30 Best Shows Of 2023 On Amazon Prime

Genuinely exciting but with more than enough heart to keep its genre trappings from overwhelming the story, The Kidnapping Day wastes no time setting the stakes and its plot into motion. Several crimes occur seemingly at the same time, which not only keeps the show’s various mysteries equally interesting, but emphasizes how our protagonist (the kidnapper Myeong-joon) is ultimately just a naive person caught in the crosshairs of something larger. But because of his poverty and desperation, he becomes a natural target of suspicion by the  people who don’t know his full story.

And accompanying Myeong-joon from the beginning of the series is 11-year-old Ro-hee, who wakes from a dazed state with no recollection of who she is, but with knowledge beyond her years. The somewhat antagonistic but tender bond she gradually forms with her reluctant kidnapper is the furthest thing from Stockholm syndrome. Instead, their relationship becomes a window into a particular class dynamic that runs throughout The Kidnapping Day (as well as a host of other South Korean films and shows). In these first two episodes watched for this review, the series already presents a world characterized by a deep yet normalized divide between the rich and the poor.

Mazher Mahmood’s true story is so rich, improbable, and dramatic, that it almost seems like a movie. It’s certainly edited like one. The Fake Sheikh is filled with quotable one-liners and thrilling reenactments, and at the center of it all is the compelling anti-hero, Mahmood. Director Ceri Isfryn does a commendable job of balancing the facts about her controversial subject, interviewing both Mahmood’s champions and critics, colleagues and victims, while also interweaving narratives of race and class into his story. After all, this is a man who was initially denied the chance to cover anything other than race and immigration, and so he carved his own (warped) path as a celebrity journalist. There are times when it seems like Isfryn tips the scales a bit to favor Mahmood, but it all falls in line with her movie narrative. The Fake Sheikh is just as enthralling as any good fictional thriller out there.

Daisy Jones & The Six is riddled with rock and roll clichés—sex, drugs, and alcohol abound—but the series has enough strengths to save it from sheer banality, the most prominent of which is the music. The original songs, performed by the actors themselves, are genuinely good. They’re true to the times and recall the likes of Fleetwood Mac and Buffalo Springfield, but they also sound fresh, modern, and invigorating. The showrunners seem to know this since each performance, whether onstage or in-studio, is given ample focus in each episode, and the show is all the better for it.

Aside from the stellar music, the show also has chemistry and production quality going for it. Riley Keough and Sam Claflin as the Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham of the fictional band are fiery and magnetic, while the authentic setting feels like an old polaroid come to life. 

Daisy Jones & The Six might not be for everyone, but if you enjoy musical dramas and nostalgia trips, then the show is a sure banger. 

Harlem follows four 30-something friends trying to live their best lives in their New York neighborhood. It sounds cliché—another group of women navigating work, love, and personal growth in NYC?—but thanks to the deft direction of Tracy Oliver (Girls Trip) and the dynamic performances of the show’s leads, Harlem is a blast to watch. The women are at once prickly and sparkly as they dive headfirst into romantic escapades, sexual explorations, and career ambitions. Their chemistry with each other is a scene-stealer, and you almost wish you can just sit with them all episode as they spill the beans over cocktails and brunch. Raunchy, ridiculous, and relatable, Harlem is delightful through and through.

The less you try to think about the absurd fantasy premise of this satire on Brazilian telenovelas, the better. Based on the first three episodes watched for this review, Soap Opera (or Novela in Portuguese) doesn’t provide an airtight idea of how things work when screenwriter Isabel is sucked into a TV—meaning any sense of urgency or narrative stakes don’t feel terribly high. But still, countless possibilities open up the longer that Isabel remains in her own creation. Here she can take full creative control (literally) of how she wants herself and others to be perceived, but Lauro, the producer who’s placed his own name on the marquee, also gets to scheme on how best to continue exploiting the success Isabel is inadvertently bringing him. The result is something uniquely funny, creatively designed, and compulsively watchable.

It’s refreshing to watch stories about queer people in the Global South unfold with this much joy and love and excitement. Many films and TV shows will have you believe that it’s all tragedy, and while the queer experience is certainly without its struggles, it seems unfair to hyperfocus on that aspect alone when there’s a lot of tenderness to go around. Rainbow Rishta finds the perfect balance between realism and romance, between strife and pride, in delivering the stories of its subjects. In doing so, it deepens our understanding of the global LGBTQ community. 

As a teen series, Los Billis follows a familiar structure. David, like most teen heroes, is shy, awkward, and hopelessly in love with the most popular girl in his high school. With the help of his friends, however, he learns to stand up not just against bullies but the harsh looming reality of adulthood. It sounds typical on paper, but Los Billis benefits from a rich production value and a clear theme, that of social class. There’s not a gelled hair out of place here, but more than nailing the ‘80s look, Los Billis masterfully (and never forcefully) connects nearly every problem the kids face to money. They’re constantly yearning for, losing, and fighting over it, which is the reality many teens outside the US face. Often, Los Billis will also touch on colonialism, like when David admits they all judge each other based on how closely their outfits resemble American teens. For the most part, Los Billis is textbook coming-of-age, but it’s enriched by the unique Colombian teen experience. 

Domestic abuse is a delicate matter, and onscreen depictions always run the risk of being either too sensational or mopey. The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart, thankfully, is neither. It sensitively and creatively tells the story of Alice and all the other survivors who June shelters on her flower farm. More than just decor, these flowers serve as a lifeline to the girls: not only do they grow and sell them to earn a living, but they’ve also made a special secret language out of them. Different blooms mean different things, and when you live in a world where your pain is systematically ignored, it makes sense to communicate in hiding. Granted, the Lost Flowers of Alice Hart can get overly dramatic at times. Some plotlines include hiding who the child’s real father is and fighting to get custody of said child. But it’s unfair to dismiss the series as mere melodrama. It’s doing important work by shedding light on the manifold ways women are mistreated, and it does so in a commendably original and artful way.

Amazon Prime’s Harlan Coben’s Shelter is the latest addition to the slew of supernatural teen-led mysteries that have come out in recent years. Like Netflix’s Lockwood & Co., Paramount’s School Spirits, and even Showtime’s Yellowjackets, Shelter is genuinely intriguing and surprisingly mature, making it watchable regardless of how old you are. The show’s TV-14 rating lets the teens in the series act their age (that is, both crude and childlike), which adds to the show’s authentic feel. It verges on being self-serious at times, which is funny when you hear them say things like “Octo Face got her” with a straight face, but those slips are forgivable. It doesn’t detract from the show’s compelling mystery and enjoyable performances.

There is no shortage of TV shows that dive deep into the weird wired world of social media, but F#Ck1Ng Social Media deserves credit for doing it effortlessly. You can tell the writers have an intimate knowledge of internet fame by how it contrasts has-been influencer Amanda with rising content star Vicky (Azul Guaita). Amanda’s realm is YouTube (a millennial staple) while Vicky’s is TikTok (a Gen Z haven). Amanda rose to fame because of her sincerity, while it was Vicky’s sleekness that first caught people’s eyes. Through their rivalry, the series shows us how swiftly social media evolves and how contradictory it can be—online, we’re both vulnerable and artificial, progressive and regressive. It’s a hefty message, but the show delivers it with an impressively light touch. Intense rivalry and fame commentary aside, F#Ck1Ng Social Media is also a quirky comedy and a touching family drama. There’s just as much to like here as there is to learn.