My Thoughts on Minari

Lee Isaac Chung's Minari has been attracting heavy praise since its premiere at Sundance last year, and somewhat unsurprisingly, it's become a massive hit on the awards circuit. Most contentiously, it won Best Foreign Language Film at this year's Golden Globes, which is slightly ridiculous, because this is explicitly a film about an immigrant family's pursuit of the American dream, and goes on to suggest that the essence of America is the multitude of cultural specificities that the country is composed of. It is absolutely an American film, and the notion that stories about POC don't belong in that category is frankly ludicrous. Minari tells the story of the Yi family as they travel to rural Arkansas in the early 80s in search of a new life. From there, the film eases into the poetry of the everyday, as father Jacob tends to his land, kids David and Anne adjust to their new life, and grandmother Soon-ja is flown in to lighten the load

Minari is a film about small routines, little gestures that build into larger payoffs. Farming, parenting and assimilation are all large commitments that take effort and patience to yield successful results, and Chung revels in these processes. The film is light enough to weave tones together in a way that never risks losing consistency; it flirts with natural comedy, deeper drama and the earnest rhythms of life that translate perfectly onscreen. It's a careful blend established early on, something that allows the film to ease closer and closer into the huge emotional insights it doles out in the third act. Like a great farmer, Chung knows that good things take time

The film has an organic, observational structure, almost like the audience has stumbled across this story by accident. This is bolstered by the cast, who present themselves in such an organic, natural way. It's like watching a real family onscreen, but standing back and looking beyond the illusion proves valuable as a way of seeing just how much effort each member of the cast has put into making it look so seamless. It's a perfect recreation of life, and it's on top of such a believable foundation that they're able to construct a portrait of the American dream that never feels anything less than true. Special mention to Alan Kim, whose performance conveys a level of depth and eloquence that marks the arrival of a hugely exciting screen presence that I can't wait to see more of

The film excels in moments of specificity, and the huge notes of truth and emotion in the third act just wouldn't be possible if Chung hadn't sowed the seeds early on. So much of Minari is rooted in his own upbringing, and he translates so many little nuggets of everyday magic that feel specifically his. The result of this is pure cinema, not diluted or compromised by an attempt to capture anything other than his own experience. It finds great universality in doing this, and the film ensures that the viewer is absolutely invested from the start. Stories like this matter, in society and in cinema. Especially after a year where so much of the conversation has been about blockbusters, about when No Time to Die is going to be released, or if Black Widow is going to drop on Disney+. Those films have their place but Minari strikes gold by skewing smaller, by delivering earnest, intelligent cinema at a time where it couldn't feel more needed. It's warm, lovingly crafted and massively valuable. It becomes a masterpiece through its quiet moments, and although its insights are delicate, they're no less impactful for it, and their effect is bound to be felt in the decades to come

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Rewrites, Cancellations and Least Favourite Genres (Q&A)

So a little while ago I asked for questions for a potential Q&A. I love the idea, and it's been something I had been tinkering with for a while, and thanks to some very lovely people on Twitter, I now have a slew of questions just waiting to be answered. So let's dive in!

Quick note before we get started: since I got these from Twitter, I'll be crediting people by their @s

@NoTea_NoShade asks two questions: If you could write an episode for one tv show, whether it's a TV show that's finished or one that's still on air, what one would you choose and why??

This is a really interesting question, and I think there's a lot of ways to take this. I did think about shows that would benefit from having a new episode come out in these weird post-pandemic times- which I'd probably answer Barry for if only to see Gene Cousineau teach a class over Zoom- but ultimately I tried to think of a show that I'm on a similar wavelength with creatively. Maybe Arrested Development, not just because it fits nicely into my sense of humour but also to numb the crushing disappointment of the last two seasons and give it at least one more episode that wasn't a total dud. I'd also like to take on The I.T. Crowd, especially with everything that's been happening with its creator. It's become a harder and harder show to enjoy and I wouldn't mind the chance to add an episode that could pinpoint what's great about the show that also wrestles it away from Graham Linehan's hateful hands

In terms of what that episode could be, I'd like to check in with Reynholm industries ten years later, where Jen has bluffed her way into some really successful life, Roy's still exactly where he is, and Moss has become some sort of all-powerful world leader, only to give it up to back to the I.T. department. Throw in some Richmond and Douglas cameos and I think we're good to go

Are there any shows that you think have been unjustly cancelled?? If so what?? And if they had of continued was there any particular characters or plot you would have been interested in seeing ??

