For nearly two decades, antiheroes dominated TV. Following the premiere and critical success of The Sopranos in 1999, shows like Breaking Bad, Mad Men, Dexter, and Sons of Anarchy garnered similar critical and commercial acclaim. These series all featured morally complex lead characters, often seeking power through criminal acts and womanizing behavior. The shows explored the varying yet consistently extreme lengths their leading men would go to achieve their goals.
Each year, I eagerly open a “Greatest TV Shows of All Time” list, hoping to see a shift toward more innovative shows or personal storytelling that have emerged over the years. Instead, I find the same shows that have dominated for years—Breaking Bad, The Sopranos, Better Call Saul, Mad Men, and The Wire. This enduring dominance of certain shows reflects the popularity of a specific character type: the white male antihero. For those unfamiliar, the white male antihero is a flawed protagonist who defies traditional notions of heroism. He is typically a cisgender, heterosexual white man, morally complex, often violent (like Tony Soprano and Walter White), frequently a womanizer (Don Draper). These characters are usually driven by a desire for power, control, and dominance, reinforcing patriarchal ideals.
Whenever I scroll through a list full of these shows centering a male antihero, I find myself asking: Is it finally time to move past the memorialization of white male antiheroes on screen?
While the white male antihero archetype has become less prominent in today’s television landscape, these stories continue to dominate the cultural conversation, consistently topping “best of all time” lists. But do they truly represent the pinnacle of television? Or are we stuck in a loop, continuously uplifting narratives of (white) men seeking power?
Sure, having complex and nuanced characters is always more satisfying than providing a one-dimensional character with no moral failing. However, characters with what identities are praised when shown as complicated on screen? Are antihero shows about white men the only programming lauded and acclaimed when their leading characters are complicated and messy?
Overwhelmingly, yes. Fleabag, created by and starring Phoebe Waller-Bridge, is a notable exception, receiving widespread acclaim for its portrayal of a messy, imperfect protagonist whose flaws are among her most compelling and intriguing qualities. But not all shows are as fortunate. In Search Party (TBS/Max), Dory Sief wreaks emotional havoc, with the show keen to highlight the absurdity of privilege and selfishness. I Hate Suzie, created by Lucy Prebble and starring Billie Piper, offers a brilliant and refreshing commentary on a character grappling with her self-image and the claustrophobia of living in the public eye. HBO’s Sharp Objects hauntingly explores the lasting scars of intergenerational violence. These shows, all led by women and featuring complex characters, consistently received critical acclaim. Unlike typical antihero narratives that center male criminal behavior or prioritize shock value from the harm caused by their leading character, these shows focus on humanistic storytelling. While their protagonists are morally complex, the emphasis is on exploring the deeper emotional and psychological dimensions of their journeys.
Nonetheless, the top of critical lists still predominantly reflects male-centered narratives. Why are these types of stories so dominant in our understanding of what constitutes the “greatest” TV shows? What is it about these characters that continue to captivate audiences and critics alike, even years after their finales?
In her article “Romancing Revenge: Violent Masculine (anti)Heroes and Other Dangerous Objects,” Dr. Susan Hopkins offers a critical insight. She writes, “What is missing from the public debate, however, is more in-depth exploration of where these dangerous man-in-control/man-out-of-control narratives are coming from, and how they are legitimated and even [eroticized] or [romanticized] in our culture.” Continuing, she argues that in media and popular culture, “the image of ‘manliness’ is still mixed up with violent action and mastery of others, especially through the control of women and children.”
At their core, many of these acclaimed stories often feel like a patriarchal male fantasy, with themes of violence, domination, and capitalism taking center stage. While one could argue that these stories aim to subvert or critique these systems, the decision to position men eager to dominate and defeat anyone in their path as the central focus means audiences spend a disproportionate amount of time with them. As a result, these stories frequently neglect to center the impact of their violence and dominance on marginalized groups—the women in their lives, the working-class individuals they exploit, and the rare queer characters or Black populations (if featured at all) who are discarded by these institutions. In these shows, white male violence and the pursuit of power are not only central to the plot but framed as compelling, even impressive traits, romanticizing violent masculinity under the guise of multidimensional and subversive storytelling.
Crafting stories around these characters doesn’t just reflect our society’s preoccupation with a rise to power—it legitimizes and eroticizes these narratives that are all too prevalent in our daily lives. Rather than challenging or subverting these toxic ideals, these shows often reaffirm them, offering a distorted, narrowly defined vision of masculinity that continues to be pervasive in both fiction and reality.
Though this archetype has dominated television for decades, we now need to ask: is this still (or has it ever been) the best TV has to offer?
In 2020, Michaela Coel’s I May Destroy You transformed her tragic personal story of sexual assault into a gripping exploration of consent, personal identity, and the intersection of both in modern society. This series demanded reflection, urging audiences to reconsider how they view trauma, vulnerability, allyship, race, gender-based violence, and homophobia. Shows like this, offering a singular, deeply personal perspective, show us that the best stories do more than entertain—they challenge our understanding of the world and ourselves.
In contrast, shows like The Sopranos and Breaking Bad continue to perpetuate harmful tropes, both including a sexual assault of a woman as a plot device to criticize or advance the male protagonist’s story. The focus on male violence and toxicity, particularly at the expense of femme characters, doesn’t just mirror reality—it reinforces a narrow, often harmful vision of masculinity and dominance. Instead of sparking reflection or offering meaningful critique, it creates toxic characters who become cultural icons for white men to aspire and relate to, celebrate, and emulate.
Now, in an era oversaturated with intellectual property, networks are churning out predictable, formulaic television—often rehashing past successes to maximize profit, prioritizing commercial success over creative risk-taking, resulting in derivative and recycled ideas instead of bold, innovative storytelling. This obsession with profit stifles the emergence of fresh storytelling, new perspectives, and emotional and psychological explorations, limiting the range of stories we see on screen.
As a lover of television, the shows that entertain, innovate, defy conventions, and revolutionize the medium most excite me. As critics continue to sift through the vast array of television, I can only hope for more unique and innovative stories to be championed, inspiring newer artists to take bold risks and offer deeper emotional and psychological depth, celebrating singular visions from creators like Michaela Coel, who tell deeply personal stories that radically transform the landscape itself. By moving beyond archetypes and clichés, great television has the potential to be more than just entertainment—it becomes transformative, challenging our understanding of storytelling and its power to fuel cultural conversations, all while elevating and reshaping the art form.
Joshua Harris (he/him) is a lover of television, independent film, and his two dogs. His work has appeared in Awards Radar, mxdwnTELEVISION, and more. He is an African-American Film Critics Association (AAFCA) member.
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