100 Best TV Shows of 2023 So Far

The OVW are practically nobodies outside the pro-wrestling scene, and they know it. They describe themselves as a “third tier” that trails behind more well-known companies like WWE and AEW, with one manager even likening their team to an indie film. If the WWE and AEW are Michael Bay movies, he says, then the OVW is like the highly-rated but little-seen movie The Squid and the Whale. But though their underdog status is bad news for their dipping financials and fanbase, it makes for a compelling story in Wrestlers. The docuseries pulls the curtains on the OVW and acquaints us with the owners, managers, accountants, and of course, the wrestlers, who are all struggling to keep afloat this act they love so much. “Wrestling is the art of physical storytelling,” CEO Al Snow says, and it’s clear that director Greg Whiteley believes him. He captures the OVW lovingly, intimately, making us privy to their highs and lows, celebrations and disagreements, and everything in between. He never forces us, either, but rather invites us to this world as naturally as possible. You may start watching this knowing very little about the OVW, but you’ll leave knowing and caring about them a little more. 

From Happy Valley and Line of Duty to Luther and Sherwood, the BBC has produced some of the finest police dramas in recent TV history, and Better is a worthy addition to the roster. It’s not as refined as the mentioned shows, but it’s grounded by a riveting, morally conflicted performance by Fazard. The breakdown of her conscience, the constant negotiation between obligation and survival, the road toward redemption—Fazard embodies it all with rugged grace. It’s not often we get the point of view of a corrupt cop, and when we do, we rarely see them with this much screen time and backstory. Better is an okay crime thriller, but it’s even better as a character study of the well-meaning, desperate, and brilliant Lou. 

From the title alone, A Murder at the End of the World is, of course, a murder mystery, a whodunit set in an isolated location, a la Agatha Christie. But the second TV collaboration of showrunners Brit Marling and Zal Batmanglij infuses amateur forum-based sleuthing, with contemplation of technological dependence and on human connection. It does so through two plotlines: one, following the investigation at the mysterious, icy tech retreat, but the other one follows how the connection between the investigator and the victim began, in the warmer tones of the Midwest. The resulting back-and-forth leads to a delightfully addictive mystery held up by the incomparable Emma Corrin.

In an early scene in Such Brave Girls, Josie (Kat Sadler) compares herself and her sister Billie (Lizzie Davidson) to a more attractive woman. “She’s live, love, laugh,” she says, “We’re death, silence, hate.” At this point, you’d think Sadler, who is also the creator and writer of the show, and Davidson, who is Sadler’s real-life sister, are the types to indulge in their sadness and romanticize their dysfunction. Though that happens to some degree, Sadler is self-aware enough to steer clear of wallow territory and offer something insightful about mental health and the ways we cope (or fail to, anyway). Parents who dismiss depression are called out, as are social workers and supposed experts who stereotype people with the illness. But weirdly enough, the show is never downright cynical. Josie is sweet enough to cut through the darkness, as are her ignorant and selfish though ultimately well-meaning family members. You’ll probably recall Broad City and Fleabag while watching Such Brave Girls because of its unapologetic approach to both sex and suicide, but maybe more than those two shows, Such Brave Girls is willing to root its themes deeper into reality. It almost never brings up mental health without contextualizing it in the family’s low-income state, making it one of the most relatable and urgent shows you can watch right now.

As the real-life British politician John Stonehouse who, among other things, served as a spy for Czechoslovakia and faked his own death, Matthew Macfadyen is incredibly funny. He owns the role of the bumbling fool, a master at inducing laughs and sympathy at the same time. And with Stonehouse, he has endless material. The man is narcissistic and power-hungry, but he also has a habit of biting off more than he can chew, so seeing him stumble in his lies is both funny and tragic to watch. If I can use another metaphor—watching Stonehouse is like watching a train power through despite falling off the rails. It’s a wreck to be sure, but one you can’t quite peel your eyes from.

Another great thing about Stonehouse? It only has three (concise but jam-packed) episodes. So if you’re looking for a one-day binge, this might just be it.

