thespian taking on a well-established role, and it makes for a thrilling contrast with Frances McDormand's take on Lady Macbeth. Where Denzel honours the fundamentals, McDormand demonstrates such an intricate knowledge of her craft that she can knowingly and playfully subvert the role completely, totally laying bare every beat of the character's arc from the start in a way that almost feels like she's playing every scene with her ultimate fate in mind

The rest of the cast are excellent too, although special mention to Kathryn Hunter and Stephen Root, both of whom demonstrate what I really enjoyed about this adaptation's interpretation of its supporting players. Root imbues his one-scene wonder with enough film-stealing comedy to remind the audience why he's one of the best character-actors in the game, while Hunter is undoubtedly the film's MVP as the weird sisters, underscoring their otherworldliness with unnerving acts of contortionism and a real physicality that again sees the film demonstrate real confidence in its visual language

The Tragedy of Macbeth is totally committed to bringing the play to the screen in the most faithful way possible, but constantly finds new ways to make the story resonate purely by putting in onscreen. Coen and his ensemble give the words of the Bard enough space and authenticity to work their magic while frequently showcasing their own skillsets as well, and the result is reliably excellent work all round. So reliably excellent in fact that I'm going to go ahead and give The Tragedy of Macbeth an 8/10

REVIEW: Licorice Pizza

Paul Thomas Anderson is a director who basically needs no introduction at this point. From his American epics like There Will be Blood and The Master to more recent and adventurous projects like Inherent Vice and Phantom Thread, he's been one of the most consistently inventive American filmmakers since his debut, but it never feels like he's really left the San Fernando Valley. Anderson's birthplace is the setting for his twin masterpieces, Magnolia and Boogie Nights, and in many ways his newest film, Licorice Pizza, feels like something of a homecoming. One one level, he's literally returning to the time and place he grew up in as he follows his heartsick hero around the Valley in the 70s, but the clearest indication that he's going back to his roots really comes from the film's style, which is a total return to the sweeping, ensemble-driven and more colourful storytelling that he made his name with

A criticism often levelled at his early work was its excessive borrowing from the playbook of Robert Altman, but the first thing that's clear about Licorice Pizza is how unique to PTA that the film feels. He's no longer the young firebrand who made Boogie Nights, and the experience he has accumulated in the meantime is clear from the off. The formal tricks he's picked up from his last few films really help this to feel like a more accomplished take on the world he wanted to capture in his early work, but it also runs a lot deeper than the film's style. In many ways, it feels like 2021 PTA revisiting the Anderson of the early 90s, tapping back into the reservoir of energy that made those films pop by looking at them with the eyes of the master filmmaker he's grown into. The result of this is the feeling that this story isn't being told, but remembered, and it's here where the film really finds its magic

The lighter plot leaves much more room for Anderson to focus on creating a palpable atmosphere within which he can spin a series of largely episodic yarns, but the way he glides between each of them is peak PTA magic. It wouldn't be entirely fair to call Licorice Pizza "plotless", but the narrative is loose enough to fit in huge chunks of San Fernando mythos in a way that's so elegant that oftentimes it feels nearly accidental. Gary Valentine's schemes are massively entertaining plot threads in themselves, and Anderson is smart enough to know how to use them as jumping off-points to get Gary and Alana to parts of the Valley that they might not have been able to access organically, and it's here where Anderson really begins to make use of his ensemble. Sean Penn's rambunctious ageing actor provides chaotic fun, while Benny Safdie's mayoral candidate signals the shift from early-70s innocence to mid-70s paranoia, but the standout chapter is unequivocally the sequence involving Bradley Cooper's harebrained take on celebrity hairdresser Jon Peters. It's an electric 20-odd minute episode that instantly brings to mind the sort of unpredictable danger that Alfred Molina brought to Boogie Nights, but with enough levity and flow so that it doesn't feel like he's completely retracing his steps, but looking back to his own filmmaking past to find something new and exciting

But it's hard to talk about the performances here without singling out Cooper Hoffman and Alana Haim, and it's absolutely mind-blowing to think that this film marks both of their screen debuts. Haim is as outstanding as advertised, perfectly navigating the messiness that comes with being a perpetually confused twenty-something, and the way she leans into the childishness and selfishness of a woman who should know better while keeping the audience onside is nothing short of staggering. Hoffman is equally excellent, echoing the career best work his father did with Anderson while avoiding the weight that comes with what you might call a "legacy performance". No, the character of Gary Valentine is completely his from the start, fully embodying the naïve wisdom of an old head on young shoulders and convincing us to follow him through his strangest schemes. Together, they're absolute dynamite, and the film addresses the much-discussed age gap with real elegance, playing Gary's innocence off of Alana's poor judgement at all times and steering it away from the grotfest that it otherwise could have been

