30 TV Shows with Great Performances to Watch Now

Netflix’s resurrection of the hit Danish drama Borgen comes in the form of Borgen: Power & Glory, a miniseries that sees Birgitte Nyborg (played by powerhouse Sidse Babett Knudsen) step down as prime minister and take over the foreign minister position while wrangling over power, principle, and family. In this particular revival, Birgitte butts head with the new prime minister, who is all for drilling oil in the autonomous region of Greenland despite Birgitte’s firm stance against climate change. The event turns into a geopolitical crisis that tests Birgitte’s values.

The series is as whipsmart, relevant, and funny as ever, although if you haven’t seen previous seasons of the show yet, don’t fret. Borgen: Power & Glory efficiently catches you up on all you need to know in the first few minutes. It’s a standalone, engaging drama that’s a breeze to go through at just eight episodes.

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. 

Five Days at Memorial recalls the real and horrifying events that went on at a New Orleans hospital during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Over the course of five days, the caregivers in charge try their best to evacuate thousands of people from the building, but heavy floods, power outages, intense heat, and a sorry lack of planning result in some heartbreaking decisions about the fate of their patients.

The ongoing series is a gut-wrenching and at times excruciating watch, adeptly directed by John Ridley (American Crime) and absorbingly moored by a cast that includes Vera Farmiga (Conjuring)—by now an expert at exhibiting pure horror—and Cherry Jones (Succession).

Sweet Tooth is set in a post-apocalyptic America, where the population has been ravaged by a mysterious virus and the new generation of humans has evolved into animal hybrids. The circumstances are bleak and the things people do to survive even more so. Driven by fear and grief, they both isolate and attack in moves that are eerily reminiscent of the early days of our own pandemic. Sweet Tooth is a robust adventure story then, gritty and reflective and tragic, but it’s also incredibly sweet.

We’re introduced to a myriad of characters, each of them with their own arc, but we mostly follow Gus (Christian Convery), a nine-year-old human-deer hybrid who has yet to be disillusioned by the human race. Gus grounds the story’s many flights of fancy, and along with the other main characters, he gives us timely reminders of the importance of kindness and humaneness without ever being too corny. And to the show’s serious credit, no one plot line overpowers the other; instead, all feel just as vital to the larger story of survival that’s being told. 

The blend of these tales is lovely, the world-building is imaginative, and the technical aspects of it—the color, the costuming, and the cinematography—are all beautiful. Ultimately, Sweet Tooth is a packed a show wrapped in gorgeous layers, sure to delight even the most casual of viewers. 

Based on the bestselling book of essays by Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things is, well, made of many tiny beautiful things. It’s at once a meditation on grief, a coming-of-age tale, a contemplation of family ties, a sobering look at a midlife crisis, a romance, a comedy, and an absolute tearjerker of a drama. It’s clunky on some fronts and much better on others, but overall the series packs a gut-wrenching punch with the ever-compelling Kathryn Hahn as the lead. 

It’s surprisingly light with each of its eight episodes running at just under 30 minutes, but in all, the show effectively tugs at the heartstrings and provides welcome insight into navigating the highs and lows of living a small but meaningful life.

There is a very good case to be made for Veep being, pound-for-pound, the best American comedy to air on TV. Because while many other workplace sitcoms comment also comment on current events and satirize bureaucratic processes, no other show has committed this deeply to the inherent corruption and stupidity of every single one of its major characters. Selina Meyer and her staff are either so evil or so incompetent that they circle around to being irresistibly fun to watch and hilarious in all their own unique ways—which the series’ writers expertly wrangle together in each script. And with much of the show’s humor being built on creative, devastating insults, Veep also possesses a truly vicious edge that make it more challenging than its contemporaries.

