"I apologize. I know I left some of your favorite shows off this list. How do I know that? Because I left some of my favorite shows off this list. The happy and unfortunate fact is that there are far more than 100 great shows, and more created every year. Lists are incredibly important: they are how we define what matters to us, what we want entertainment and art to do, what we expect of our culture." —TIME TV critic James Poniewozik
Which was better: The Bob Newhart Show or Newhart? Both were excellent comedies, with essentially the same laid-back, stammering protagonist. (So similar that it seemed only natural that Bob should end the second show waking up in bed next to Suzanne Pleshette, his wife from the first.) It’s basically like asking: which was better: the ’70s or the ’80s? Well, I’ll say it—the ’70s. Or rather, that decade’s introspective, self-help-focused ethos, and his ’70s sitcom’s psychiatrist’s office setting, were a slightly better match with Newhart‘s sophisticated, droll, talky comedy of neurosis. So I award the nod to Hartley, his talking cures that never quite cured anyone and his windy Windy City patients. (Sorry, Larry, Darryl and Darryl.)
“I should like to bury something precious every place where I’ve been happy, so that when I’m old and ugly and miserable, I can come back and dig it up. Remember.” This in a sense was the spirit of this lush, 11-part adaptation of Evelyn Waugh’s novel of memory, in which British army officer Charles Ryder (Jeremy Irons), just before WWII, recalls his youth at Oxford and his befriending by Sebastian, a fey, teddy-bear-toting dandy who changes his life. In 1981, it was controversial for its sex scenes and its overt and covert homoeroticism. Seen today, it looks at first like a particularly expensive version of the British costume nostalgia that became a public-TV cliche. But what distinguishes Brideshead is its sensitive ability to translate the novel’s tone of wistfulness and regret to the screen. Brideshead took a novel and made it into a poem.