Not to say that it's entirely seamless, and if I had to pinpoint one thing that didn't quite gel for me, it's the running joke with John Michael Higgins and his Japanese wives. Anderson's intent is clear and it's obvious that Higgins is the butt of the joke, but it grinds the effortless pace of the film to a halt whenever it crops up, which thankfully isn't that often. Personally I think it can be chalked up to being an underbaked gag that really should have been addressed from a different angle, but it's a minor enough joke that it never felt like a dealbreaker for me either, though I would understand if it brought the experience down for other viewers. Anderson's sense of humour isn't quite as dark here as it is in his more dramatic films, instead using it to sharpen the hazy sheen of his gorgeously drawn world. Those who favour his more intense character studies may struggle slightly with how relaxed this film feels, but as someone who cut their film-geek teeth on Boogie Nights and Magnolia, I felt right at home

The blend of the very laid-back storytelling with the intense emotion of the coming-of-age plot is always spot-on, and Anderson fills the film with as much depth and detail as his more thematically charged works, which really helps root it into his filmography despite the much lighter tone. Nostalgia is very much the order of the day here but the film never feels like it gets lost in the romance of the past either: this is very much a film about what we find when we look back, and I think the personal touch that PTA gives is fully bolstered by the metatextual quality of the casting. From his own family to the entire Haim clan and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it turn from John C. Reilly and of course Cooper Hoffman as the lead, Licorice Pizza really feels like a love letter to the people who made him, both personally and professionally. It's the warmest and kindest he's been since Punch Drunk Love but his absolute mastery of his craft is also just massively apparent, and I think the result is a film that has its cake and eats it too, succeeding in just about every possible area it could

Obviously the mileage of other people may vary, and what were nitpicks for me might be more significant issues for others, but I think Paul Thomas Anderson has absolutely perfected the art of the hangout movie, telling a very intricate story full of moving pieces while never making it look any less than totally effortless, so for that reason, I'm going to go ahead and give Licorice Pizza full marks. This gets a 10/10 from me, no doubt about it

REVIEW: The Electrical Life of Louis Wain

Will Sharpe has been quietly carving a niche for himself in the world of British television, most recently directing the true crime miniseries Landscapers, and perhaps more notably with Flowers, his tragicomic series that I think perfectly laid out his MO for the kind of stories he tells and the style he does it in. This style is immediately apparent watching The Electrical Life of Louis Wain, a quirky, heartfelt biopic of the titular artist, known for his vast portfolio of colourful cat paintings. It's a niche story for sure, but one that perfectly fits Sharpe's sensibilities and pet themes. Dysfunctional families, tortured artists, individuals struggling to communicate in a world that seems to be moving far too quickly; if it wasn't for the fact that this is a true story, it would be easy to mistake this for a feature-length spin-off of Flowers

And while the film is far more than its eye-watering visuals, it's easily the first thing that stands out here, and it's an aspect of Sharpe's style that I think is only getting stronger with each of his projects. Erik Wilson's cinematography is, appropriately, very painterly in its look and feel, occasionally even blurring the shots to give the impression of watercolours on a canvas. This pairs perfectly with the woozy montages that Sharpe utilised brilliantly in Flowers, and he doubles down on those here, occasionally lapsing into dreamy psychedelia but always staying true to his subject. The film plays its tweeness totally straight, and while that's bound to put some people off, there is something really admirable about how proudly it wears its quirky heart on its sleeve without ever tipping into over cutesy over-sweetness

It's an endearing film for sure, and I think the level of detail that is poured into the style and the idiosyncrasy really helps the film cover up its one key issue, that being how slight most of its ideas of larger themes are. The emotional core is strong and the film completely sells its more heartfelt beats, but most of that kind of falls through when the film really fails to make any larger point about the life it's capturing. It never justifies why it's telling this specific story, and while the amount of detail and love put into the film always keeps it watchable, it ultimately gives in to its lack of anything to say and winds up as a very enjoyable and hugely sincere but frustratingly shallow portrait of the artist as a wounded man

Thankfully, it's able to make it over the line on the backs of its excellent performances. Benedict Cumberbatch is as great as advertised, fresh off of his barnstorming turn in The Power of the Dog. His is a performance full of empathy and sensitivity, bringing each of Wain's tics to life without ever trivialising them or playing them for laughs. Claire Foy is a perfect co-lead, teasing out the film's heart in the first half before haunting the more emotional home stretch. I also thought Andrea Riseborough was fantastic as ever in this, as was Olivia Colman's pointed narration. My favourite aspect of this film however, is the parade of cameos, from the entire main cast of Flowers and a whole host of UK comedians to some slightly more surprising turns that make for some sharp shots of delight, particularly in the third act

