The Poppies of Terra #62 - ❤️❌❗

Playhouse 90 (1956–1960), One Step Beyond (1959–1961), Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone (1959–1964), Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1955–1965), Boris Karloff’s Thriller (1960–1962), The Outer Limits (1963–1965), Serling’s Night Gallery (1970–1973), The Hitchhiker (1983–1991), Steven Spielberg’s Amazing Stories (1985–1987), The Ray Bradbury Theater (1985–1992), the EC Comics-inspired Tales from the Crypt (1989–1996), Masters of Horror (2005–2007), Black Mirror (2011–present)–surely these are some of the most notable and best-remembered anthology series of all time. 

It’s a format that lends itself particularly well to science fiction, fantasy and horror. I’d speculate that, at least in part, this is due to those genre’s historical origins: they have deep roots in short fiction. Before TV series, before movies, and mostly even before comics, science fiction and horror attained massive popularity through pulp magazines and then radio shows. 

Though each magazine had its signature slant, any issue of Amazing Stories (1926-2021; with gaps) or Weird Tales (1923-2025; with gaps), to name two, was like a mini-anthology unto itself, containing an irresistible (or so the publishers hoped) bevy of authors and ideas. Starting a little later, Astounding Stories/Analog (1930-present), more cerebral and far-out, pulled off the feat again. The Witch’s Tale (1931–1938) pioneered horror anthologies on the radio and established the host-framing device that would often be taken for granted in later iterations; Lights Out (1934–1947) anticipated another major trend, namely horror and supernatural yarns with twist endings; and Suspense (1940–1962) introduced crime and mystery elements, clearly laying the groundwork for Hitchcock’s TV outings.

As anthology shows proliferated on television, they took more chances with their tones and aesthetics. Darkroom (1981–1982), for example, hosted by James Coburn, was an NBC horror/suspense venture that emphasized strong writing above all. The Hitchhiker (1983–1991) geared up the suspense and noir moods. Monsters (1988–1991) did all it could to offset its low budget with its high concepts. Eerie, Indiana (1991–1993), with its quirky suburban spookiness, was clearly designed for younger audiences, while The Hunger (1997–2000)–hosted first by Terence Stamp, then David Bowie–in sync with the changing sensibilities of cable-friendlier times, focused on erotic horror and fantasy. 

Other anthology shows tried to cash in on the popularity of known entities. Hammer House of Horror (1980) and Hammer House of Mystery and Suspense (1984) blended crime, horror, and thriller elements, the first delivering hour-long stories, the second feature-length episodes. Friday the 13th: The Series (1987-1990), rooted in a curious antiques store, bore no connection to the movies. Trying to capitalize on the success of the Elm Street film series, Freddy’s Nightmares (1988–1990) was a direct spin-off hosted by none other than Freddy Krueger himself, while the too-soon cancelled Nightmare Café (1992), featuring, again, Robert Englund, this time as a trickster figure, swiveled the spotlight back to surreal morality plays, as immortalized by The Twilight Zone. Several reboots have also been made, including of The Twilight Zone (no less than three revivals have followed the original), The Outer Limits, and Amazing Stories.

Perhaps one of the more obscure entries in this panopticon of television history is Spicy City (1997), Ralph Bakshi’s animated, adult-oriented cyber-noir anthology. Which, in certain ways, was a short-lived prelude to the show at hand, a series currently boasting four seasons, and which I hope will continue for a long time to come: Love, Death & Robots (2019-present). Its most recent season was released in May 2025, and during its cumulative run it has taken home a host of Emmy Awards.

This animated anthology not only effortlessly toggles between genres, but presents its stories in often radically diverse and eye-catching styles. Often leaning into action, its creative team–originator, showrunner and executive producer Tim Miller, executive producers Joshua Donen, David Fincher, and Jennifer Miller, and supervising director Jennifer Yuh Nelson–taps into the latest possibilities of digital art to channel and remix the spirit of the pulps. It could easily be renamed Monsters, Goons, Robots and Felines. Really, there’s a clowder of cats. 

