Australian television, streaming drama, limited series. Reality TV only when it deserves a skewer.
Twenty months after Netflix dropped the Trent Dalton adaptation in January 2024, the show has aged into one of the few streamer-funded Australian dramas that didn't get cancelled out of spite.

The shows are good, the platforms are crowded, and the audience is splitting into fragments too small for any one show to own.

The year's best shows were on six different platforms, and nobody watches all six, which means every show was somebody's blind spot.

Luke Arnold drives into a drought-stricken town where a priest shot five men, and the show's best quality is that nobody wants to explain why.

Ward's Hannah Howard is not David Brent, not Michael Scott, and not a blend of both; she is a new species of terrible boss, and the show is better for the invention.

Every Australian streamer has a true-crime limited series in development, and the genre is starting to eat itself.

Fifteen million Australians watch MAFS, three hundred thousand watch the AACTA-winning drama, and the industry pretends this is not a problem.

The third season of Australia's best romantic comedy discovers that its leads are no longer charming disasters, and the show does not know what to do with functional adults.

Netflix built a cattle-station dynasty drama in the Northern Territory and staffed it with enough Australian actors to fill a muster, and the result is louder and messier than anything the ABC would commission.

The production is gorgeous, the submarine is a set worth living in, and the scripts needed three more drafts.

The adaptation of Trent Dalton's novel is charming, violent, and uncertain about its own tone in exactly the same proportions as its source material.

The second season drops the reboot anxiety and lets Hartley High be a school where nobody learns the right lesson at the right time.

Thomas Jane plays an American ex-con hiding in the tropics, and the show's best trick is treating Cairns like it is as foreign as he finds it.

Minchin plays a Kings Cross nightclub owner in the 1980s, and the show has the good sense to let him be charming before it lets him be dangerous.

Annette Bening disappears in suburban Australia, the family fractures on cue, and the final episode does what every Moriarty adaptation does: it explains too much.

Mailman's Alex Irving has the numbers, the enemies, and the prime ministership within reach, and the show is ruthless about what each one costs.

Helen Fisk remains the worst person in every room she enters, and the show remains the funniest thing on ABC because of it.

Two Kates built a murder mystery in a freezing Tasmanian town and staffed it entirely with people you would cross the street to avoid.

Sigourney Weaver commits fully to the Australian accent and the Australian landscape; the scripts commit to neither.

SBS built a drama about a Kurdish family in Launceston and gave every character enough rope to be both kind and complicit.

Stan's Dickens sequel is set in colonial Australia, stars Thomas Brodie-Sangster as a surgeon, and is exactly as unhinged as that pitch meeting must have been.

Season two proves that the best Australian drama on television is the one most willing to look silly in a period wig.

The most-exported Australian show in history died on Channel 5, resurrected on Amazon, and the question is whether the street still has stories to tell.

Amazon's Australian comedy traps a school reunion on a hilltop during a flood and lets the class dynamics do more damage than the water.

Celeste Barber's Netflix comedy is loud, messy, and allergic to likability, and the show is better for not trying to fix her.

Guy Pearce plays a cult leader in rural Victoria, and the show is smart enough to let him be charming rather than monstrous, which is worse.

Jamie Dornan wakes up in a hospital in the middle of South Australia with no memory, and the show is smart enough to let that confusion do most of the heavy lifting.

A show about a teenage pregnancy in Bankstown should not be this funny, this specific, or this invisible to the broader Australian audience.

Rebecca Gibney and Charles Edwards inherit a vineyard in Central Otago, and the show knows that the landscape is doing most of the acting.

Katherine Parkinson plays a divorced lawyer who tracks her sexual encounters on a spreadsheet, and the show is funnier than the premise has any right to be.

Netflix's fish-out-of-water comedy drops an American mobster in a tiny Queensland town, and the town is funnier than the mobster.

The jury room is the one place on Australian television where people are forced to listen to each other, and the show is smart enough to make that unbearable.
The ABC made a miniseries about the Black Summer fires less than two years after the smoke cleared, and the question is not whether it was too soon but whether it was enough.

Stan's backpacker thriller uses Byron Bay the way horror films use fog: it looks beautiful and you cannot see what is coming.

The longest-running Australian drama of the streaming era is a women's prison show that outlasted every prestige competitor by refusing to be anything else.

Stan's teen pregnancy comedy set in Western Sydney treats its multicultural cast as furniture rather than subject matter, and that is the most radical thing about it.

Netflix set a thriller in Oakland, filmed it in Melbourne, cast Adrian Grenier, and hoped nobody would notice the gum trees.

Nicole Kidman plays a wellness guru who microdoses her guests, and somehow that is not the strangest choice the show makes.

Weaving plays a widower on a dating app, and the show's best trick is treating online romance with the same gravity it gives grief.

The show is loud, furious, and performatively woke in the way that only a genuinely smart comedy can sustain without collapsing.
Kendall plays a woman who faked her life in London and came home to Newcastle, and the show's best trick is that Newcastle does not care.

The ABC's forensic pathologist procedural is not trying to be prestige television, and its refusal to apologise for being a well-made genre show is its best quality.

Scott Ryan's hitman sitcom finished its third season without a redemption arc, a moral reckoning, or a single scene where Ray explained himself, and it was perfect.

The year's best shows were about confinement, isolation, and people stuck in places they could not leave, which felt about right.

Stan's Tasmanian noir is slow, cold, and occasionally baffling, and the best scenes are the ones where Emma Booth just stands in the weather.

Mailman plays an Indigenous senator thrown into federal politics, and the show is smart enough to make the Canberra corridors feel as dangerous as any outback.

Tim Minchin drives a piano across Australia and somehow makes you cry about it, which is not what you expect from a man best known for musical comedy.

The ABC made a show about immigration detention; Netflix put it in front of sixty million subscribers; and suddenly Australian policy was international content.

Three months into lockdown, the streaming queue has replaced the cinema queue, and the couch has replaced everything else.

A show about immigration detention centres premiered during a pandemic lockdown, and somehow the timing made it more urgent rather than less.

The cinemas shut, the couch stayed, and the back catalogues on iview and Stan are deeper than you think.

Aaron Pedersen's detective does not monologue, does not explain, and does not care whether you are keeping up.

The ABC has a political thriller, Stan has a Cate Blanchett immigration drama, and Foxtel has whatever Foxtel always has, which is good television nobody subscribes to watch.