It's not a film that makes any larger statement about its story or subject, but The Electrical Life of Louis Wain is consistently delightful, emotionally affecting and totally and utterly sincere in its twee approach. It lacks the edge that makes Sharpe's TV work so effective, but it's a nice tonic to start the year with, so for that reason, I'm going to go ahead and give this a 6/10

The TV Advent Calendar- Day 25

1. Community

So here we are. 25 days of writing about my favourite TV shows of all time, and it's all come down to this. my all time, number one, no doubt about it, favourite show ever made. And for me, TV doesn't get much better than Dan Harmon's Community. So what, I talk about some of the biggest, most acclaimed prestige dramas of all time and then place a wacky sitcom above them all? Yeah, but it's my list, and no show has ever given me as rewarding of a viewing experience as Community has. I started it on a whim, off a recommendation from a friend, before falling so deeply in love with the characters and the world of Greendale. And that to me is what TV is about. The best TV for me creates a connection between the viewer and the world of the show, where we're encouraged to invest in that connection and watch how it develops over time. Community might be notorious for dipping in quality in its second half (although I quite like seasons four and five) but those first three seasons are borderline perfect for me, and effortless blend of tight, intelligent meta-comedy and carefully doled out heart that serves one of the most lovable central casts in all of TV

The comedy here is so flexible, robust and rhythmic. It takes a while for the show to get into that groove, but once it does, it nearly becomes its own comedic language. Every joke, whether it's a running gag or just a one-and-done, is just so full of personality, and the show always knows exactly where to place them in an episode to ensure that each one builds on the last to hilarious effect. This combines perfectly with the show's total commitment to its concepts. Nothing is done by half here, whether its a paintball-centric riff on action movies or a war documentary about a school-wide pillow fight, and the show is great and believing in these ridiculous conceits and making them feel organic. It puts real effort and thought into even the silliest of jokes, and the payoffs nearly always hit the mark

And when the show hits onto a dud concept, you could never accuse Community of playing it safe. Even the fourth season and its attempt to recreate the first three works for the most part; say what you want about the controversial puppet episode, but it works because even when it plays it safe, it's still breaking from sitcom norms. The show is rightfully lauded for its meta elements, which not only massively enhance the comedy, but help to craft an incredibly satisfying viewing experience, too. Community understands what it means to sit on the other side of that screen and give yourself over to a story better than any other show I've seen. This is where Abed becomes the heart and soul of the show, acting as the glue between the characters and the audience by reminding both groups why any of this matters in the first place. Maybe these tropes seem ridiculous or overplayed, but if we're still using them and celebrating them, they must mean something to someone. I'm just going to leave his speech about why TV matters from the last episode here, because it sums up so much of what I've been saying about my love of the medium for the last month:

"There is skill to it. More importantly, it has to be joyful, effortless, fun. TV defeats its own purpose when it’s pushing an agenda, or trying to defeat other TV or being proud or ashamed of itself for existing. It’s TV; it’s comfort. It’s a friend you’ve known so well, and for so long you just let it be with you, and it needs to be okay for it to have a bad day or phone in a day, and it needs to be okay for it to get on a boat with Levar Burton and never come back. Because eventually, it all will"

Pretty good, right? That's the kind of innate understanding of television as a way of connecting with people that fuels every episode of Community and makes it so special. I've watched the show countless times because it's such a comfort to invite these weirdos back into my life and follow their bizarre stories, even just for a little while. The show's handle on its character is insanely strong, with each one being such a massive personality that that tap into a wide variety of gags, but I think what I love most about them is that they're all losers. They're screw-ups and failures united by a shared attempt at a second chance, which the show tells us time and time again is possible. Jeff can become a better person, Britta can become more comfortable being herself, Troy can find who he's meant to be. As long as they have each other, they can make each other better, and it's that incredible optimism that the show espouses under the snarky pop-culture riffing that makes it just such an eternal source of joy for me

And even those pop-culture riffs bleed with real love and passion: they come from a place of total sincerity. Even as the show becomes darker and more caustic in its final season, it all comes from a place of love and wanting to do right by the people that this story has come to mean something to. It doesn't hold itself to fan expectations but it knows that good TV leaves you with something real, even if that's only a laugh or a feeling of brief satisfaction. I've dove deep on specific aspects of this show before, deeper than most of the shows on this list, so forgive me if this entry isn't as analytical as the ones that preceded it. The truth is that Community is the show that made me love TV as much as I do. It reminds me why I love TV every time I watch it, and I could go as specific or as general in listing all of the things I love about it but for now, at the end of this post explaining why it's my favourite show ever made, I'm just happy that I live in a world where Community exists

Merry Christmas folks, and thank you for reading this list of my favourite shows of all time. It's been an absolute blast, and I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing it

