‘Gilmore Girls’ Has Been Named the 99th Best Show of the 21st Century. Excuse Me, What?

Comparison may be the thief of joy, but rankings are apparently the thief of perspective.

This past weekend — recovering from illness and hiding from the great nor'easter — I was catching up on the news when I stumbled upon the New York Times’ 100 Best TV Shows of the 21st Century. 

I get why the Times would publish such a ranking. People are inherently competitive. We like it when our favorite something — movie, book, song or whatever — is declared a winner. It validates us, and validation drives traffic.

From a human perspective though, I have a tougher time getting behind the idea of a top 100. Why bother? Isn’t the value of art in the eye of the beholder? Isn’t appreciation all about perspective? Why are we even bothering to pit “Breaking Bad” (which secured the top spot) against “Fleabag” (at number 5)? Apples and oranges and all that.

Much to my own surprise, as I scrolled through the list, nothing bothered me quite as much as where “Gilmore Girls” landed. Mercifully it made the list. But in 99th spot? Excuse me?

Everyone who reads the list will likely have their own version of this: a show whose exclusion from the list they consider a travesty. And honestly, that’s the way it should be. But agree or disagree, here’s my case for “Gilmore Girls” being much higher up. 

I first watched “Gilmore Girls,” Amy Sherman-Palladino's cozy — some might say saccharine — comedy drama about the dysfunctional-yet-sweet relationship between a once-teenage mom and her now-teenage daughter, in the summer of 2018, almost 18 years after it first aired. I had heard of it, of course — the show aired for seven seasons, from 2000 to 2007. But I’d never made time to watch it. 

Then, when my daughter was born, I found myself inhabiting a new reality: a world in which my sole responsibility was to keep a tiny person alive. Surprisingly frequently, that involved swaying in front of the TV. 

One day I landed on “Gilmore Girls.” The zippy banter between the protagonists, mom Lorelai Gilmore and her 15 year-old daughter Rory, was infinitely better for my spirits than the news channel. The sanitized and delightful portrayal of the mother-daughter relationship was also exactly the version of that bond I needed to see: Sleep-deprived, anxious and teetering on the brink of an identity crisis, I found myself, at the time, questioning just about every life choice I’d ever made. 

For the avoidance of doubt , the show was revolutionary. Consider this: a woman (Lorelai) gets pregnant at 16 and her resulting story is neither one of tragedy, nor one that functions as a warning. Instead, she goes on to lead a rich and fulfilling life. She’s fiercely independent, unafraid of setting her own boundaries and creating life on her own terms. 

Now consider this: A mother and daughter are introduced as intellectual equals, quick-witted and sarcastic and emotionally complex. They don’t conform to the stereotype of a parent or a child in suburban America in the 1990s and early 2000s. The moody teenager trope is rejected as swiftly as that of the needy single mom. 

And finally, consider this: A grandmother who is posh and pushy and privileged and awkward, and becomes the third point in a complex triangle of familial love and frustration and trauma. Men play parts in the show. Of course they do. But the women drive it. It might be one of the most obviously feminist TV shows ever made without ever seeming like it’s trying to be feminist. What a gift. 

One thing I particularly love about it is, of course, the script, the rapid-fire volley of quips and punchlines and clapbacks. Unnatural? Sure, but who cares? What a joy for an exhausted, brain-drained new mother just trying to get through the day. After even just one episode I found myself able to string a coherent sentence together again. My synapses were firing anew. I felt like I could — gasp! — write again. 

This year is not a big anniversary or milestone for “Gilmore Girls.” It’s not back in the news. There’s no obvious hook. But for me, at least, the New York Times list serves as a reminder of what the show gave me — and of what Sherman-Palladino gave television.

She created a show about women in which being a woman is neither a problem to be solved nor a point to be made. Women in it are allowed to be funny and selfish and ambitious and infuriating. They can be mothers and daughters and grandmothers and friends and love interests without those roles consuming them. They can adore one another and still hurt one another really really badly. They can talk too fast, eat too much, and make spectacularly terrible decisions. That doesn’t make them bad people.

Sure, I hear all your arguments for why “Breaking Bad” may be a better television show than “Gilmore Girls,” but let’s consider what “better” actually means. 

A list can measure influence. It can take into account critical acclaim. It can ask 500 very important industry people what they think and tally their votes (as the Times did). What it can’t measure, at least for me, is the summer of 2018.

So yes: 99th? Excuse me, what?

But also: Who cares? 

We move on. It’s probably time for a rewatch.