Collider recently organized a screening of six episodes theatrically, along with free swag and a signing, an event which I hope has attracted new fans and continues to create well-deserved good word of mouth. 

If I had to summarize my thoughts on the show in a single sentence, I’d say it carries on the legacy of The Twilight Zone as if run through a rich multi-cultural storytelling, anarcho-punk blender.

Which is not to say it can’t be poignant or highbrow or more deliberately paced. Part of the series’ appeal is its scope, the endless sense of possibility and ongoing vitalization in its narrative wells. That also means that not every episode will land with every viewer; you may even completely bounce off some. On the positive side, unlike feature films, where you run the same risk, the time commitment here is generally 7 to 15 minutes.

Having recently revisited the entire series, I’ve decided to put together a curated list of ten favorite episodes and two honorable mentions.

Here they are, in the order in which they streamed:

1. Beyond the Aquila Rift (Season 1, episode 7; dir Léon Bérelle, Dominique Boidin, Rémi Kozyra, Maxime Luère), based on a story by Alastair Reynolds

2. Zima Blue (Season 1, episode 14; dir Robert Valley), based on a story by Alastair Reynolds

3. Ice Age (Season 1, episode 16; dir Tim Miller), based on a story by Michael Swanwick

4. Pop Squad (Season 2, episode 3; dir Jennifer Yuh Nelson), based on a story by Paolo Bacigalupi

5. The Drowned Giant (Season 2, episode 8; dir Tim Miller), based on a story by J. G. Ballard

6. The Very Pulse of the Machine (Season 3, episode 3; dir Emily Dean), based on a story by Michael Swanwick 

7. Swarm (Season 3, episode 6; dir Tim Miller), based on a story by Bruce Sterling

8. Mason’s Rats (Season 3, episode 7; dir Carlos Stevens), based on a story by Neal Asher

9. Spider Rose (Season 4, episode 3; dir Jennifer Yuh Nelson), based on a story by Bruce Sterling

10. Smart Appliances, Stupid Owners (Season 4, episode 9; dir Patrick Osborne ), based on a story by John Scalzi

My two bonus picks:

1. Ice (Season 2, episode 2; dir Robert Valley), based on a story by Rich Larson

2. For He Can Creep (Season 4, episode 10; dir Emily Dean), based on a story by Siobhan Carroll

My criteria for these selections are fourfold: story quality, artful marriage of story with animation style, re-watchability, and lastly, the desire for tonal variation, to provide a micro-cosm of the show as a whole.

I didn’t plan it that way, but glancing back at my top 10 compilation, I see a nice spread between all four years. It reflects how consistent the seasons are.

And that range of authors is something to behold. It’s no secret that I’m a tremendous admirer of Michael Swanwick’s work; I dedicated close to two years interviewing Swanwick about his extensive bibliography. That we get to live in a world in which a Netflix series has adapted not one, but two, stories, by this literary master, is something for which we should be grateful. J. G. Ballard is an all-time personal favorite as well, and the adaptation of his mournful tale is exquisitely crafted. Bacigulapi is a short fiction powerhouse, powder-keg and provocateur; fittingly, his episode takes no prisoners. If you’re a genre fan, I don’t need to tell you about Alastair Reynolds, Bruce Sterling, Neal Asher, or John Scalzi. And Rich Larson and Siobhan Carroll are two versatile and expert short fiction practitioners who deserve to be better known by the general public; kudos to Love, Death and Robots for doing its part.

There are other great writers whose tales have been animated, in both senses of the word, by this show. I’ll leave you the fun of discovering them. In “Pop Squad,” Eve tells one Detective Briggs: “I’ve been alive for 218 years. I’ve seen... too much. But she makes everything new. I love seeing things through her little eyes. They’re so bright. They’re so full of life.” As genre aficionados, we may sometimes feel similarly jaded, like we’ve seen too much. That’s one of the reasons good short fiction, regardless of medium, is so important. It gives us fresh eyes, and makes everything new.