The TV Advent Calendar- Day 24

2. The Sopranos

How can I talk about The Sopranos in 2021? It's a show that really needs no introduction at this point, enjoying huge amounts of acclaim for the entirety of its original run, as well as a resurgence in popularity over the last year or so, but I suppose I can start off by talking about where I came in with the show. Like a lot of people, I didn't watch The Sopranos until last year, so I was well aware of its mighty reputation. I'm no hipster or contrarian -just look at the amount of awards-botherers on my list- but something about just how heavy the acclaim for The Sopranos was made me a little... hesitant. Could it really be that good? Yes, and then some. There's a constant debate around a handful of the prestige shows (namely Mad Men, Breaking Bad, The Wire, and of course this), about which one deserves the label of the greatest of all time. And while there's one other show I prefer over it, it's hard to think of any drama series that packs the same amount of heft or punch as David Chase's monolithic gangster saga

So what makes it such a great crime show? Well, for starters, it's not really about the crime. The Sopranos is a character study of Tony Soprano: father, husband, son and head of one of the major crime families in New Jersey. The show never frames Tony's criminal exploits as the main source of the action, instead just painting all of the robbery, extortion and murder as another part of his daily grind. It's a lot more domestic than its flashy gangster contemporaries, and because it's set in a world where The Godfather and Goodfellas exist, it's extremely self-aware in how it uses mafia tropes, spending most of its run dissecting and subverting them wherever possible. Not that the show doesn't play any of it straight-the interconnecting politics of the mob are frequently fascinating- but the main focus is squarely on the character drama, and Tony's struggles with severe anxiety and depression

It's a portrait of what it means to be a man in the 21st century, set in the most hyper-masculine of worlds, where Tony's duties deny him of any vulnerability, constantly requiring him to perform the role of a cold, stoic crime boss, when really, he's just a man trying to make up for a lack of love in his life. The show never excuses any of Tony's many, many sins, but it makes use of a fascinating duality to show how a man like this contains multitudes. His hardships are real, and occasionally recognisable, and the show finds space to empathise with him even when he's crossing the line. He kills, steals and cheats, but does that make his pain any less real? This is where the therapy scenes come in and make the show something really special, a place where Tony can be completely open and reveal a side of himself that doesn't really have a place in any of the spaces he occupies. The dialogue in these scenes lay out Tony's inner monologues, but it's not just exposition- this is where the show gives itself time to fully develop the drama and process how it's affecting Tony. Melfi is a great character here because in many ways, she's us: listening to this man and his most honest and emotional and trying to understand what makes him tick

It's a vital part of the show that I just can't fathom skipping, especially with how frequently electric the back-and-forth between James Gandolfini and Lorraine Bracco is. This is one of the best casts on television, make no mistake about that, and every actor is putting in a practically perfect performance. Because the show is essentially orbiting around Tony and his many crises, every character represents another thorn in his side, but it's how dynamic and full each performance is that prevents them from ever feeling like one-dimensional inconveniences. All of them are nuanced and layered enough to support individual analysis, but I would like to single out Paulie Walnuts for a second as an example of how well the show understands how to develop a character

Paulie is perhaps the simplest character in The Sopranos. He doesn't have much of an arc; he's practically the exact same person in the last episode as he is when we first meet him, and yet he's one of the greatest creations in the history of television. He's a man who's sole existence is to either aggravate or be aggravated, and yet he never feels anything less than human, even at his most animated. It's a perfect combination of performance, writing, and a little bit of alchemy that I'm not sure I fully understand, and it's a testament to how well the show understands its world and all of the players in it that this literal cartoon character becomes one of the most enduring and bizarrely likable in the entirety of the medium

A huge part of that also comes from the incredibly specific tone. This is an uber-heavy mob show about a man with serious mental health issues, but Chase excels at finding the comedy in just how ridiculous the world of the mafia can be. There's no sole source of comic relief here. All of it is over-the-top and a natural source of humour, but the show always knows how to balance the light and the dark, effortlessly transitioning from the gut-wrenching sight of an embittered mob boss succumbing to a terminal illness to the high farce of two hapless wiseguys lost in the woods. The strength in this ensemble lie in how much personality each of them bring to their respective characters. They're heightened and larger-than-life but that's precisely what makes each of them so unforgettable. Even the minor characters make an impression, and the strength of all of these clashing personalities makes this show so much richer than practically any other show of its kind

But in terms of performances, I have to give special kudos to James Gandolfini. His is the greatest performance I've ever seen, in anything, hands down. Every expression, every little gesture and mannerism is perfectly tooled to paint a detailed an complex portrait of a man in constant freefall. This is the show credited with starting our collective fascination with the difficult man archetype, but none of the characters he inspired are quite on Tony's level in terms of sheer depth and complexity. The show explores his inner life in such forensic detail, from the dueling aspects of his home life to his surreal, often strangely beautiful dream sequences, and all of it is tied together by the absolute masterclass from Gandolfini

