Slant Magazine

20. Curb Your Enthusiasm. In what was largely a consistently solid eighth season of Curb Your Enthusiasm, "Palestinian Chicken" stands out as something of a bizarre, unexpected masterpiece, even by Larry David's high mid-lifespan Seinfeld standards. The episode was a near-flawless mishmash of bleak political comedy and the trademark uncomfortable coincidental happenstances that ultimately leave a disheveled Larry in the most precarious of pickles. Here, his less-than-devout Judaism leaves him choosing between the best chicken dish he's ever had and another round of verbally abusive intercourse with a tight-bodied Muslim woman, entrapped between arguing mobs of opposing sides in a seemingly never-ending religious, territorial war. The episode is so insightful, in fact, that it was recently sent by Harvard Law professor Alan Dershowitz to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu in the hopes he and incumbent Palestinian government officials could sit back, relax, and share a laugh in the wake of a decidedly tumultuous year for the headbutting nations. How's that for a social assassination? ML

19. Childrens Hospital. If ever given the chance to go hang out on a show's set for just one day, I don't think I would hesitate in choosing Adult Swim's exuberant Childrens Hospital. In addition to the fact the series is a massive melting pot of almost every notable "indie" comedic talent working today, it simply looks like the construction of each scene is a regular cork-popping festivity (this season even featured a Party Down reunion of sorts). The series has come far from its web-based roots, capturing in only 11 minutes what other ensemble comedies fail to do in twice the time. The expertly delivered, wide-ranging jokes come in rapid-fire succession, and while it may appear as if much of it is improvised (sans the unusually well-choreographed musical numbers), Childrens Hospital devotees will realize that there's a surprising amount of continuity and overarching material at play here that, when the moment is right, surfaces to reveal one of the smartest, most conscientious comedies on TV. ML

18. Community. Dearest NBC, I must declare that you ripped out a little piece of my soul when you announced you were placing Community on extended hiatus. Admittedly, the show's third season started out on rocky ground, but the last few episodes have been a welcome return to exemplary form, even demonstrating a marked maturation for a show that was already relatively cultured to begin with. Jim Rash's eye-opening turn as an insanity-stricken Dean Pelton in the Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse-inspired episode "Documentary Filmmaking: Redux" will undoubtedly go down as one of the show's best, further illustrating how characters who were once considered minor have evolved into well-rounded, surprisingly sincere examinations of the type of people we'd like to know. For a series that buries itself in pop-culture homages and dense meta-ness, Community's lessons dealing with developing dependence and fortuitous friendship hold a tremendous amount of significance in the real world. ML

17. Up All Night. After well-publicized rewrites kept NBC's Up All Night up in the air until the last minute, it seemed that the sitcom might end as just another sunken vehicle for stars Christina Applegate and Will Arnett. As if by force of will, however, the stars of the show, along with clutch reliever Maya Rudolph, have managed to rescue the show from the morass of incoherence and turn it into a surprisingly incisive comedy about growing up and growing old. The performances are spot-on, the jokes are great, if a bit understated, and the situation in this situation comedy actually feels credible. In a year when a large number of new sitcoms passed off hackneyed conventions as hip cultural satire, Up All Night rang surprisingly true. PM

16. Homeland. Much like the erratic jazz quasi-theme song that opens each episode, Showtime's Homeland comes equipped with an arsenal of sudden tonal shifts, played out by its tremendous cast, that come barreling at the viewer like heat-seeking projectiles. Homeland does everything right that Howard Gordon and Alex Gansa's previous project, 24, did wrong. Although the series does require a small dose of suspension of disbelief, Homeland's acting and climax-escalating screenwriting is among the most praiseworthy things on television this side of Breaking Bad. Claire Danes, Damian Lewis, and Mandy Patinkin all deserve Emmy nods for their believable, courageous portrayals of Homeland's equally headstrong central characters, who not only keep the viewer's eyes glued to the screen as revelation after revelation transpires, but also elicit a firm emotional investment in their inner-turmoils. As Danes's obsessive, workaholic Carrie Mathison continually strips herself of her personal humanity for the sake of her draining, addictive CIA job, we see one of the finest scripted examples of the silent, mostly non-physical effects of post-9/11 terrorism on our soil. ML

