100 Best TV Shows of the 2020s So Far

It’s often said that history is told by the victors. Thankfully, this isn’t the case in The Good Lord Bird, which tracks the tumultuous events preceding the Civil War, as led by real-life abolitionist John Brown (Ethan Hawke). 

Some viewers might already be familiar with the story of how Brown “saved” slaves, but with Black teenager Henry (Joshua Caleb Johnson) as the narrator, history is repositioned and recounted through a fresh new lens. Nuanced questions about slavery, abolition, and even the revered Brown himself are brought up by Henry and his kin, such as: how much of the movement is driven by justice and how much of it by guilt? Should the white savior be absolved or are his intentions inevitably marred by ego?

Accompanying this thought-provoking tale are richly detailed costumes and backdrops, impressive cameos by historical and celebrity figures, and of course, career-defining performances by Hawke and newcomer Johnson. 

Bad Sisters is an Irish miniseries that is part romance, part murder mystery, and all-around cheeky, bold fun. It follows the Garveys, five sisters who’ve developed a tight bond after the untimely death of their parents. They protect each other mainly from their brother-in-law John Paul, whose antics have become increasingly threatening and toxic over the years.

The series is very much in the vein of Big Little Lies, Dead to Me, and Good Girls, where women who’ve kept up with so much for so long finally let loose in a fit of violent rampage. But Bad Sisters narrowly escapes cliches thanks to a winning ensemble and deft handling of its weighty subject matter.

Despite being released amid a deluge of period dramas and biopics, Starz’s  The Serpent Queen, which follows Catherine de’ Medici’s rise from Italian servant to Queen of France, is a strong standout in today’s streaming fare. 

By balancing modern storytelling (expect poppy needle drops and fourth-wall breaks a la Fleabag) and historical realism (the costume and production design are as accurate and detailed as any thoughtful production), The Serpent Queen manages to have a genuinely fresh take on the historical drama. It’s also refreshing in its refusal to sugarcoat history’s crude ways, so despite its modern feel, don’t be too surprised to see 13-year-olds bedded and bodies graphically pulled apart by horses.

Baby Reindeer is a tough watch, starting out with out of kilter comedy that eventually and unrelentingly reveals its darker and darker sides. But not only was this a hard show to watch, this story is genuinely difficult to tell, because of how entangled all the threads of Donny’s trauma gets– it’s not a straightforward story about going through one traumatic incident and then immediately moving to logical forms of healing. It’s about one traumatic incident keeping him stuck and leaving him and his loved ones vulnerable to even more abuse. It’s a terrifying situation. And it’s terribly, terribly honest.

In certain aspects, it’s a premise straight out of Disney, but the acting feels a bit more charming. It also has some legitimately funny material in the writing, refusing to rest on the laurels of a tight premise and moving the show away from one trick pony territory. The ghost rules aren’t necessarily inconsistent, but it does take a while to establish the patterns, so they feel like they’re often broken. But as a show generally following the tropes of music-centered teen shows, it excels in just about every department, from the original songs, to its themes of grief and the healing power of music.

Telling a thoughtful story about the Northern Ireland Troubles and the IRA, including all its crimes and glories, is quite the feat. But Say Nothing proves it up to the task. The nine-part miniseries features compelling performances, a whipsmart script, taut timing, and impeccable production design (despite spanning four decades, it always looks true to the era). Its most impressive trait, however, is that it manages to show all sides of this complex story in an understanding light. The rebellion has noble aims, but it’s still fallible. The British army establishes order, but their means don’t always justify their ends. The series isn’t appeasing all sides as much as it’s taking a long hard look at them. We’re invited to reexamine this crucial part of history and ask ourselves, under the circumstances, would we too say nothing or everything to save lives?

On the surface, The Makanai is a simple, slice-of-life show about food and friendship. While it is that, to be sure, it’s also a substantial drama that tackles questions about art vs. love, and love vs. companionship, and career vs. purpose. Under the gentle guidance of showrunner Hirokazu Kore-eda (Still Walking, Shoplifters, Broker), who generously allows up-and-coming directors to take the helm on certain episodes, The Makanai feels at once light and hefty, comforting and challenging. We’re seeing mundane events unfold before us as if we were bystanders, but we also understand that there is so much more happening than what meets the eye. A prolonged gaze, a lovingly prepped meal, an especially sharp wing-eye, all of these have much to say about the state of mind of these girls.

It’s a supremely gentle and culturally rich show with a tender heart; a truly great watch on all accounts.

This World Can’t Tear Me Down is a timely release on friendship, punk, and anti-fascism. From the Italian cartoonist Zerocalcare, his second Netflix show shifts his musings over mental health to his experiences with regard to the country’s rising neo-Nazism. As xenophobia tears his friend group, it’s easy to feel the fear and self-doubt Zero’s cartoon counterpart feels. It’s easy as well to empathize with Sarah and Cesare, characters failed by the system around them. In many ways, they themselves feel like they haven’t met their potential. But the show suggests that perhaps status and achievement aren’t what being successful is all about– it’s about holding onto principles. Through punk soundtracks and shifts between stop motion and 90s cartoon style, This World Can’t Tear Me Down captures the millennial generation’s bewilderment, as well as their hope.

I’ve always thought that The Beatles’ songmaking process would be something close to magical. But this documentary proves that it’s anything but—creating music, like any artistic endeavor, is like pulling teeth. It’s painful and raw, but once done, it can also feel like the biggest relief in the world. And Get Back, which Jackson described as a “documentary about a documentary” shows us just how raw it gets. There are scenes of what we know went down (but even then it feels chilling), like the tense arguments between Paul, John, George, and Ringo. But there are also scenes of what we know less of, buried as they are beneath media spectacle and drama—that of genuine brotherhood and goofing around, of tender merrymaking and skilled music-making. It’s no secret that there was a ton of frustration behind The Beatles’ breakup, but this revealing documentary confirms there was a ton of (if not more) love involved too.

The initial charm of Hacks is in watching sparks fly between its sharp-tongued leads. Neither the elderly Deborah nor the young Ava holds back the digs, both of them cutting to the core of their insecurities. Part of what makes their tension so watchable is that they’re stand-ins for different generations. Deborah represents the all-hustle culture of the boomers, while Ava represents burned-out millennials. Lock them in a scene together and you get endless (and endlessly funny) observations about the modern world.

Eventually, however, their relationship deepens into something more meaningful than that. As Deb and Ava bond over their shared hopes and flaws, the show transforms into a clever and tender two-hander about their prickly but profound relationship. They’re two sides of the same coin, and even though no one can bring them down like the other can, the opposite is also true: no one else can lift them and push them to new heights like the other can.