So I'm actually working on a list kind of shows I love that were cancelled after one season, but I do love this question because we've all been there. We've all fallen in love for a show only for it to get take out way too soon. A year ago my answer would've been The Knick but that's set to make a comeback so I'm gonna have to go with the old favourite and say Hannibal. Obviously if it continued, we would have gotten a Silence of the Lambs storyline which would've been insane. To be fair I haven't seen Clarice yet, but it doesn't look half as interesting as Bryan Fuller's show

I guess slightly less obvious would be Glow, which understandably had a production shutdown due to Covid. I really would've loved to have seen where that show would have gone next, especially because there's still more of the actual story of the show left to tell. I also really like Love, maybe the most frustrating casualty of Netflix's cancellations, and even though the ending is really sweet, I'd still love to see more of Gus and Mickey's now married life together 

@elliott_salmon also asks two questions: If you could rewrite any ending to any television show... how would you do it?

This is a great, great question. I think it's more fun to talk about the endings that missed the mark rather than the ones that delivered, so ignoring the Felinas and the Meanwhiles and the Person to Persons of this world, there's an awful lot to choose from. I mean obviously I'd keep Bran off the Iron Throne but for a less obvious choice, I'd probably erase the interactive special and keep Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt's last episode as is

 In terms of a more in depth rewrite, I'd broaden out the last half of Gravity Falls' second season and take away the neat ending for Stan, using a timeskip to show how he's starting again and forging a new, slightly more honest life. It's funny because I loved Weirdmaggedon, but I thought the very last story beats felt a little too... clean. Which is especially strange in a show that was built not just on questions, but unexpected answers, too. Even five years later, it still doesn't really sit right with me. So yeah, I'd keep a lot of it the same, but I'd definitely put more emphasis on his sacrifice, and not have it glossed over as quickly as it is

If you could be in any sitcom, which would it be and why?

So one thing I love about sitcoms is the way they create interesting, dynamic worlds, full of distinct characters, but I don't think any show has done it better than Parks and Rec. Pawnee is more than a place, it's is own character. I know that sounds like a cliché but so much of why I love the show comes from how special the town feels. It's also the show with the most loveable cast, which is a big plus for being in that world. It's just such a real, well-constructed place, so full of details and brimming with life, and I think that's a huge factor in why the show is so great. Plus, the problems in that show are always pretty small-scale and zany, which definitely beats the moral hellscape of something like It's Always Sunny. It's a delight, and being in any town run by a ray of sunshine like Leslie Knope is bound to be an absolute joy

@kellyane_evans asks: What's your least favourite genre of film/tv and why?

This is a tough one. In terms of film, I'm generally pretty open, although I've had to learn to love documentaries, which I've really come around on. I guess certain kinds of blockbusters put me to sleep, in particular ones that I know were only made for money and lack any sort of creative presence, like the Jurassic World movies or your average Gerard Butler vehicle . Same goes for anything overly experimental (in particular Andrew Kötting's work), or anything where I can tell it's only being made to stroke the creators' ego, like pretty much anything from Charlie Kaufman. So I guess it's not so much the genre as it is the intention behind the film. Oh, and I also really hate films that only exist to shock and provoke and don't actually use that to say anything (we get it Gaspar Noé, you used real sex in your film, you're very clever)

It's slightly easier to do this for TV. As much as I love sitcoms, I really can't deal with a lot of cringe comedies or shows that derive humour from how awful their characters are. Same goes for anything overly cynical, or emotionally distant. Weirdly this doesn't massively bother me when it comes to movies, but I think if I'm investing a ton of time in this world, I want some sort of hook to keep me invested, and if a show feels weirdly insincere, it puts me right off. Rick and Morty is the prime example here, where the message of "everyone's awful and nothing means anything" just really annoys me. Not sure why, it just feels to easy of a conclusion to land on, and I'm definitely more drawn to shows that try harder to find some sort of positive resolution

Oh, I also really don't get 99% of teen dramas, although I'll concede that I'm probably not the target audience there

My Thoughts on Jumbo

Cinema is full of unlikely love stories, from Harold and Maude's sixty year age gap to Lars and the Real Girl's touching tale of one man's love for his life-size sex doll. Jumbo proudly joins this lineup as a real curio of the festival circuit, as the always amazing Noémie Merlant falls for a handsome stranger at a funfair. The stranger in question? A 20-foot tall pendulum ride called Jumbo. And yet, in the hands of director Zoé Wittrock, this proves to be the start of a beautiful relationship. Right off the bat, Jumbo is working with a bizarre premise, one that will turn a lot of people off but will also attract the kind of film fan who lives for the weird and the wonderful, who gleefully explores the annals of cult cinema in search of the wildest films they can find. If you fit that description, then read on, because Jumbo is very much the film for you. Just maybe not for the reasons you might think