But one shouldn’t forget that the series also tells a compelling story of how soulless a nation’s leaders can be, putting a magnifying class to every little political decision made in the name of saving face or pushing forward some other unrelated agenda. It’s surprisingly insightful for something that seems so crass. And as Selina Meyer herself, Julia Louis-Dreyfus (surrounded by a brilliant, dynamic cast) turns in one of the greatest comedic performances on TV as a pathetic vice president who can’t help but let the monstrous side of herself win every time.

After struggling to recapture the magic of the first few Star Trek series for the better part of two decades, the franchise has finally returned to its original formula of self-contained space adventures, progressive politics, and an unabashedly hopeful tone—all to magnificent results. Strange New Worlds is classic Trek in every sense: from its truly out-there, ’60s-style sci-fi stories; to its warm sense of humor; to its welcome focus on sentiment and emotion even amid large battles and dangerous situations. The series accomplishes all of this while keeping every member of its crew unique and charismatic, crafting powerful character moments for them even in the thick of things—elevated by uniformly brilliant performances from its cast, led by a commanding Anson Mount. It’s Star Trek for old and new fans alike, and a great reminder of the distinct strengths of episodic TV.

That The Curse is squirm-inducingly awkward won’t be news to anyone who’s watched a Nathan Fielder show before, but TV’s king of cringe digs his heels in on that approach here. The Curse chronicles the making of another show: HGTV’s inelegantly named “Flipanthropy,” which follows Fielder’s Asher and wife Whitney Siegel (Emma Stone) as they perform (the operative word) good deeds in a struggling New Mexico town. Flipanthropy is also a means through which the well-to-do white couple can shill the eco-friendly homes they’re gentrifying the town with — a galling conflict of interest that plays as a running satire of TV.

The uneasy tension between what the Siegels say they want to do versus what they actually do is the heart of the show. In true Fielder fashion, their hypocrisy is revealed through excruciatingly awkward, tortuously long scenes takes, such as the one that gives the show its title (the socially inept Asher angers a little girl, who puts a curse on him). This scene is also an example of the insane left takes The Curse constantly takes, which speak to Fielder’s ability to make his shows feel like they’re falling apart all while building to towering complexity. Suffice it to say, there’s nothing else like this on TV.

It’s hard not to be swept away by the epicness of Masters of the Air. Produced by Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks, with the first four episodes directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga (No Time to Die, True Detective), it’s made sure to flex its massive $250-million budget. Everything is accounted for here, from the sweeping and historically accurate production design to the stacked cast of rising male stars (Oscar nominees Austin Butler and Barry Keoghan easily steal the show). Even the rousing score and sound design, while bordering on melodrama at times, build up tension and add a premium air to it. It’s a visual and sonic feast bolstered by upstanding performances and an endearing show of brotherhood. Whenever it risks being propagandistic or misguidedly patriotic, it’s the believable relationship between the boys and their grave understanding of war that ground it and give it heart. And of course, the air combats are edge-of-your-seat thrilling. Like Band of Brothers and The Pacific before it, it’s a visceral entry in the genre of World War II must-sees.

If all live-action superhero media stopped here, it would’ve been a triumphant conclusion. Carving its own path from the subversive Alan Moore classic and still so much gutsier than most superhero films and TV shows, Damon Lindelof’s Watchmen miniseries continues interrogating the idea of powerful masked vigilantes to explore institutionalized racism, America’s history of anti-Black violence, and even the phenomenon of white supremacy in “nerd culture” fandom. It’s an incendiary take on a genre that’s all-too-often reduced to mindless fantasy action, and it never tries to beat other properties at their own game—relying on constantly building intrigue and fantastic characters to tell its story.

But even if you’re not familiar with the original Watchmen story, the series should have enough style and intricate plotting for everybody. A pulsating musical score from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross; gritty (but not flavorless) art direction; and powerful performances from Regina King, Tim Blake Nelson, and Jean Smart, among others complete this vision of a nation plunged into chaos due to collective unresolved trauma. All this makes for viewing that’s never difficult, but demands trust and attention even as the story branches off to places that seem at odds with itself. How often can you say that about a superhero story these days?