It's every bit as good as its reputation suggests, and there's a reason it's endured as well as it has. The epic saga of Tony Soprano is as close to perfection as TV gets, and its a testament to how well David Chase and team told his story that the audience is constantly growing even 14 years after the show finished. Speaking of the finale, it might have been controversial at the time, but now, it's harder to think of a show with a better ending. The cut heard around the world may have brought the narrative to a crushing halt, but that's sort of the point. By leaving Tony on a candidly observed high, Chase leaves his immediate future unknown, but his ultimate fate all but confirmed by the grim endings that so many of the characters have faced up to this point. This isn't the end of his story, but it's where we as an audience bow out and leave him to it. We were, after all, just passengers on his chaotic journey through life. But it's crucially open to interpretation; whatever your theory is of where Tony ended up, it's important that you don't stop believin'

The TV Advent Calendar- Day 23

3. The Leftovers

October 14th, 2011. 2% of the world's population vanish, seemingly for no reason at all, leaving everyone who remains to try to make sense of something so tragically random. That's where The Leftovers starts, and it only gets stranger from there. I've said it countless times over the course of this list, but TV's great advantage is longform storytelling. The best television isn't immediate. It trusts its audience to be patient, to invest in it with the promise of the great reward of lasting emotional resonance. One thing I love about Damon Lindelof is that he understands that it's not what we get out of something that matters, but what we put into it, and that's exactly what The Leftovers is. There are no answers, no easy explanations, and if you read the synopsis of the last episode and spoil the ending for yourself, it wouldn't really affect the experience of watching it all that much. This is a show that needs to be seen, to be experienced. Lindelof is writing purely from the heart here; he knows that great stories deal in feeling, not logic

I'm not the first to say that this isn't a show about answers, but questions. And that's the very thing that makes The Leftovers stand out, not just among the dystopia genre, but for TV in general. Lindelof knows that the journey is always going to be more satisfying than the destination, so he denies his characters conclusive answers and forces them to navigate what comes next. Right from the start, this is a show about the ways in which people cope. Police chief Kevin Garvey is tasked with dealing with the Guilty Remnant- a chain-smoking cult who style themselves as living reminders of the countless lives lost- but is what they're doing actually wrong, or just a response to mass grief? Nora Durst lost her husband and kids in the departure and is desperately seeking something that can help her move on, but is that even possible after such a total loss? Nora's brother Matt is a priest who is constantly experiencing obstacles and hardship; are these tests from God or is he just massively unfortunate? And then there's Holy Wayne, who can take people's pain away from hugging them. He could be the real thing, or maybe he's a fraud, but if it makes people feel better, does it matter if it's real?

All of these are questions that don't necessarily need to be answered for them to mean something. Instead, the show has the characters navigate life in the wake of a tragedy that doesn't have any easy explanations; if you're frustrated by a lack of answers, how do you think they feel? The Leftovers is one of the greatest depictions of what it is to grieve ever put to screen. That world-shaking loss that's impossible to undo, that's the feeling that this show homes in on, and over the course of the first season, Lindelof really masters these huge expressions of gut-wrenching anguish that makes such a strange premise feel eerily plausible. It's a study in how we respond to catastrophe, and how that affects our ability to connect with each other. None of the Garvey family departed, but they all lost each other because in processing this tragedy, they all became entirely different people, because that's what disaster does. The Leftovers isn't interested in those who departed because Lindelof knows that the real pain is felt by those who were left behind

And if this is all starting to sound a little hopeless, then consider the show's second season. A soft-reboot of sorts that sees the characters relocate to Miracle, Texas: a town where nobody departed. The first season was a study of grief and pain but the second completely shifts gears to tell a much looser story about a community struggling to make sense of a series of mysteries. This time, the narrative focus is on three girls who go missing, but thematically, this is a season about the importance of keeping hope. Without spoiling anything, this is where the show starts to tease out its more mystical elements, from a miracle that strengthens Matt's faith to the increasingly supernatural situations that Kevin finds himself in, and it's when the show starts to lean into the spiritual and surreal that it goes from being a good show to being one of the greatest ever made

The second and third seasons are just such a massive improvement on the show's first run. Not that it was bad, it's pretty excellent in its own right, but by loosening the show's tone and opening itself up to the supernatural, The Leftovers is able to cover so much more ground and really let Lindelof's singular sensibilities shine. The show hits onto moments of real profundity while still being full of bizarre, strangely funny and oddly moving plot beats. Justin Theroux singing bad karaoke to escape from an otherworldly hotel doesn't sound like it should be heartbreaking but Lindelof excels at finding so much meaning in the seemingly ridiculous that it ends up as one of the standout sequences in the show. There's just so much creativity on display here, each individual episode packed with so many ideas and images that drip with thematic heft, and it's consistently awe-inspiring how casually Lindelof throws out these moments of insane genius to expand on the story and themes in entirely unpredictable ways