Yes, Jumbo is an incredibly strange film with an attention grabbing premise, but that's not all it is. Actually, the whole point of the film is proving that just because something's weird, that doesn't mean it's not genuine. All the same, if you're coming to Jumbo solely out of curiosity, or even if you just want something different, you won't be disappointed. Wittrock's approach to the relationship is so admirable in how committed it is to taking this story seriously. There's a sex scene between Merlant's Jeanne and the titular ride, and without spoiling it, it's the thematic centerpiece of the film for all the right reasons. Jumbo is attention-grabbing and hypnotically weird, but it never makes a spectacle of its central relationship. The film actively rejects any sort of voyeurism or judgement. It's not an ironic film at all, instead relishing in the sincerity of an unorthodox romance that's no less genuine

It's a must-watch for fans of strange cinema, not because it's so surreal, but because it's explicitly about how it feels to love something even when nobody else can understand it. The film isn't a strange love story, but a story about strange love, and takes glee in sticking two fingers up at the powers that be and celebrating its heroine's passion for fairground rides. By the end, it marks itself as an unlikely feelgood hit, with real joy and love and heart. It's an oddity for sure but if you make it to the end, the film makes it very clear that it understands passion, even when it's targeted at something incredibly niche. Jumbo is a surprisingly wonderful film that takes its odd premise and spins it into something truly wonderful, and when it's done, you'll immediately want to rejoin the queue and get ready to ride all over again 

★ ★ ★ ★

My Problem With Wandavision

So the first of Marvel's TV outings has come and gone and it was... fine. It's funny, for as much as I've talked about the MCU on here, I've never really addressed how I feel about it as a whole entity. Honestly, I think it's okay. It's got some tremendous heights, and some pretty frustrating lows, and the longer it goes on, the more my issues with it are becoming magnified. At the same time, that's creating a greater level of investment in the MCU entries I do love- Guardians of the Galaxy 2 is an eternal comfort film of mine- and I think these two sentiments have collided with each other and evened out to create a total balance of adequacy. Post-Endgame, I've been waiting for something of a confirmation. After such a complete chapter of highs and lows that set records and hit unparalled levels of spectacle, I've found myself in need of a sign that Kevin Feige and his team are genuine storytellers and aren't just creating products in an assembly line so you'll hand over your hard earned green and keep the machine churning. So it's safe to say I had fairly high hopes for the lineup of shows that would start phase 4

So when Wandavision began, I was really, really happy with it. I should say up top that, despite the title of this post, I actually think Wandavision is a good show overall. The first six or so episodes are great, using the sitcom aesthetic to build a genuinely engaging mystery, and tease something larger with aplomb. I also really enjoyed the weekly release and the drip feed of information, and I'm especially happy to see that in this age of streaming and instant access. The show has some real surprises and uses them well, and I think it's only fair that I go ahead and say that what you're about to read is full of spoilers. If you haven't seen Wandavision, I'd definitely recommend it for an uneven but overall fairly enjoyable romp through a world of magic, mystery and laugh tracks. I give it 7/10 distraught witches

So what exactly is my problem? Well, bizarrely, my biggest issue with this installment of the MCU is exactly that: it's a standard installment of the franchise. And that wouldn't be an issue- I generally think their formula works really well- if the show hadn't put so much effort into convincing the audience that it was something different. Right from the start, the sitcom thing feels genuine. It's not just a gimmick that the show is using, it's an integral part of Wandavision's story. And the show does gradually indicate that it's only trying this style on for size and will outgrow it eventually but it also succeeds at making us invest in it, in using references and techniques unique to each of the sitcoms it's homaging. It's fun, charming and massively engaging

That's done so well that even as the show eases its way back into the real world and the scientists on the other side of the Hex, it doesn't feel jarring. It moves relatively naturally, until episode 7, where Agatha is revealed as the villain and the show really starts to sour. Suddenly, everything that made it interesting has a definite and concrete explanation, and most of the intrigue has gone out of the show before it's even reached its finale. The penultimate episode feels like an insult, a handheld tour through the selective backstory of Wanda Maximoff with some half-baked explanation of the sitcom gimmick thrown in for good measure. It's so jarring that what is made out to be such a key character trait is integrated this late into the characters' larger story, and it really lets the air out of Wandavision when it should be lining up its finishing blow

And just in case it seemed like the sitcom homages of the first episode were organic and effective, the show outwardly tells the audience that it was all just a cheap trick. Agatha's line about playing pretend feels like such an insult, a moment where the MCU imitated some big shift in how they tell their stories before delivering the big, neat climax they always do. And that wouldn't be a problem if Wanadavision was honest about what it was going to be but the show tries to have it both ways. I mean this is a show that people were celebrating for its surrealism and all-out approach to its subject matter, and while I can't say I ever thought it was some experimental masterpiece, it did sustain this intriguing remix of superhero stories long enough for me to think it was genuinely interested in trying something different

