The Streaming Shows Taken From Us Too Soon

I’d call it emotional manipulation: A streaming service feeds you a show so overwhelmingly perfect that you blow through it in one single weekend, and for the days that follow, it’s all you can think about or feel about or dream about. Your anxious, mangled little heart is in its hands. Then, just as you decide to trust again, the show gets canceled, and you’re flung into the seventh level of streaming purgatory. Sure, Emily of Emily in Paris fame greets you at the door, and yes, her jaunty hat is cheering, but she can’t fix you. Without an end to your favorite story, you’re just some loser with a Roku remote. Who could possibly love you? Not Netflix!

I realize that this is an…unhealthy reaction to a TV show getting canceled. But as with a round of media or tech layoffs, when cancellations are announced (often after only one or two seasons), my Twitter feed becomes a funeral march for shows like Warrior Nun, First Kill, Daredevil, and Anne with an E.

And while HBO doesn’t axe with quite as much vigor, it has undertaken the morally dubious endeavor of completely removing shows from its platform sans warning, like Westworld and Love Life. Like angry fans, some of these shows’ creators have spoken out about their lack of agency or even ownership of copies of their creative endeavors. Thankfully, a few, like the Minx, get rescued by other streamers or studios. The rest? Maybe they live on in DVD form? Get rehomed on Tubi?

There are indeed moments when I feel schadenfreude, as Rachel Syme put it in her enlightening (depressing) New Yorker profile of a Netflix exec who champions shallow same-ness across the streaming platform, when one of these massive corps makes the wrong fucking choice. But also, I feel sad. And lonely. And incapable of pledging fealty to the eighteenth latest romantic drama with third-grade-reading-level dialogue and a wafer-thin plot that Netflix is trying to shove down my throat because it was cheap to make. And they’d probably cancel it, too. Just like they and other streamers did with these 12 shows beloved by the Jezebel staff. —Sarah Rense

Alison Brie recently called the abrupt end to Netflix’s Glow “the great heartbreak of her career;” but if you ask me, “great heartbreak” is an understatement. Never mind that when the network decided to discontinue the dramedy at the height of the pandemic in 2020, pre-production had already begun on what would’ve been the fourth and final season.

Our favorite mat misfits exist forever in some truly captivating—but now unfinished—story lines. One character struggled to reckon with his sexuality, while others made peace with theirs. Some severed or tightened their bonds to family. In the series’ final episode, the gorgeous ladies of wrestling had only just secured a future on syndicated television—one that, fortunately, they had more stake in. The show’s untimely end, seemingly at its climax, was so vexing that viewers are still begging for some resolution.

Of course, I’d be remiss not to note that its termination arrived just weeks before members of the ensemble cast—more specifically, six cast members of color—publicly shared a letter they’d privately written to Netflix and the show’s producers in advance of the fourth season’s production. In the letter, they aptly noted that there were “zero persons of color in the writers’ room.”

Liz Flahive, co-creator and executive producer, and her co-executive producer, Carly Mensch, took these concerns seriously and planned for “new storylines, new depths, new approaches and new hires for production” in the future. Shortly thereafter, however, the streaming giant announced Glow’s cancellation. —Audra Heinrichs

I don’t give my heart away easily to TV shows, but when I do, it’s the whole thing. Sense8 hit every single damn beat for me—science fiction premise, international intrigue, sexual chemistry, family, friends, love, adventure, acceptance. And then Netflix canceled it. However! This is one of the rare instances in which fan outcry worked, and Netflix gave creators Lana and Lilly Wachowski enough time and money to “finish” the series—2018 was a different time. What we got was a bloated, overly sappy (which is saying a lot for this show!) 2.5-hour “finale” that of course I adored. But still, all the plotting introduced in the first two seasons—the sci-fi entanglements and careful character development woven into the script—ended up coming across as glaring plot holes that my brain isn’t big enough to fill itself. —SR

Grand Army lasted nine episodes before Netflix pulled the plug in October 2020, but the series barely had a chance to get its footing. Loosely based on Katie Cappiello’s 2013 Slut: The Play, the main storyline follows cool girl and activist Joey Del Marco, played brilliantly by Odessa A’zion, as she navigates classmates’ slut-shaming for her body, her outfit choices, her sexual behavior—really, any move she makes. She also faces a gruesome sexual assault by two of her closest male friends, but it’s the school’s reaction and the unflinching portrayal of Joey’s downward spiral in its wake that render the show both searing and memorable.