Conceptually, it's just a goldmine, with so many episodes that display how thoughtfully the show has developed each of its ideas. Personally I'm a sucker for the trilogy of episodes that see Matt's faith tested in frustrating and massively unfortunate ways, as well as the penultimate stunner that sees Kevin on an insane quest to prevent further catastrophe, but if we're talking about individual episodes of The Leftovers, then it has to be said that this show features two of the greatest hours of television ever made. The first is International Assassin, a massively bold artistic gamble that sends Kevin barreling through a thematically stuffed world, the true nature of which won't be spoiled here. It's the kind of risky conceptual storytelling that most shows wouldn't dare commit to, but it works because it's no gimmick. It introduces ideas that become fundamental to the show, shaping what's to come while redefining everything that came before it, particularly in how it reframes a crucial character, turning what could have been a one-dimensional villain into a person motivated by fear and trauma, and the result is a singular and beautiful hour of storytelling

The second episode that I think really defines how excellent this show is would be the show's finale, The Book of Nora. Whereas most final outings wrap up a show's story and provide satisfying endings for each of the characters, The Leftovers parks the narrative in the second-last episode and dedicates its final lap to serving the ideas, and most importantly, the emotions, that Lindelof has been playing with since the pilot. It's a completely stripped back and somewhat uneventful ending on one level, but it's a perfect finish for the show precisely because of how low-key it is. The Leftovers is a show that proudly wears its cerebral and creative uses of concept on its sleeve, but like most great stories, it's not what it does to your mind that matters, but how it touches your heart, and The Book of Nora cuts straight to what's been motivating the show since the word go: love. It sheds any clear explanations of what has happened in its ten-year time jump in favour of characters talking about how it made them feel. Again, this isn't a show about answers, but about how chasing questions turns us into the people we're meant to be, for better or worse, and there's a quiet beauty in how it delivers that

It's just a beautiful, unforgettable run of TV and it's only 28 episodes long, which turns it into a real advertisement for the power of brevity. Lindelof is wise enough to never wear out any of his ideas, instead making the most out of each one of them with perfect pacing and story structure. It's a huge exploration of the spiritual concepts that we'll never fully understand, but by keeping the stakes of the story rooting in feeling rather than logic, The Leftovers is able to become a hugely universal story about grief and love and faith without sacrificing any of its gorgeous complexity, a reminder that against the overwhelming uncertainty of life, sometimes the best we can do is just let the mystery be

The TV Advent Calendar- Day 22

4. Better Call Saul

When Better Call Saul was first announced, I was slightly skeptical, and I don't think I'm alone in that. Saul was always my favourite character in Breaking Bad, but something about the idea of a prequel series just didn't appeal to me for some reason. I don't know, maybe it was painful flashes of Joey and other failed spin-offs, or maybe it was the fact that, great as Saul was, he wasn't a character with an awful lot of substance, mainly just being an incredibly likable and frequently hilarious piecemover capable of getting Walt and Jesse to parts of the underworld they couldn't really navigate themselves. He was a dependable standout in the ensemble, but could Saul Goodman really support his own series? No, but Jimmy McGill could. Right from the start, there's something really special about Better Call Saul, initially a show about how Jimmy's conscience (emphasis on the con) totally dissolved to make him the criminal lawyer we came to love, but the real thrill of watching this show comes from how it gradually begins to blossom into something totally different- and in my opinion, slightly better- than its mighty predecessor. Something funnier, warmer and possibly even more tragic. Something that, at its best, has established itself as the best thing on TV right now

High praise, I know, but I'm just incredibly impressed at what BCS was able to do right from the start of its run. It begins as a sort of origin story, but the truth is that it's actually about much more than Jimmy McGill. If Breaking Bad was about a seemingly mild-mannered man sinking into the Albuquerque underworld, then Better Call Saul shows how that network of criminals and psychopaths became the way it was when Heisenberg arrived on the scene. As well as Jimmy's descent, the show also follows hard-nosed fixer Mike, put-upon gangster Nacho, the utterly unhinged Lalo and Jimmy's straight-laced brother Chuck. All of them are great, a nice mix of returning players and new faces that make the two worlds that Jimmy bridges feel so much more alive and organic. It never feels like Vince Gilligan and Saul's co-creator Peter Gould, are narrowing their focus to just tell one story, instead keeping their eye for epic storytelling and turning back the clock to really just study the world they created further and spend more time filling in some of the intricate details. 