And speaking of superhero remixes, how about that fake brother? Look, I'm not sure I'm invested enough in either universe to say that the casting of Evan Peters had me champing at the bit for the X-Men to join the MCU, but at the very least I was expecting something better than this. Imagine wasting such a knowing bit of casting, one that deliberately, joyfully fuels a thousand fan theories before culminating in what is essentially a dick joke. I didn't need Wandavision to confirm any theories or even address the multiverse, but that kind of deliberately invoked disappointment really does sting. It's not the first time Marvel's done this kind of practical joke, but because of the nature of the medium and the knowing way they teased at a seemingly limitless array of answers, it doesn't work half as well as the Mandarin reveal in Iron Man 3. Instead, it feels a lot like the sudden shedding of the show's aesthetic, trying something new on for size before ditching it to serve the tried and true formula

Again, I didn't need Wandavision to be the show that changed the universe. It didn't have to confirm any theories or even connect to anything we'd seen before or would see in one of Marvel's 56 planned projects. It just had to assure me that Marvel was moving on from what they got so right in the Infinity saga, that everything post-Endgame would feel like the start of something new instead of a re-treading of old ground and a repeat of past frustrations. It doesn't hurt so much because they failed at the end, but because they succeeded immediately, getting it right before dropping the ball in a way that just feels so insulting. I know it sounds like I hated the show but I really loved those first six chapters, and they really hit the mark in terms of what I needed the show to be. But that home stretch just became a slog to watch, progressively running out of steam before slowing to a stop, finally reaching a neat and safe conclusion that tries so hard to be inoffensive and marketable that it ends up going the other way entirely. I'm going to watch the other shows for sure, but I can't say that Wandavision felt like the best start for the MCU's conquest of the small screen

My Thoughts on Ammonite

 

With his 2017 debut God's Own Country, Francis Lee established himself as a master of both delicate queer storytelling and an expert captor of the rugged British countryside. Ammonite does nothing to refute either of these descriptions, and doubles down on its predecessor's theory that intimacy is a cure for isolation, as well as Lee's enduring use of natural landscapes as a setting for stories about passionate yet routinely overlooked romances. God's Own Country was hailed as a milestone in British cinema and LGBTQ+  representation onscreen, so the question is this: is Ammonite a worthy follow-up?

The short answer? Yes, but just about. Ammonite tells the true story of Mary Anning, a collector of fossils in 19th century Dorset. The film speculates a romance between Anning and geologist Charlotte Murchison, and it's from here that Lee sows to seeds for an understated, largely unspoken romance. The performances, much like the handsome Lyme Regis landscape, initially appear cold and minimal, but over the course of the runtime, Lee is able to unearth the hidden wonders of both. Kate Winslet is outstanding as Anning, gradually warming up her defensive, understated shell to reveal a person who is passionate, insecure and hugely sympathetic. It's a performance that never gives too much at any given time, and Winslet is careful in how she emotes, the perfect way to play a character who has kept her guard up for so long that she's not even sure if it can come back down. Watching Winslet ease into moments of heightened emotion is a real thrill, even if the film's glacial stoicism means that those moments of release few and far between

Ammonite's main issue is its tone. Lee excels at telling a believable, engaging love story, and his visual storytelling is as strong as its ever been. The problem is that he's so good at alternating between guarded, mostly unspoken feeling and wonderfully conveyed romance that the film often gets stuck between the two and comes up emotionally uneven. And that's a shame, not just because of the already discussed tour-de-force from Winslet, but from how fantastically Saoirse Ronan is able to offset her. In another of a string of incredible turns in period pieces, Ronan works wonders in softening the tone and convincing the viewer that the film is worth investing in

And despite its issues, it is. Lee's film is choppy in places but still features fantastic performances and an engaging queer love story that feels a lot timelier than its setting would indicate. It's easy to forgive the missteps because the careful, minimal tone works more that it doesn't. The film struggles to change gears but when it's in motion there is something really compelling about it, and if Ammonite isn't quite as consistently breathtaking as God's Own Country, then it's nice to know that Lee's still got a few more tricks up his sleeve

★ ★ ★

Why I Don't Hate Season 8 of Game of Thrones

Game of Thrones is one of the most significant pieces of media of the last decade. It marked new possibilities as far as scale and production values were concerned and continued to provide the watercooler experience that streaming was increasingly denying audiences right up until the end of its run. I think the most important thing Game of Thrones did towards the end was open up a conversation about fan expectations. When David Benioff and D.B. Weiss started to go off-book after season 4, the show notably began to decline in terms of what people were getting out of it. Season 5 was fine but often felt like a slog with the overlong Dorne plot and tiresome use of rape as plot progression, but by season 6, it seemed like the showrunners had much more of a handle on things. Episodes like The Door and The Broken Man were able to draw so much emotion out of big character moments, and the one-two-punch of The Battle of the Bastards and The Winds of Winter felt unparalleled in terms of anything Thrones had done before. And then the last two seasons happened.

