Why Paramount+ Is Hiding Some of the Most Fascinating TV Shows of the Streaming Era
Let me ask you something: When was the last time you scrolled through Paramount+ and actually explored beyond the Star Trek banners or Yellowstone recommendations? If you’re like most people, the answer is “never.” We’ve all been trained to dismiss Paramount+ as a tier-two streaming service, a dumping ground for CBS leftovers and Taylor Sheridan’s western indulgences. But what if I told you that buried in its algorithmic underbelly lies a treasure trove of shows that are not just good—but essential? Not because they’re flashy or award-winning, but because they reflect our cultural anxieties, societal absurdities, and human contradictions in ways most “prestige” TV fails to do. Let’s talk about why Paramount+’s underrated gems are quietly reshaping what television can be.
The Unsettling Mirror of Modern Existence
Take Evil, for instance. On paper, it’s a supernatural procedural about a psychologist and a priest investigating demonic possessions. But scratch the surface, and it’s a razor-sharp dissection of how we weaponize belief systems to avoid confronting our own darkness. I’ve watched countless shows try to tackle faith vs. science, but Evil doesn’t pick sides—it exposes the hypocrisy, trauma, and twisted logic that fuel both camps. The real horror isn’t the demons; it’s the characters’ moral compromises. Andrea Martin’s nun hitting monsters with a broom isn’t just comic relief—it’s a metaphor for how we trivialize evil until it’s too close to ignore. Why isn’t this show everywhere? Because audiences prefer their morality tales neat, not splattered with existential dread.
Then there’s Corporate, a show so nihilistic it makes Succession look like a TED Talk. It’s not just mocking office culture; it’s eviscerating the entire capitalist framework through the lens of soul-crushing meetings and psychopathic CEOs. The genius isn’t in the jokes about “acceptable female tones” (though those land hard)—it’s in how it normalizes the absurdity of corporate evil. When Lance Reddick’s CEO delivers monologues about “making everything,” you realize he’s not a caricature. He’s the logical endpoint of a system that rewards psychopathy. Most satires punch down. Corporate punches up—and that’s why it’ll never get the attention it deserves.
Friendship as a Survival Tactic
If Corporate made you want to burn down your workplace, let’s balance that with Detroiters, a masterclass in cringe comedy that’s secretly about resilience. Tim Robinson and Sam Richardson aren’t just riffing on small-town ad campaigns; they’re exploring how friendship becomes a defense mechanism against failure. The show’s magic lies in its refusal to mock its characters. Yes, their schemes are ridiculous, but their loyalty to each other feels radical in a world that glorifies cutthroat ambition. When they sing their jingles off-key, it’s not comedy—it’s tragedy wrapped in humor. And isn’t that the essence of human connection? Clinging to someone because they’re the only thing that makes the chaos bearable?
Colin From Accounts takes this idea further, framing romantic relationships as chaotic collaborations. The Australian rom-com where the title “character” is a dog (yes, really) uses absurdism to ask: What if compatibility isn’t about shared values but mutual dysfunction? The leads are messes—flashing strangers, sleepwalking into disasters—but their chemistry thrives on vulnerability. It’s the anti-The Bachelor, celebrating the beauty of choosing someone because they’re flawed, not in spite of it. Why don’t more shows dare to do this? Because audiences still crave fairy tales, even when reality is so much messier.
Historical Echoes and Ghosts in the Machine
Now let’s talk about Fellow Travelers, a show that weaponizes historical tragedy to comment on modern LGBTQ+ struggles. Matt Bomer and Jonathan Bailey’s doomed romance isn’t just about forbidden love—it’s about how institutions gaslight marginalized groups into self-destruction. Set against McCarthyism and the AIDS crisis, it reminds us that oppression isn’t a relic; it’s a cycle. The show’s Peabody win felt inevitable, yet its lack of mainstream buzz says everything about how we consume queer narratives. We’ll binge-watch tragic gay love stories as long as they’re safely “in the past”—but heaven forbid they mirror our current battles.
Meanwhile, The Woman in the Wall uses gothic horror to dissect Ireland’s legacy of institutional abuse. Ruth Wilson’s performance as a trauma survivor isn’t just haunting; it’s a takedown of how societies silence victims. The show’s title corpse isn’t a plot device—it’s a symbol of the bodies piled up by systemic neglect. Why does this matter now? Because every country has its unmarked graves, and art like this forces us to confront them.
The Takeaway: Why We Should Care About the Shows Everyone Ignores
Here’s the thing about underrated TV: It’s underrated because it challenges us. Platforms like Paramount+ have become dumping grounds for content that doesn’t fit the Netflix/Disney mold, but that’s also freed these shows from the pressure to be “broadly appealing.” The result? Stories that bite, bleed, and refuse to simplify human experiences.
Personally, I think we’re in a golden age of overlooked television. The algorithms won’t recommend these shows—they’re too messy, too niche, too unwilling to compromise. But if you’re tired of polished, predictable storytelling, dive into Paramount+’s bargain bin. What you’ll find isn’t just “underrated”—it’s revolutionary. And isn’t that what art’s supposed to be?