In Shrinking, Jason Segel plays Jimmy Laird a newly-widowed therapist who’s trying to make amends with his loved ones after isolating himself for so long. It sounds depressing, but Shrinking has the delightful buoyancy of a show like Ted Lasso (which makes sense given that they’re created and directed by the same person) and even Trying, that other Apple TV+ show that masterfully balances seriousness and silliness. Like them, Shrinking is warm and affecting, but it has one undeniable advantage: Harrison Ford. Ford plays Segel’s boss, and if you aren’t onboard yet, Shrinking is definitive proof that Harrison is actually, objectively hilarious.

In the multilingual Drops of God, French author Camille and Japanese sommelier Issei battle for a wine expert’s multi-billion-dollar inheritance. Camille may be the expert’s daughter, gifted with an incredible sense of smell and taste, but Issei is the so-called “spiritual son,” the protégé who filled in Camille’s shoes upon her abrupt departure from her father’s life. Whoever wins a series of wine-related tests gets to keep the expert’s estate and continue his legacy.

Based on the Japanese manga of the same, Drops of God is strangely but enjoyably competitive as it plunges you deep into the complex world of wine—through intense competitions, we get a closer look at the drink’s many layers, long history, and even its cultural connotations. This nice blend of knowledge and rivalry makes it a thrilling watch, but the show also has an unexpected but welcome family element to it that softens the edge a bit and gives it a sweet aftertaste. If you were ever looking for a smart but heartfelt show about wining and dining, this is it.

Every episode of Totally Completely Fine begins with a trigger warning, and rightly so—the show’s entire premise is about mental health, grief, and self-harm. Vivian, the lead (a captivating Thomasin McKenzie), is an orphan who goes on benders and ideates about killing herself. Things escalate when she inherits a cliffside house that doubles as a popular suicide spot and gains a prying (albeit good-natured) psychiatrist as a neighbor. All these elements, and a couple more, force her to confront her repressed trauma once and for all.

It sounds bleak, and it should be difficult to watch, but the show is a successful dark comedy. It strikes that rare deft balance between tragedy and comedy, highlighting painful truths with cutting humor and delivering jokes tinged with poignant insight. Vivian and her siblings are not entirely likable, but their brokenness and vulnerability make them all the more relatable, the perfect guides to hold your hand through this totally messy, completely enthralling, and finely compassionate show.

Deadloch begins like any other self-serious police procedural. A body washes up on shore, sparking widespread fear and a twisty mystery that eventually and intriguingly reveals layers of itself. Local officer Dulcie Collins (Kate Box) takes to it like it’s the most important case in the world, and for some reason, everything we see onscreen is tinged in gray, as if the town is set under a perpetual stormcloud. 

Then a joke finds its way into the dialogue, followed by another, and another. The show, it turns out, is as much of a sitcom as it is a mystery, with Dulcie acting as the straight man grounding us through the kookiness of it all. The rest of the characters are actual characters, wonderfully zany and larger-than-life as they bumble around and commit small-town gaffes. A hearse screeches to a halt when a random passerby yells, “You’re going the wrong way!”, and a millennial policewoman exclaims, “I can’t believe I’m on a stakeout! It’s so aggressively police-y.” 

It’s quite the risk to be both funny and serious, to dole out this many jokes while solving multiple murders, but Deadloch pulls it off with so much charm to spare. It’s a refreshing take on the buddy-cop series, ambitious and modern and unafraid to laugh at itself every once in a while.

After a healing workshop leads her best friend to sell her belongings and move to a remote island, Nisan becomes suspicious a cult is indoctrinating outcasts. But when she’s diagnosed with cancer and dark memories haunt her dreams, she seeks the island to find hope and happiness. Nisan’s suspicions struggle against her desire to face her past. On the pseudo-utopia island, the idea of safe havens and communities is put to the test forcing Nisan to reckon how isolating living in fear and pain is. With a steady pace, Search stretches the concept of a cult, keeping a refreshingly open mind to all the ways a community with freedom, equality, and care remains unfathomable.