Season 7 wasn't bad, but it was short, and often felt like it was compressing ten episodes worth of information into its fairly restricting seven chapters. But let's talk about the elephant in the room: season 8. You've probably read the title by now and I should say up top that I don't think season 8 is perfect. This isn't me telling you how wrong you are or blaming fans for having expectations; I just think so much has been written about where this season went wrong that honestly I think it's time to celebrate what it nailed. The eight season started a really interesting discussion about potential vs. payoff that I think is really fascinating, and along the way it delivered some of the most contentious story beats the show ever saw. But for all of the genuine, absolutely valid issues people have with GOT 8, I have a hard time hating it. In fact, I actually quite like it for the most part. Let's get into why.

I guess I should lay some groundwork, and take this opportunity to say that this post features heavy, frequent spoilers. Just in case you don't know anything about the show or its ending, now's your chance to make like Theon at the end of Stormborn and jump ship. With that out of the way, let's dive in. Season 8 is the culmination of a show who's writers literally came up with half of the story themselves after faithfully adapting the books for four seasons. That's always going to run the risk of being messy, and the detractors of the final season raise some good points. The show butchers the arcs of several characters, from Jaime's nonsensical decision to go back to Cersei to Daenerys going full Mad Queen at the last minute. Winter feels like a slight anticlimax and Cersei is totally undone as a threatening antagonist. Those are the genuine misteps the show makes, and I think they all come down to the shorter length. There just isn't room in six episodes to fit in all of the plot beats the show needs to have a perfect ending. And yet, for six episodes, they could have done a hell of a lot worse.

If you look at most of the problems in this season, they're mainly in the second half. It feels compressed and awkward, especially unfortunate for a show that took its time in establishing a larger world and the forces at play within it. And although the threat of Winter felt cut short, those first three episodes are damn strong taken on their own. Winterfell is a solid reintroduction, the show's final piecemover episode that really doesn't do a bad job at getting these characters where they need to be, even if it does retcon the Greyjoy plot. But the two episodes that follow it are, for me, the season's crown jewel, and genuinely rank among some of the best stuff Game of Thrones has done. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is masterful, reminding you how much you care about the characters while giving each of them a moment to breath before they face death. It's a glorious hour of television that, regardless of what comes after it, does a great job of building anticipation and reminding you why you cared in the first place. It's light on action but if you've made it this far there's absolutely going to be something for you here.

And then there's The Long Night. Dark lighting aside, it's actually a really strong battle episode. Yeah, some of the decisions feel slightly random (Arya killing the Night King in particular could have been set up better), but it still feels like the huge midseason confrontation the show needed. Watching this episode again, the action itself is thrilling and well put together, making great use of location, especially when the characters are dodging and ducking around the halls of Winterfell. Far from hollow spectacle, the action rings true because it respects the connection you've built with these characters over seven seasons. Is it a slightly neat conclusion to such a huge threat? Maybe, but it's such an effective way of bridging together everything that made the show engaging that, despite the fact that it's admittedly too dark, it still has its moments of genuine satisfaction that outweigh every strange decision

And although the two episodes after it drop the ball, they're far from awful. The Last of the Starks has some lovely character moments and a genuinely effective ending, while The Bells compensates for its lapses in logic with great action and effective (if slightly unearned) shocks. The Bells is by far the weakest episode of the season but I still think it delivers some of the best acting the show has seen, and some massive scrapes that channel what Thrones does at its best. The Last Watch especially made me appreciate the level of work that went into every moment of this season, and even at its worst, I can't bring myself to hate it, because so much of that effort paid off

Even the ending feels right. I don't agree with every decision- especially not Bran winning the Throne- but it feels right for a show that was built on denying people what they wanted. It lacked the level of lethality of previous seasons but GOT has always been unpredictable and unflinching in how it subverted expectations. Dany's demise- unlike her sudden descent into evil- feels earned and set-up well within the episode it happens in. The show keeps the focus on the politics of Westeros right up until the last minute, and if it doesn't always work, it's hard to say any of it feels wrong. It's just crazy how quick people were to dismiss it when it's mildly disappointing at worst. At its best, it still feels on brand for Thrones, and those last few character moments leave so much to stew on. It really feels like the story will continue beyond the show, from Jon's journey to the North to the new Small Council having their awkward first meeting. For a show so big, it always knew when to skew smaller

