Every Black Mirror Episode Ranked Worst To Best

"The Waldo Moment" has its moments, but the result is never as clever or edgy as it thinks it is. The satire is also too broad to make a coherent point, other than "politicians are bad." Daniel Rigby is a talented actor but he isn't given enough nuance as the voice of a cartoon character put forward as an independent candidate in a local election. He's a priggish character who is never presented with much depth. Ultimately, it's a bit of a problem when the stuck-up Tory MP (Tobias Menzies) emerges as more sympathetic and reasonable than the erstwhile protagonist.

This episode has seen a bit of rehabilitation recently, at least in part due to its prescience in making a mockery of the electoral system. In truth, though, the reason it's not well-liked is simply because the jokes are flat, the main character is never given a chance to be likable, and the less said about that final scene the better. 

"Rachel, Jack and Ashley Too" might be the most atypical "Black Mirror" episode of the entire series, veering too often into sentimentality and adolescent wish fulfillment. The story follows a teen idol pop star (Miley Cyrus) who is drugged into compliance by her possessive management, leaving two diametrically opposed sisters to rescue her with the help of an A.I. robot that is somehow imbued with the singer's consciousness. The vagueness of this plot point is symptomatic of the problems with this episode, in that the leaps of logic within the story, and the implausibility of the plot machinations, make it too far-fetched for a series that has always had at least one foot in the real world.

It also lacks that sardonic edge that even the most lighthearted episodes of "Black Mirror" have, with cheesy humor and fluffy mawkishness that feels more akin to something from the Disney Channel. "Rachel, Jack and Ashley Too" is a fun romp with an impressive performance from Miley Cyrus, but it just misses the mark tonally. It's uneven, messy, and feels more like a teen angst story than an episode of "Black Mirror."

An uneven anthology episode that could never live up to the promise of "White Christmas," "Black Museum" has a surprising lack of depth to its numerous intriguing story set-ups. It has its share of effective skin-crawling moments, but these never cohere to any greater meaning beyond gory sensationalism. 

It doesn't help that the stories are told to us by a character within the plot (Douglas Hodge), meaning we are never as involved as we would be if we were immersed in the stories from the start. There's a grim detachment from the stories, and while the man who gets aroused by pain is a horribly visceral story, the rest of the episode is less interesting, and the final reveal is both arduously convoluted and increasingly obvious as the episode goes on.

Douglas Hodge gives a great performance as the gleefully callous narrator — the polar opposite of Rafe Spall's tortured protagonist in "White Christmas." However, there is no nuance to the character, and as such the episode loses a lot of tension. It's also very self-indulgent, apparently more concerned with self-referential nods and Easter eggs than developing its central characters beyond the broadest of broad strokes.

Co-written by Charlie Brooker's wife Konnie Huq, "Fifteen Million Merits" is one of the few episodes that feature a classic dystopian setting, with some truly Orwellian plot turns. The sheer attention to detail is incredibly impressive, as the unfortunate protagonists are compelled to cycle on exercise bikes all day long in order to earn merits. Amidst the monotonous day-to-day slog, Bing (Daniel Kaluuya) thinks he's found a way out when he hears Abi (Jessica Brown Findlay) singing and enters her in the ubiquitous talent show, "Hot Shot."

The world-building is incredibly detailed but falls apart under close scrutiny, raising more questions than it answers. However, there are some elements that feel hauntingly believable. The way the cyclists have to pay to skip advertisements is something that feels all too plausible, and the added trauma of having an alarm sound when you try to close your eyes makes it a special kind of hell.

Where the episode falls down is in the talent contest conceit that runs through it. The message that everyone will degrade themselves for a reward is a little on the nose, and while the final image is a potent and fatalistic one, it isn't the most original concept. The episode contains an effective, powerful message, but it's delivered with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

It's difficult to rank "Bandersnatch" alongside the other episodes of "Black Mirror," quite simply because it's like no other episode of television. An interactive, choose-your-own-adventure story about a retro videogame, the logistics alone are nigh impossible, so the fact that it exists at all is a testament to the entire creative team behind it. An audacious and refreshing concept that is executed perfectly at least on a practical level, you end up just wishing that the story itself was more interesting.