As expansions go, it feels a lot more organic than most; Gilligan's love for his weird, wild world is stronger than ever and I think that's really what makes Saul work as well as it does. There's so much more warmth and love this time around, and I think part of that comes from the kind of character Jimmy is vs. the cold psychopathy of Walter White. Jimmy's not a good person, nor is he necessarily a bad person. He's whatever the situation needs him to be, but under the flexible morality is a wounded heart and a set of values that keep bubbling up to the surface whenever he's at his most nefarious. This is where the show plays its absolute ace, the new addition that really gives an edge over Breaking Bad: Kim Wexler

Kim is the heart and soul of this show, the thing that keeps Jimmy tethered to the world of right and wrong as he gradually begins to shift into Saul. Rhea Seehorn consistently gives one of the greatest performances on television (though not great enough for the Emmys apparently), effortlessly matching reliably strong work from Odenkirk and Banks and turning Kim into so much more than just a love interest for Jimmy. She's what reminds him that there's value in staying good, in resisting the poison within and staying on the righteous path. The show toys with the audience with constant reminders that Jimmy's story doesn't end in salvation and that Saul wins in the end, but part of what makes Kim so compelling is how ardently she fights that losing battle. She's constantly trying to appeal to the better parts of him, and he wants to be better for her... but the seductive corruption of the Saul persona is always that little bit stronger. This gets especially interesting in the later seasons, where it becomes clear that Kim's no angel either, and the show begins to tease out the dark side that Jimmy will inevitably bring out in her. Her fate may be terrifyingly ambiguous, and she might yet break bad herself, but it's that push and pull between two people who simultaneously make each other better and worse that makes Saul such a consistently exciting show

I'm just in constant awe of Jimmy's arc here. It's not a straight line like Walt's was, and he isn't just slippin' down into corruption, at least not all of the time. Instead, the world is constantly ripping chunks out of Jimmy and letting the poison of Saul leak into the resulting gaps. And unlike with Heisenberg, the show lets us root for Jimmy too- some of the time at least. His "stick it to the man" approach to justice and occasional ability to do good are constant reminders that Jimmy's heart is sometimes in the right place, and that makes each of his lapses into darkness that much more devastating. His relationship with Chuck is the clearest indicator that despite how likable Jimmy is, he's capable of unspeakable cruelty too, and the show pits the brothers against each other constantly and brutally, culminating in a courtroom clash that's completely bloodless but still as devastating as anything Tuco or Fring could have devised

Stylistically, the show uses most of the same techniques as Breaking Bad, but tonally and generically, they're totally different beasts; if the ballad of Heisenberg was Gilligan's darkly funny tragedy, then this is his deeply sad comedy. The show drops the neo-western leanings in favour of a sort of sticky Southern noir, a perfect fit for the moral greys and deep shadows that The Slippin' One operates in. The show uses the audience's knowledge of how this story ends to absolutely inspired effect, constantly toying with the characters when they think they can best fate. It knows when to invoke what awaits them in the future, but the writers also excel at using the unknown quantities that Breaking Bad never had a chance to establish. Nacho and Kim's fates are still totally up in the air, and the flashes to Jimmy's dreary future are constant reminders that his story isn't quite finished yet. How fitting that a man who lived in ambiguity is ultimately trapped in a black and white future

It's gotten to the point where you could voice a preference for either show and I'd totally understand it. Better Call Saul is an add-on in the purest sense, taking what was already excellent and building on it, using the genius of Breaking Bad to give itself a strong foundation and eventually enhancing what came before it by giving old stories new meaning. It's funnier and quirkier and that's where Gilligan and Gould usher in the Trojan horse, billing it as a fun and enjoyable spin-off before driving the knife in again and again to create another truly intoxicating crime epic. This wider universe has now spanned 13 years and has knocked it out of the park again and again, each installment improving on the one before it and building a legacy that will endure in television forever. Breaking Bad is excellent, El Camino is incredible, and Better Call Saul is, in my estimation, the best of them all, a work of comedy and tragedy that is constantly deepening and twisting and growing better and better. Wherever the show ends up, this is one con that I'm happy to have fallen for

The TV Advent Calendar- Day 21

5. Fleabag

Every so often, there's a show that becomes an all-consuming phenomenon that actually lives up to the hype and is every bit as special as the tidal wave of acclaim suggests. I had watched some of the first season of Fleabag before and really enjoyed it, but it wasn't until that second season that I went back to see what all the fuss was about and fell into the infinite rabbithole of Phoebe Waller-Bridge's genius. Sometimes it can be hard to navigate hype and see the wood for the trees, but I also believe that it's easy to recognise a generation defining storyteller when you see one, which is exactly what PWB established herself as here. What else can you call someone who condenses so much comedy, tragedy, smut, pain and genuine insight on the human condition into12 chapters that barely even adds up to 6 hours but hits on just about every emotion there is?