So yeah, I don't hate the eighth season of Game of Thrones. It's not perfect, and I have my problems with it, but so much has been made of what this installment did wrong that I think that its virtues have gotten lost in the blur. It just seemed like such a kneejerk reaction where the disappointment people felt towards certain decisions clouded their opinion on the show as a whole, including everything before the last season. Ultimately, I think that time will be kind Game of Thrones, especially as people revisit the show in years to come and accept the ending as part of the journey. Will I always defend this last season so passionately? Ask me again in 10 years

Top 10 Pilot Episodes

 First impressions are hard. Take the first episode of a show for instance. You want it to be good enough to convince you that the show is worth watching but not so good that it seems like the show can't live up to its opener. You want to be introduced to the world and the characters while also being assured that there's space for them to grow and develop past the first season. It's amazing how easy this is to get wrong, but a great pilot is something truly special, and an art unto itself. There's no real criteria for what makes a great first episode outside of their ability to sell a show and give the viewer an idea of what they're in for from a single installment. Narrowing it down to ten episodes that I think do this well was tough, but here's a list of the ten pilots that drew me in from the start and made me hungry for more. Obviously, this is all my opinion and entirely relative to shows I've seen. If something isn't on this list, it could be because I haven't seen the show, or because it just didn't impress me as much as the stuff that made the cut. I should also say that this list is judging these episodes in isolation, and doesn't reflect how I feel about the shows as a whole. Also because we're only talking about first episodes here, it's safe to say there aren't going to be many spoilers on this list. With that out of the way, let's get into it

10. The Beginning (Samurai Jack)

I was in two minds about how to count Samurai Jack's first episode for this list because, in the middle of the series' run, the first three episode were rereleased as a standalone TV movie, but in the end I decided to just take the first chapter on its own. It says a lot about how great of a storyteller Gennedy Tartakovsky is that in 22 short minutes he perfectly establishes a huge threat that goes on to loom over the whole show and cover the entire backstory of the only hero who can conquer it. Jack's origin is compacted into a montage that is comprehensive and economic without feeling like a series of flashcards conveying the most basic pieces of information. This was always a show more focused on the journey, establishing a problem early on and spending five seasons trying to solve it, so condensing everything before Jack's arrival in the future into a single sequence actually ends up being an incredible decision from a storytelling perspective

We learn so much about Jack through seeing his training and education. Samurai Jack is a show that always prioritised visual storytelling over an abundance of dialogue so being able to set so much up with a few choice images is a testament to how well the show is able to convey its plot. It's an episode that provides both a catalyst to the series' conflict and an introduction to its truly singular style, and it perfectly sets up the massive journey to come

9. It's Summer and We're Running Out of Ice (Watchmen)

From the first scene depicting the actual Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921, it was clear that Watchmen was a show with a lot to say. Damon Lindelof's take on Alan Moore's masterful graphic novel was never a straight adaptation, and sought to find an original way to use the story to examine contemporary America from the start. The show immediately sets up in universe events like the White Night while also making it clear that Watchmen is a show that is keen to dissect the venomous ills that have infected America for centuries. Through doing this it sets up a believable, real conflict, using vigilantes to dissect ideas of justice and the law and ask who is fit to uphold it

Aesthetically it's a fascinating beast, too. The show remixes classic motifs and images from the graphic novel while also splicing in ideas from pop culture, in particular using 1955's Oklahoma! to set up a particularly crucial plot beat. It's an engrossing introduction that sets up a clear, coherent plot before promising that the show to come will do everything in its power to complicate it and warp it into something really special. It drew scorn from a certain portion of the fanbase who complained that it was "too political", but that just goes to show that they weren't paying attention. The comic was always an explicit social comment, and with It's Summer and We're Running Out of Ice, the show immediately lets the audience know that it's about to follow suit

8. Episode 1 (Fleabag)

I think one thing that makes a great pilot is the ability to get in and get out, establishing everything about the show in a relatively short period of time. Fleabag's first episode moves with all the speed and chaos of a whirlwind, introducing the main character and Phoebe Waller-Bridge's style of to-camera addresses to establish Fleabag's perspective perfectly. There's a really natural flow through which the show introduces all of the central players, and even some less central side characters, hilariously dubbed Bus Rodent and Arsehole Guy. The show is pacey from the start, and promises to keep that up throughout its run. When Fleabag looks down the barrel of the camera after a hectic half hour, she's letting you know that, whatever mess she finds herself in next, you're along for the ride

It's also bitingly funny and perfectly introduces the show's trademark blend of caustic quips and genuine heartbreak. When it lets you go at the end after a frenetic and relentless 30 minutes, it ensures that your interest is piqued and you're thirsty for more. Fleabag had been heavily praised for so many things but I don't think enough attention is given to how perfect of an introduction we get to the titular character. You know who she is within the first ten minutes, and after twenty more you're rooting for her while simultaneously cringing at every decision she makes. You want her to succeed, and nailing such a specific, chaotic tone in the first episode is exactly what makes Fleabag such a special piece of television