The plot has potential, and the numerous choices that the viewer makes lead to an eclectic range of blind alleys — the martial arts fight with the psychiatrist (Alice Lowe) is a highlight. However, playing around with all the different options leads to diminishing returns, with numerous ham-fisted meta allusions to free-will and determinism. Whatever options you select along the way, the ending is invariably underwhelming.

One thing you can't deny though, is the sheer vaulting ambition on display. Both Fionn Whitehead and Will Poulter give incredible performances, especially impressive given the arduous production which was, by design, overly convoluted. While it has been dismissed as a "gimmick" by some outlets, it's still pretty impressive.

The first portmanteau episode, "White Christmas" is a brilliantly constructed series of three macabre stories held together by an enigmatic connecting story concerning two strangers (Jon Hamm and Rafe Spall) in an isolated winter cottage. The episode is perhaps most notable for introducing the nightmarish concept of "cookies," a recurring piece of technology that extracts and replicates a person's consciousness and condemns it to a life of indentured servitude as a personal planner. That being said, if there's one piece of technology I hope to never see become reality, it would be the "blocking" feature. It's an extreme and cruel way of excising someone from your life, with no way of appealing the decision.

The genius of the episode lies in the way new pieces of tech are introduced and then seamlessly integrated into later stories, culminating in one of the bleakest endings the series has ever accomplished. Although, in some areas it's a little too bleak for its own good, specifically in the disproportionately harsh and impractical punishments doled out at the episode's end.

"Playtest" is not a particularly mind-blowing story, but the effects are incredible, and it's the most overtly scary episode of the show's entire run. Wyatt Russell plays an unassuming American tourist who volunteers to take part in a demo for a new virtual reality game that exploits the player's innermost fears in order to pay for his plane ticket home, and he quickly gets more than he bargained for. Russell's likable performance is the episode's secret weapon. He's shown to be so chilled, so laid-back, that when he begins getting terrified by the intensity of the haunted house sequence the audience is right there with him.

It's a simple story and really only picks up momentum once he begins the titular play-test, but once this begins we are well in the realms of horror. Seasoned television audiences will question how much of what we see is real, and the fun of the episode comes from trying to guess exactly where the game ends and reality begins. Director Dan Trachtenberg plays with this right until the episode's climax, where what could be a cheap rug pull is given a metaphysical crinkle that prevents it from feeling like a cliche.

The first ever episode of "Black Mirror" lets us know exactly what kind of show to expect, with one of television's most macabre and audacious plot set-ups. The story of a prime minister (Rory Kinnear) who is pressured into having sex with a pig when the royal princess is kidnapped, it's pretty much a perfect introduction to the series. 

It's a morbidly funny premise played admirably straight, and with believably high stakes. The episode explores all the ramifications of such a grotesque scenario and follows it through to the inevitable conclusion. The script is both compelling and witty, and the actors never wink at the audience. Kinnear especially is just fantastic as the beleaguered prime minister who is faced with a lose/lose situation. 

Most of the episode's social commentary comes from the scenes showing the largely anonymous public members of the public reacting to the news, some with disgust, some with disbelief, and others with laughter. In the stomach-churning conclusion, the event itself is thankfully not shown, but instead, we see the audience's reactions as their initial support gives way to disgust as the act takes longer than expected. And yet they (like us) can't look away.