I guess the best way to start is by talking about how thematically loaded Fleabag is. There's been no shortage of "sadcoms" on the British comedy scene, but most of those shows fall short of greatness for me because they tend to call it a day when they get to the emotional sting under the jokes. It's a tense and release tactic, where comedy cuts tragedy and tragedy grounds the comedy, and it really works for something like After Life, but it also means that by its nature, that show is entirely bound by its twin aims to make you laugh and cry. Fleabag makes no such promise, instead immediately establishing that jokes and feeling exist side by side because that's just how life is. Neither of them exist to balance the other or to serve the tone, and the show is free to cover so much more ground as a result. There's a lot going on in Fleabag, a story about depression and grief and womanhood and sex and faith and redemption and failure and love and self-love and sisterly love and seeing and being seen and slowly regaining hope in both yourself and the world at large, and the way Waller-Bridge crams all of this into two six-episode seasons is frankly just mind-blowing

It sounds like a lot, and that's because it is, but the genius of Fleabag is that it knows how to dole out its insights and its laughs at the same time. Waller-Bridge knows that she's tackling well-worn themes that are going to be immediately familiar to anyone who's seen enough dramedies to know the classic beats that they hit, but she manages to provide something different by refusing to ever commit to being wholly funny or emotional. There's no setpiece here that fully grounds itself in either levity or tragedy, so the show never really feels like its maneuvering itself to switch between them, and the result is a totally seamless mastery of tone that makes Fleabag undoubtedly the best show of its kind at balancing and blending light and heavy thematic content

This is aided immeasurably by the show's style. It boils characters down to stock archetypal figures who are barely even named most of the time, and this is massively useful in grounding the audience firmly in Fleabag's perspective on the people around her. It's just us and her in this story as she guides us through a world where she struggles to really feel seen, and as a result, she struggles to truly see anyone either. Perspective is a crucial tool in this show, constantly reminding us as viewers that this story is being told by one person with a viewpoint that is specific to them, and through communicating that, the show really makes use of the technique its become most known for, that being the fourth-wall breaks. At first, it seems like a great extension of the comedy and a smart reference to the show's roots as a one-woman play, and while it absolutely is both of those things, there's a little more to it this time around. Fleabag constantly struggles to understand people or be understood, so she keeps turning to us, a captive audience who are tuning in hopes that we can make something out of this story, too. She relies on us to engage with the story as much as we do on her to tell it, and as the show goes on, Waller-Bridge allows our heroine to rely less and less on what's on the other side of the screen until she's outgrown us completely as a sign of her growth

And then there's the Hot Priest. Fleabag's first season was like a bolt of lightning, but the sophomore run did just about everything it could to improve on it; it was tighter, sharper, angrier, more tragic, more heartfelt and funnier. It added a couple of new players including Fiona Shaw and Kristen Scott-Thomas (both excellent), but if anything justified this show getting a second season and allowed the show to grow and mature into something really special, it was Andrew Scott's miraculous turn as a sexy, soulful preacher. He takes to the comedy like its second nature and his chemistry with PWB is palpable, but the real genius of adding a man of the cloth to the story was that it gave Fleabag so much more thematic ground to cover

By essentially putting the title character in a love-triangle with God, the show can break down massive concepts of redemption and purpose and the power of love to provide salvation. And if there was ever any doubt that the fourth-wall breaking was a stylistic gimmick, just look at how smoothly the priest is integrated into it. The moment where he catches her to-camera glances is small but it says so much about what it truly means to open up to another person and let them in to the carefully-controlled world you've built. It doubles down on probably the most simple but devastatingly effective point the show puts forward, that loving, and being loved, feels like an absolute miracle

Because this is, after all, a love story. It's such a bold, borderline cocky move to open a season by spelling out the main theme of the show, but it works because it's absolutely true. Fleabag is about love. Not necessarily romantic love, although again, her tryst with the Hot Priest is utterly swoon-inducing, but the idea that everyone loves and gives love. Waller-Bridge defines all of her characters by this, and even the unlikable characters are only framed as such because they lack that natural ability to convey real warmth or tenderness. It's a show about someone learning to let love in, about two sisters who love each other more than anything but don't fully understand why, about a man trapped between a blossoming romance and his total devotion to God, about a father who loves too deeply to fully be able to articulate it. She sums up in 12 episodes what most shows couldn't even do in half as many seasons, and she does it all with brutal and beautiful honesty. The Priest's homily is a celebrated scene for a reason, perfectly articulating that love is messy and painful and turns us into the worst versions of ourselves, but it matters because there's nothing more beautiful than connecting with another person

And while I've spent most of this month banging on about long-form storytelling and shows taking their time, the truth is that Fleabag is a masterpiece precisely because it does the total opposite. It prioritises speed and efficiency over slowly establishing a world of characters, but that's why it works. It has to strike fast to make an impression because otherwise the rawness of its emotional beats would totally lose their impact. It's much more cutting and immediate than the bulk of sadcoms or tragicomedies about the burdens of adulthood because it's never generous to its characters, instead forcing them to create real connections with each other because, just like in real life, that's really all we have. I love Fleabag, and I can't see that love passing anytime soon