15. Boardwalk Empire. It's ironic that the continued backlash at Steve Buscemi's "miscasting" as Nucky Thompson mirrors his character's constant ducking and dodging at the hands of a city that, for the most part, wants him out of power. The mounds of money he once stuffed into the pockets of his so-called allies is no longer satisfying, and thus sets the stage for the devious plotting and backstabbing that highlights a much improved second season. In addition to the aforementioned thrilling bloodshed, Boardwalk Empire's sophomore season has been able to successfully delve deeper into central characters who often felt shallow the first time around. Most notably, Michael Pitt's Jimmy Darmody, who was never given enough reason to be the brooding, angst-ridden wounded ex-soldier that chased dreams of Atlantic City underground royalty in season one, has had a new light shined on him. If my mother had birthed me after being raped and told me it was okay to have sex with her, and years later forced me into putting a hit out on the man who raised me, and then barked at me to kill my biological father with a shocking "Finish it!," I would be perpetually brooding and angst-ridden too. ML

14. Archer. Though it's an animated series, Archer boasts an ensemble cast with more comedic chemistry at any given moment than the majority of more widely praised live-action shows on TV today. The dynamic, inside-joke-laden wordplay between its stellar group of voice actors, lead by H. Jon Benjamin (who had a marvelous year with this, Bob's Burgers, and his own live-action show on Comedy Central) as the titular, ever-conceited spy, and his eccentric ISIS coworkers is nothing short of miraculous. I honestly want to know what kind of wackadoodle brainpower-enhancing drugs creator Adam Reed must be taking in order to write and direct every single episode of this constantly hilarious, mind-blowingly shrewd show that began as a lesser espionage spoof, but has grown into a masterful exhibition of outlandish office politics, scarred lineages, and the no-holds-barred prodding and dismantling of bulbous, simultaneously self-serving and self-destructive egos. ML

13. Treme. Like earlier David Simon triumphs, Treme presents a dense panorama of life—in this case the struggle of New Orleans to shake off the ghost of Hurricane Katrina. The way the show tries for observational nuance remains both its strong suit and its Achilles' heel; though its plots frequently strand together in messily poetic ways, illuminating the painful sense of stasis its myriad characters feel, at times—as in Janette's journey to and from N'awlins in search of a restaurant gig—they seem to exist only to flaunt just how "with it" Simon is with a region's culture, from its food to its music. (Please, no more Anthony Bourdain.) Elitism aside, though, Treme remains a remarkable study of inheritance, recognizing that the secret of redemption, as in its strongest plot of the season (Sofia trying to keep her dead father's firebrand spirit alive), lies in remembrance. EG

12. Bob's Burgers. The comic realist surrealism of Loren Bouchard's petulant Sunday-night cartoon makes it a kindred spirit of both Louie and Modern Family. Week to week, the homely Bob barely struggles to make something out of a burger joint with an even less convincing business model than the divey diner at the heart of the execrable 2 Broke Girls. Like Louis C.K., Bob's financial failure is attributable to his moral fatigue, but also to something far more exasperating to anyone's system than the consistency of fat in the patties he flips daily for what would seem to be only two or three patrons: raising the craziest kids on network television. Of course, the anarchy of Bob's children is as much a cause for disappointment as it is for elation, and the beauty of this hilariously performed show derives from its acknowledgement that this family would have it no other way. EG

11. Downton Abbey. Julian Fellowes's nearly perfect improvisation with the conventions of the upstairs/downstairs period picture hit the States this January to loud critical acclaim. From the arch dialogue, to the spectacular costumes and sets, to the exceptionally restrained performances (except, of course, Dame Maggie Smith's gleefully unrestrained one), it's easy to see why this particular U.K. export proved to be such a sensation in America. At once a triumph of televisual realism and a relentlessly compelling soap opera, the first season of Downton Abbey was one of the rarest things on TV: a genuine surprise. PM