The Reboot Graveyard: Ranking TV's Most Shameless Cash-Grab Comebacks From 'Unnecessary' to 'Actual Crime'

The Reboot Graveyard: Ranking TV's Most Shameless Cash-Grab Comebacks From 'Unnecessary' to 'Actual Crime'

Somewhere in a glass-walled conference room in Burbank, a television executive is staring at a whiteboard covered in IP titles from the 1990s and asking the only question that matters to them: Can we monetize the nostalgia? The answer, apparently, is always yes. The answer is always yes because we keep paying for it, and the streaming wars have made every dusty franchise look like buried treasure.

Welcome to the reboot era, where originality goes to die and your childhood is a licensing opportunity.

We've assembled a definitive ranking of the most gratuitous, least-requested TV reboots of the past decade, scored on two critical metrics:

• The Childhood Betrayal Index (CBI): How thoroughly did this reboot desecrate your memories on a scale of 1 to 10?
• Original Cast Dignity Score (OCDS): What percentage of the original cast was apparently too busy — or too self-aware — to return?

Let's get into it.

Tier One: "Did Anyone Actually Ask For This?" (The Merely Unnecessary)

iCarly (Paramount+, 2021)

Look, iCarly was a perfectly charming Nickelodeon show about teenagers making internet videos. It did not need to return as an adult comedy about those same characters navigating modern life, but here we are. The reboot is not bad, exactly — it's just deeply, specifically unnecessary in the way that reheated pizza is technically still pizza. The original cast came back, which should count for something, but the absence of Dan Schneider (complicated reasons, Google it) and the general vibe of "what if the characters you loved as a kid had adult problems you don't care about" makes this feel like fan fiction that got a budget.

CBI: 4/10 — It didn't ruin anything. It just exists, faintly, like a mild draft. OCDS: 15% — Most people showed up. Jennette McCurdy famously did not, which she has explained at length and we fully support.

Saved by the Bell (Peacock, 2020)

Peacock launched with this and it told you everything you needed to know about Peacock. The reboot is self-aware, occasionally funny, and makes jokes about the original show's absurdity, which is either clever or deeply cowardly depending on your tolerance for meta-humor. Mario Lopez and Elizabeth Berkley returned, which is charming. The show was cancelled after two seasons, which is also charming, in a different way.

CBI: 5/10 — It tried to make fun of itself before you could, which is technically a defense mechanism. OCDS: 60% — Dustin Diamond passed away in 2021, and several original cast members declined to commit fully. Make of that what you will.

Tier Two: "Okay But WHY" (The Actively Questionable)

Gossip Girl (HBO Max, 2021)

The original Gossip Girl was gloriously trashy in a very specific, very 2007 way. It knew exactly what it was. The reboot arrived on HBO Max with a new cast, a new setting, and the inexplicable decision to reveal who Gossip Girl was in the first episode, which is the storytelling equivalent of telling someone the ending of a mystery novel before they've opened it. The show also tried to make social commentary about wealth inequality while still making wealthy people look incredibly cool, which is a contradiction it never resolved across its entire run.

CBI: 6/10 — The original wasn't high art, but it had an identity. This had a mood board. OCDS: 85% — Blake Lively, Penn Badgley, and Leighton Meester all had better things to do, and they were right.

Queer Eye for the Straight Guy → Queer Eye (Netflix, 2018)

Okay, this one is controversial to include because the Netflix version is genuinely lovely and the Fab Five are national treasures. But let's be honest: this reboot succeeded not because it was a reboot but despite it. It worked because Netflix threw resources at it and the cast had incredible chemistry. The original property was essentially just a brand name attached to something entirely new. That's not a reboot. That's a franchise purchase. We're calling it out.

CBI: 2/10 — It didn't betray anything. It just borrowed a name. OCDS: 100% — The original cast was not invited, which is either ruthless or merciful.

Tier Three: "Someone Should Be Held Accountable" (The Genuinely Offensive)

That '90s Show (Netflix, 2023)

That '70s Show was a cultural institution. It launched careers. It gave us Eric Forman's basement, Hyde's conspiracy theories, and Kelso's cheekbones. It deserved a better legacy than That '90s Show, which exists primarily to prove that nostalgia, when weaponized without craft, produces something that feels like a TV show described to you by someone who once watched TV. The returning original cast members look mildly uncomfortable throughout, like they're attending a reunion they didn't fully RSVP to.

CBI: 8/10 — It didn't just miss the point. It found the point, waved at it from a distance, and walked in the opposite direction. OCDS: 40% — Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher showed up briefly, which tracks given their current life situation. Topher Grace had the good sense to appear in exactly enough scenes to honor his contract and no more.

Sex and the City → And Just Like That... (HBO Max, 2021)

This one requires a moment of silence before we begin. Sex and the City was a show that meant something to a generation of viewers. It was messy and dated and problematic in ways that became clearer over time, but it had a voice. And Just Like That... took that voice, put it in a blender with a think-piece about performative allyship, added Che Diaz, and pressed puree. The show's handling of Mr. Big in the first episode alone generated more genuine grief and outrage than most actual tragedies. Kim Cattrall's continued absence speaks volumes — specifically, it speaks the volume of a woman who looked at the script and said "absolutely not."

CBI: 10/10 — A perfect, flawless betrayal. A masterclass in how to take something people loved and make them question whether they ever loved it at all. OCDS: 25% — Kim Cattrall is thriving elsewhere. We are happy for her.

The Uncomfortable Conclusion

Here's the thing about the reboot machine that nobody in those glass-walled Burbank conference rooms wants to say out loud: it works because we are, as a culture, absolutely terrified of new things. Streaming platforms bet on known quantities because known quantities have built-in audiences, and built-in audiences mean subscriber retention, and subscriber retention means the quarterly numbers look fine.

Original content is a gamble. Stranger Things was a gamble. Schitt's Creek was a gamble. Every show that became a genuine cultural phenomenon was, at some point, a gamble that someone took on something new.

Every reboot is the opposite of that. Every reboot is a studio saying, quietly and with great confidence, that they do not believe in their own ability to make you care about something you've never seen before.

So the next time you click on a reboot out of muscle memory and mild curiosity, just know: you're not watching television. You're watching a corporation process your nostalgia for profit.

But honestly? If Firefly ever gets a proper continuation, we reserve the right to lose our minds about it. We contain multitudes.