The best episodes of "Black Mirror" ground the technology to the point where it's just part of the scenery, and "Crocodile" is a great example of this. The technology on hand is similar to that of "The Entire History of You," but utilized in a more formal capacity as insurance investigators take undiluted testimony from witnesses of an accident — one of whom (Andrea Riseborough) also committed a murder the same night. Her attempts to extricate herself from the murder pull her deeper into a life of crime, as she ruthlessly eliminates any connection between her and the killing. It's a story of self-preservation more than anything, told with a Scandi-noir aesthetic and beautifully directed by John Hillcoat.

In a kind of commentary on the way advances in technology eliminate options for criminals, Riseborough is compelled to commit increasingly barbaric acts, culminating in one of the series' most harrowing moments. If you were in any doubt that this is a black comedy at its core, look no further than the closing moments of this episode, where Riseborough's plans fall apart thanks to a guinea pig. It's a grim punchline that makes it apparent that all the carnage was both wholly unnecessary and ultimately futile.

This is a much slept-on episode, maybe because it has the longest running time of the entire series and is a lot more subtle than some of the more sensational episodes. "Hated in the Nation" nonetheless has the feel of a tried and tested detective show, with a great, lived-in central performance from Kelly MacDonald and a particularly bleak conclusion.

Following the murders of several publicly hated celebrities, at its core, the episode serves as a cautionary tale about the illusion of online anonymity, showing how careless comments online can have real, fatal consequences. This is demonstrated best by the member of the investigating team (Joe Armstrong) who unthinkingly joins in with the online hate without realizing he's painting a literal target on his back. The episode refrains from showing the devastation of the final attack, wisely leaving it to the audience's imagination and making you think twice about hitting that tweet button.

"Hated in the Nation" earns its feature-length runtime, giving its characters room to breathe and allowing the story to unfold at a leisurely pace. The low-key performances and sparse writing grounds the episode in reality and makes the high-concept premise of "killer robot bees" not only believable but terrifying.

"The Entire History Of You" unfolds like a fairly conventional drama involving the deterioration of a relationship, albeit with the added crinkle that, in this world, everyone has recall technology implanted in their corneas. As the arguments get nastier, the couple is able to replay every petty argument, every word said in anger, ad nauseam.

The technological advances inform the story and serve to shine a light on character flaws. Toby Kebbell gives a masterful performance as exactly the sort of person who should never be allowed near this technology. He's insecure about his work and his relationship, and with the recall technology, he becomes even more obnoxious. It's to Kebbell's credit that he manages to get all this across and still emerges as a tragic figure come the episode's end.

Structurally speaking it's a brilliant, tightly written episode, penned by "Succession" and "Peep Show" creator Jesse Armstrong. The sci-fi terms are planted early and pay off towards the end; the idea of "gouging," the act of painfully removing the implants, the social stigma of doing so, and the risk of blindness, all are subtly laid out in dialogue and appear again by the episode's end.

"Be Right Back" remains the most touching, heartbreaking episode of the entire series. It's a deeply sad yet characteristically wry modern examination of grief in the same vein as Christina Rossetti's "Remember." Hayley Atwell gives an achingly potent depiction of grief as Martha mourns her husband Ash (Domhnall Gleeson), who was tragically killed in a car accident. Using his online footprint, she is able to put together "a vestige of the thoughts that once he had," and order an eerily accurate physical copy of Ash. 

While Atwell is simply incredible, Gleeson has the unenviable job of making an indelible impression as the real Ash, so we know that his duplicate isn't quite right. Weirdly, it's the "improvements" that make his absence felt even more — the inattentive, absent-minded husband is miles away from the constantly alert robot. It starts to curdle for Martha at the same time as it does for the audience, as the clone begins missing social cues subtly highlighted in the brief time we spent with the real Ash. 

The story is told with a beautiful economy, with subtle callbacks to earlier conversations that inform the changing attitude toward Ash. The ending might seem a bit muted, but the earlier scene of real Ash recalling his mother's habit of keeping bad memories locked in the attic is a melancholy way to close the episode, speaking to the very human impulse to try and ignore the past without ever being able to let go completely.