7. Offred (The Handmaid's Tale)

Speculative fiction can be tricky, but right from the start The Handmaid's Tale excelled at immersing its audience in a world that, for all of its differences, contained some fundamental similarities to the contemporary landscape it was released in. From its opening minutes, it's clear that this is something really special. It's a hard story to tell but from the first episode, it ensures that you're aware of how the show is going to approach such difficult, contentious subject matter. Offred is an honest, direct hour of television that warns the audience that the road ahead isn't going to be easy, but urges them to keep going because this story matters. The episode introduces Gilead as a sort of nightmarish fusion of real world terror, full of misogyny, homophobia, sectarianism and sexual violence. It's by no means easy viewing, but it's a perfect articulation of the worst pains that society has to offer

Crucially, the episode ends with an act of private, defiant hope. Offred is a character you become attached to straight away, and Elizabeth Moss excels at making you believe in this character and ensures that you feel her plight every step of the way. The Handmaid's Tale's first episode is a breathless, brutal piece of television that demands that you stick with it, and it's so impressive that the writers managed to nail a tone this tricky as quickly as they did. I have my qualms with where the series goes after the first season but I can't deny that the pilot is extraordinary and essential, putting so many modern furies and anxieties onscreen with elegance and honesty

6. Pilot (Community)

Community's main cast isn't big (seven key players for the first part of season one), but they're all huge personalities with so much going on, and introducing all of them in one go while also summing up where they're starting from and how they'll come to change was never going to be easy. For that reason alone, Community's pilot is a work of genius, giving the viewer the best introduction to this group of characters whose relationships become progressively intricate and entrenched in the show's twisty meta-humour. The episode brings you in during a key moment that all of them are going through; as different as the Greendale seven are, they've all made the same decision to enroll in community college and have all found themselves together, ready to embark on all sorts of antics

There are so many character moments in this episode that go on to feel so on brand for these characters. The first scene where the study group is together is such a perfect communication of who they all are as we meet them, perfectly setting them up for six seasons of change and development. It also immediately introduces the two biggest themes of Community: that connecting and engaging with people different to you is massively beneficial and also the idea that people aren't defined by their past and it's never too late to change. The fact that the show got all of this in from the first chapter is nothing short of stunning, and the fact that it's hilarious is the cherry on top

5. Boardwalk Empire (Boardwalk Empire)

Something I noticed when putting this list together is that so many great pilots come from period pieces. Seriously, four of the next five episodes are set in the past, and I think part of what makes them so great is how much harder they have to work to establish their setting and make the viewer believe that they're there. When this is done well, it's a really special thing, and Boardwalk Empire seamlessly submerges you into the sea of indulgence and amorality that is 1920s Atlantic City. Of course it probably doesn't hurt that the episode is directed by Martin Scorsese, but that's only part of what makes Boardwalk Empire such a great introduction to.... well, Boardwalk Empire

We meet Nucky Thompson in the middle of a deal, which is how we'll come to see him again and again. The way Nucky bends not just the truth but every one of his personal values to get what he wants is so crucial to his character, and by meeting him as he's doing this, we're instantly aware that this is his bread and butter, his natural way of operating. This meeting is also significant because it marks the moment his path crosses with Margaret Schroeder, and because their relationship is so central to the show, kicking it off early is key to making Boardwalk work right from the start. The pilot also introduces the viewer to the way the show flirts with history; the moment we meet Al Capone is the exact point that the show lays out its MO. When the episode wraps up, it really feels like the start of something huge, the moment that this well-oiled operation is suddenly on the verge of breaking down completely

4. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes (Mad Men)

Mad Men is such a slow-burning pressure cooker of a show that, looking back on its pilot, ends in a totally different place than it began. Maybe that's obvious, because the show is about the gradual change of one era into another and Don Draper's steady decline in the process, but watching Smoke Gets in Your Eyes again, it almost feels like a trick being played on the audience. It perfectly reconstructs 1960 New York and promises you that you're watching a period piece about a successful but empty man. That's mostly true, but the genius of this episode lies in the fact that it's just the first step on a descending staircase through changing fashions and attitudes, and it's clear from minute one that there's something really powerful to be found on every subsequent step

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that Smoke Gets in Your Eyes is such a perfect evocation of one specific moment in time that it's easy to forget that everything you see is fluid and on the brink of change. Don Draper's world isn't permanent- a fact he doesn't realise- and by setting the tone early on in such a perfect, controlled way, the show is establishing a clear point for the beginning of Don's downfall. But the real brilliance of the episode is its ending. After seeing Don Draper as a cool, confident man about town, we meet his family, and the show's real conflict begins. 14 years later, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes is still a blistering 50 minutes of television

