"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
David Lynch and Mark Frost made something really weird happen, and I’m not talking about Laura Palmer’s murder, a dancing dwarf, a Log Lady or an owl. They turned primetime TV into a giant indie art-house theater, and regular American channel surfers by the millions became its black-turtlenecked denizens. The story of a teen girl’s death in the Pacific Northwest—and the pie-eating, deadpan-soliloquy-spouting FBI agent investigating it—carried on the theme, from Lynch movies like Blue Velvet, of sordid secrets and ancient horrors hid behind a facade of wholesome Americana, proving that TV could equal or surpass film in its storytelling ambitions. Twin Peaks may have had the shelf life of a freshly poured cup of coffee, but it was damn fine nonetheless.
The fall after the Clinton impeachment trial, The West Wing offered a fantasy: a stand-up president (Martin Sheen) who really never did have sexual relations with that woman. Aaron Sorkin made policy debates as dynamic as a police shootout; the show trademarked the kinetic hallway “walk and talk scene” and crackled with sharp, witty dialogue. It could be preachy, self-congratulatory and idealized, but maybe making a dark critique of government would have been the easy thing to do; instead, The West Wing asserted that people in government could be competent and well intentioned. For many, of course, the real point of watching the show was the 30s-screwball-comedy flirtation between Josh and Donna. But at heart The West Wing was a civic romance in love with democracy, and it didn’t care who knew it.