There’s a moment in Bittersweet Motel, Todd Phillips’ tour documentary of the band Phish, when frontman Trey Anastasio is asked about a show from the night before that someone on the crew slighted as sloppy: “I thought it was great; I loved it. So, did somebody think because we missed a change or something, it wasn't great? I couldn’t fucking care less if we miss a change, or a number of changes. It doesn’t have anything to do with it for me. It’s all about energy. People aren’t there to see us, you know, get through all the sections perfectly.” Now, referencing an outfit very much known for improvisation to discuss a medium, television, that is very much not might seem like a stretch. (That said, glimmers of that "Fuck it, we'll do it live" spirit can still be found on the small screen: Matt Schimkowitz recently wrote quite wonderfully about the refreshing chaos of John Mulaney Presents: Everybody's In L.A.) But Anastasio’s larger point—that thrilling moments can be just that, whether or not they segue smoothly to the next beat or fit neatly into the larger project’s puzzle or even its vibe—is a good one.
And in 2024, TV was filled with moves just like this: big narrative and visual swings that, while they didn’t always connect cleanly to what lay ahead, nevertheless burst with creativity and were inspiring, moving, impressive, and, in some cases, just plain fun to watch unfold. The most obvious example of this over the past 12 months, if only because this show was the most anticipated, lauded, and well-known of the ones discussed here, has to be The Bear, which kicked off its third season with an episode that could be categorized as artistically brave or indulgent depending on your tastes. (I sit firmly in the former camp; and for the sake of clarity and scope, I limited this discussion to series that made my individual top 15 shows of the year list—that is, ones that I legitimately loved—so there will be no picking apart of, say, the ambitious narration of Get Millie Black or Baby Reindeer, as much as that phenom’s tonal ping-ponging fits the bill here.)
Back to The Bear: "Tomorrow," written and directed by Christopher Storer (with stunning cinematography by Andrew Wehde) opens before dawn, with a shot of the Metra train platform, a shoreless Lake Michigan, the Chicago skyline as day breaks, and finally Carmy (Jeremy Allen White) alone in his apartment, a bruised man inspecting the scar on his palm as the city awakes with the faint sounds of car honks. Then the screen cuts to black, and Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’ hypnotic “Together” starts playing on a loop and doesn’t let up (save for a clever beat when Olivia Colman’s Chef Terry instructs, “Chefs, quiet”) for 30 minutes as the show takes us on a dialogue-light journey through the past and present, a mélange Carm’s professional and personal highs and lows (picking Napa Valley produce in the morning dew, having a smoke after that Christmas car crash that he’ll never shake) that ends with the man alone—always alone—scribbling down "non-negotiables" in The Bear’s kitchen.
The Bear didn’t crack the New York Times’ best shows of the year list proper and was instead referenced as a sort of honorable mention, lumped in a category dubbed “Flawed But Fascinating” alongside the likes of 3 Body Problem. What likely earned the show that underhanded compliment this season was "Tomorrow," an episode of television that, on first viewing, yes, could make you wonder, “Wait, what's happening here?” But it could also be intoxicating, sweeping you up in its confidence and audacity to even present a show this way. Rhythmically, it's a beautiful thing to behold and calling it, upon rewatch, the most new-feeling sequence on TV in quite some time doesn't feel like an oversell. "Apologies," also directed by Storer, finds the show’s creator flexing again and to great effect, opening the hour with audio of Martin Scorsese and Ricky Jay waxing about the magic of movies and, yes, magic, respectively, over a montage of A Trip To The Moon, Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, and Vertigo, with the iconic filmmakers note about the quest of “making something different” very much ringing true to Storer’s ethos: That this multi-course meal can get messy, sure, but damned if it won’t be original and stick with you.
Months later, a very different project—although one that similarly explored longtime friendship, childhood trauma, and the toll a career can take on a person—arrived that, like this season of The Bear, had a “we can do this” filmmaking swagger: La Máquina. The miniseries, an enjoyable boxing drama/conspiracy thriller/buddy comedy/whole bunch else that stars Gael García Bernal as the titular pugilist and Diego Luna as his Botox-addicted manager, has a few rewatch-worthy sequences teeming with style and energy from director Gabriel Ripstein. Episode two starts with an impressive, five-minute oner, with the camera careening around a Mexico City boxing gym like a fighter—ducking into a corner here, following someone into a room for a private chat there—as the hectic goings-on with our main duo and their team (Andrés Delgado’s assistant and Jorge Perugorría’s coach) unfold. And in episode five, Ripstein outdoes himself, staging a meta, metaphorical fever dream that reenacts the “rounds” of La Máquina’s life, complete with a spotlit, tuxedo-donning boxing announcer (Luna) in the rink guiding us through the fighter’s pivotal moments, to quote our emcee, “according to memories of his fucked-up brain.”Now, to be clear, the conspiracy angle hovering over this show gets awfully unwieldy and convenient as it nears the finish line. It’s one of those shows that’s so much, almost to a fault, but also can be so much fun to take in as a viewer. And if something as vibrant as this is a bit of a mess, bring on the messes.
Speaking of "so much," no show this year unfolded quite like Boat Story, a British black comedy/thriller written by brothers Harry and Jack Williams (The Tourist) that aired on BBC One in the U.K. last year and premiered in the States on Freevee (R.I.P.) this March. Essentially a story within a story (within maybe another story?), the miniseries somehow finds room to toss more meta ingredients into the pot, staging an amusingly terrible play version of this very tale of strangers (Breeders’ Daisy Haggard and Peep Show's Paterson Joseph) finding drug money on a beach, recreating the insane ending of an old French film that the show’s villain (Tchéky Karyo) is convinced is his destiny, and tapping the breaks on its own momentum with winking narration. Boat Story is a lot, a show slathered in quirk and blood that is so narratively playful (and presented with silent-film-esque chapter cards and an appreciation of Wes Anderson) that the whole thing often teeters on the verge of collapse. And yet, it doesn’t.
And neither does another bloody, often funny British thriller that just came out this month, Black Doves, a hell-of-good-time, holidays-set spy show (with all of the explosions and shootouts that come with it) that can blindside you with some truly great dramatic writing and acting. When “triggerman” Sam (Ben Whishaw), who’s back in London to help out fellow undercover operative/friend Helen (Keira Knightley), finally confronts the ex (Omari Douglas) he abandoned all those years ago, writer Joe Barton and Whishaw, against all odds, cook up the most moving TV monologue of the year, one that just so happens to be nestled within an entertaining, grippingly bingeworthy Netflix show.
After surprising his former boyfriend, Sam apologizes and heads toward the door only to pause, pivot, and return. “Did you ever think about me?” he asks, teary-eyed and vulnerable. “’Cause I…I assume you didn’t, after a while. ‘Cause that’s what you do, isn’t it? You know, you think about someone but you just assume that they don't think about you, and you just faded away, you know, from their life. Even though everything still reminds you of them. Always, constantly, you’re there like…tinnitus? Not like tinnitus. Like, I don't know, like, um…like a song. That's stuck in my head. A nice one. A sad one.”
Fucking hell, to quote a location-appropriate expression. It’s a tonal swerve, for sure. Does it fit tidily into a series that’s this heavy on banter, has this much stylized and energized direction (by Alex Gabassi and Lisa Gunning), and almost seems to revel in such a high body count? Not tidily, no, but the emotional gut punch does land—and besides, Black Doves isn’t a tidy show by design. And if the next scene comes off like a stark contrast to all of those very real feelings that this one beautifully conjured up, as the man says, “ I couldn’t fucking care less.”