The show centered the experiences of students of color at a preppy Brooklyn school. Leila (Amalia Yoo) and Sid (Amir Bageria) both find each other while on a touching journey to find their place as Asian American students. Other students struggle to financially support their families at home. Grand Army never tried to be a caricature of the high school experience, but a raw rendition without all the sugarcoating. Depictions of class and privilege and the horrors of rape culture in high school—how much of it flies under the radar and how much of it comes from within your own circles—ground the show in the eerie reality that haunts teens today. The show was criticized for not offering anything new on those topics, but sometimes just being seen is enough. —Emily Leibert

In 2013, Showtime’s The Borgias was canceled after three seasons, which isn’t a bad run in today’s fickle streaming era. The show followed the rise, fall, and perpetual scheming of the legendary and scandalous Borgia family—including patriarch Pope Alexander VI, played by Jeremy Irons, and his children, Cesare and Lucrezia, who may have been in love with each other—in 15th century Renaissance Italy. The show’s end came abruptly: It was canceled right before Cesare embarked on his historical, highly consequential military conquest of Italy, and at the end of Lucrezia’s second marriage, just as she began a sexual relationship with her brother. (Yes, you read that right—well before HBO’s House of the Dragon last year, The Borgias was pushing the incest agenda hard, and with chemistry like Holliday Grainger and Francois Arnuad’s, fans were kind of loving it.)

The show was supposed to wrap with a movie to compensate for the lack of resolution fans expected in Season 4, but that never came to fruition. And when a draft script for the movie was released containing a number of inexplicable, unpopular plot points (including Cesare Borgia cutting off the lips of on-again-off-again lover-slash-sworn-enemy Caterina Sforza), fans were relieved that we were never subjected to it. I have mixed feelings about the note that this show ended on, but what I will say is that taking the bold plunge into an incest plotline and then just ending is disappointing! If for nothing else, I craved a Season 4 to see where that daring plot arc might’ve gone. —Kylie Cheung

“OooOooh Devereux!” I sing to myself, somehow worse than Tim Cramblin, when I want to comfort myself from the deep sadness I feel that Detroiters is no longer on television. I know this is cliche to say at this point, but I am genuinely jealous of folks who haven’t seen it and get to watch it for the first time. Every time I’ve made someone watch Tim and Sam be perfectly supportive and loving best friends who work together in low-budget advertising, I do that horribly annoying thing where I just stare at them to make sure they’re enjoying it as much as I did. I’m sorry if I’ve done that to you, but also, you’re welcome for me introducing you to the funniest show of all time.

What made the show exceptional, along with creators’ Tim Robinson and Sam Richardson’s relentlessly idiotic senses of humor (highest of compliments) was just how much their characters cared about one another. Their friendship made for a genuinely joyful and hilarious show to watch, especially if cruel comedy shows can stress you out (they do that for me!).

Detroiters ran for two seasons in 2017 and 2018 before Comedy Central made the stupidest decision they’ve ever made (yes, even stupider than inviting Ann Coulter to roast Rob Lowe) by not renewing it. —Kady Ruth Ashcraft

I have already waxed poetic on Jezebel dot com about my love for Netflix’s 1899, and one of the reasons I was so fervently, aggressively evangelizing for this show is because I knew what fate likely awaited it: an unceremonious death at the bottom of the internet sea, right at its prime. Though I usually love to be right, I hated it this time. On Jan. 2, co-created Baran bo Odar announced the sci-fi thriller would not get the second season it so richly, in my humble opinion, deserved. 1899 felt like something fresh and new; the characters were all nationals of different countries, and the people who played them acted in their native languages. The “Alice down the rabbit hole but make it creepy” structure was not exactly groundbreaking, but Odar and his co-creator (and spouse) Jantje Freise have a knack for twisty storytelling, as their previous show Dark—which got three whole seasons on Netflix, by the way—revealed.

What’s most frustrating about being left with only a single season of this show, though, is that it ends on a cliffhanger that ultimately changes the scope and meaning of the previous eight episodes—plus it hints at a potential love triangle between the protagonist and sexy grizzled ship captain who may or may not exist only in her mind.

Look, I like Stranger Things as much as the next Winona fan, but I’d also like to see its absurd, $270 million budget cut significantly, with all the Netflix shows on this list reveling in its leftovers—especially 1899. Until then, I will mourn what my spooky ship show could have been. —Nora Biette-Timmons

If Emily Weiss’ departure from Glossier marked the end of the millennial girlboss era, then the cancellation of Netflix’s legal dramedy Partner Track was the final nail in its pantsuit-wearing, veggie-juice-drinking coffin. I loved this bingeable show equally for its steamy lawyer hookups and its refreshing takes on race in the workplace, neither of which made you feel like you were sitting through mandatory HR training. The first season’s bombshell cliffhanger finale obviously hinted at justice being served in future episodes, mostly in the form of asses being handed to shitty male traitors (who were also, regrettably, love interests). Plus, my girl Ingrid (played by the luminescent Arden Cho) was set for multiple growth journeys, which, if I had to guess, were supposed to involve environmental activist hottie Desmond (played by Zi-Xin ‘Z’ Min). I mean, who wouldn’t want to see two very hot, very successful millennial professionals take down shitty corporations together while also boning behind closed doors? I’d resurrect the entire girlboss era and more just to see that play out. —Rodlyn-mae Banting