3. The Sopranos (The Sopranos)

The Sopranos sets itself apart from the bulk of mob dramas in two ways. The first is its sense of humour, openly laughing at the absurdity of these characters from the first episode, but the second and most important thing the show does is look at Tony through the lens of his anxiety and the therapy he attends as a result. One of the first things we know about him is that he's recently suffered a serious panic attack, and in doing that, the show immediately establishes the intimacy with which we're going to view him. Tony's complexity and vulnerability are key to his character, and from his first session with Dr. Melfi, it's clear that he's not some cold, stoic stereotype. We see his rocky relationship with his mother and the volatility of Junior and Christopher, and the show is quick to frame these characters not just as people in Tony's life but as potential triggers to his constant internal panic. Within an hour, the show already feels distinct and fully formed, effortlessly introducing all of its key concepts

It's just the perfect way to kick off such a big, dynamic show like this. As the audience, we have the ability to see Tony on a level that nobody else in his life- including himself- can. The pilot sets it up so well, placing us in a similar position to Melfi where we're left to observe him and glean meaning from his interactions with the people in his life. It was never a straightforward mafia show and David Chase makes that clear from minute one. It's also the episode that introduced the world to Steve Van Zandt's Silvio Dante, and it's fair to say that we as a species will always be in the show's debt because of that

2. Method and Madness (The Knick)

 If you haven't seen Jack Amiel, Michael Begler and Steven Soderbergh's beautiful, criminally underrated The Knick, then you're really missing out. The show perfectly captures the turbulence of the medical world as well as issues of race in America in a way that feels eerily applicable to the present day. Method and Madness is a great intro, not just to the uneasy world of The Knick but to the drug-fueled hellscape that is the inside of John Thackery's head. Watching him stumble from opium den to operating theatre serves as a note perfect introduction to such a difficult character, and his desperate response to withdrawl at the episode's end is a fascinating way for the show to approach the life of an addict

But the heart of this episode, and indeed the show as a whole, is André Holland's Algernon Edwards. The Knick's portrayal of the horrifying prejudice Edwards faces in his field is instantly hard-hitting, and the show wastes no time in getting into the issues that plague America, not just in 1900, but in 2014 and still in 2021. It's another period show with a perfect introduction, and makes its setting a mirror to the present better than possibly any other show on this list, the pilot above it included. If you need a reason to check out The Knick before its upcoming third season (helmed by Barry Jenkins no less), then look no further than Method and Madness, a wonderful, hard-hitting intro to an utterly singular show

1. The Vanishing of Will Byers (Stranger Things)

Because it's such a phenomenon, it's easy to forget just how small-scale Stranger Things' initial mystery is. Before every season felt like a cultural event and people were throwing around Barb memes like they were going out of fashion, The Vanishing of Will Byers transported its audience to a chilly Autumn evening in 1983, where the sleepy town of Hawkins, Indiana was about to be forever changed by both a disappearance and a new arrival. It'd be slightly disrespectful to how great the rest of Stranger Things debut season is to suggest that this episode would work better as an hour long thriller about a missing child and the effect on a small town, but in retrospect, the show aces this aspect of its story so well that if Eleven, the Upside Down and the rest of the supernatural thrills were never introduced, the show would still have a deeply effective central mystery

The supernatural stuff is incredibly done but what makes this first episode work is how well it nails each of its introductions. It's not interested in only using its first episode as a catalyst to cosmic-horror hijinks, and takes the time to set the scene in a way that feels so honest and true. The opening D and D game and the first appearance of Jim Hopper are moments that resonate way beyond any horror-tinged mystery the show will go on to lay down. It's a key ingredient that's missing from so many supernatural shows and even from later seasons of Stranger Things: a genuine connection with its time and place. It's often been described as a show of nostalgic delights but the Duffer brothers believe in their setting so much that it stops becoming purely aesthetical and begins to feel alive and changed by the events of the story. Without this, the most crucial piece of its foundation, the show would never have worked quite as well as it does

And then there's the mystery. The Vanishing of Will Byers excels at making you care, at urging you to keep watching to find out what happens. Because the setting is so believable and the characters are so likeable, you want to spend more time piecing together whatever's going to come next. It has the crucial ingredient that a pilot needs: the ability to instill curiosity in the viewer with the promise of a larger payoff. Taken as a whole, three-season package, I don't necessarily think Stranger Things is the best show on this list, but in terms of its first chapter, it's hard for me to think of a better way to start a show than The Vanishing of Will Byers