I do need to see this: Another season of HBO’s The Comeback, if only to add some variety into my never-ending rewatches of the first two. Seasons 1 and 2 aired some nine years apart—for a while, it seemed like the little-seen mockumentary series following the endless relevance quest of washed-up actor Valerie Cherish (utterly embodied by Lisa Kudrow, who was nominated for an Emmy for both seasons) had gone away for good. But if The Comeback came back once, as it did in 2014, it can do so again. This year will mark another nine years since the last season, so the timing couldn’t be more perfect. (Though its internet home is now on Hulu—yet another twist in the streaming wars saga.) The series, which Kudrow co-created with Sex and the City’s Michael Patrick King, will be as relevant as long as culture keeps barreling forward, leaving Cherish floundering in its wake. I’m pleading with Kudrow and King to make an angle out of literally everything (though a Valerie Cherish MeToo moment was a decidedly missed opportunity). —Rich Juzwiak

Imagine if Euphoria was about a cheerleading team and if the characters’ glitter-painted faces weren’t just peacocking, but sparkling warpaint. For one season, that unicorn of a show existed on USA in Dare Me. Netflix picked it up, but did not renew it, so now it exists in the streaming giant’s catalogue of gone-too-soon shows. The series was adapted from the twisted novel of the same name by Meg Abbott, who has proven freakishly adept at braiding body horror and exaggerated femininity. While on its surface a mystery that follows a brooding new cheer coach as she develops a toxic hold on her team of high school cheerleaders, the show is at its core about female relationships. Queerness simmers under the surface of the entire season, manifesting in gazes held too long and the inherent physicality in the sport. But that element, which could’ve been exploited, ended up being an accurate portrayal of teenage yearning and the confusion that dominant matriarch figures sow.

A show of this kind—one that parses teen girlhood, sexuality, and the tug-of-war of participating in a gruesome sport coded as girly without getting lost in gratuitous sex—is one in a million, and a cult classic in the making. —EL

Los Espookys was the weirdest and boldest show available on streaming, but the HBO property met its untimely demise largely, apparently, due to COVID-19 delays. Deadline reported that after quality first season ratings, the audience basically halved when the second season premiered nearly three years later. The delightful show was an absurdist story about a group of friends in an unnamed Latin American country trying to turn their love of horror into a full-time profession by helping people get out of truly ridiculous situations. Are you a graveyard owner who doesn’t know where the bodies are? Los Espookys can help. Are you a priest looking to prove that you are talented? Los Espookys are ready and willing to set up an exorcism. Every situation was both believable and unhinged in a wonderful way. I sincerely miss this gang of misfits who only got 12 episodes. —Caitlin Cruz

In March 2022, Netflix announced that it was axing its TV adaptation of The Baby-Sitters Club book series after two critically acclaimed seasons, in which a diverse cast of phenomenally talented young actors navigated friendship, familial ups and downs, grief, first kisses, and of course, small business ownership as the most sought-out baby-sitters in Stony Brook. I was as obsessed with the show in adulthood as I was with the trailblazing YA book series in my childhood. It was a perfectly executed vision for Ann M. Martin’s beloved book series. This show had so much untapped potential, especially as the book series goes on for literally over 130 volumes. Netflix has committed many sins, but cutting an adorable show that was likely cultivating future generations of She-E-Os is an unforgivable sin in my book. —KC

I’m not really one to jump at my mother’s Netflix recommendations, but last December’s pre-holiday boredom drove me to finally click on Firefly Lane, a show that follows two best friends, Tully (Katherine Heigl) and Kate (Sarah Chalke), over the course of more than 20 years of friendship, from the ’80s to the early 2000s. Let’s just put it this way: Over the few days it took me to blast through its two seasons, I was hooked. Charmed into addiction, I would rush home from work and stay up into the wee hours of the morning to see what twists and turns these Seattle-based besties’ friendship would take.

I’m not sure exactly why this show had me in such a chokehold—maybe it was the non-linear storytelling, Kate’s husband’s sexy Australian accent (and sexy face), or the ride-or-die energy that courses through the veins of only the best of female friendships. But as the dynamic duo navigated the peaks and valleys of family issues, (sometimes overlapping) love interests, and their careers in journalism, I was there with them, hoping I’ll live out even a fraction of what they have. The show wasn’t renewed for a third season, but as some sort of consolation, the second season was split in two, and its actual final episodes will come out in June. If the finale of the first half of season two is any indication—those final scenes had my heart in my throat—we’re in for a deeply sentimental, painfully heartbreaking (but hopefully uplifting) last hoorah. —RB