It is 2026, and we are still talking about a cartoon horse from a decade ago. That’s because the first season of BoJack Horseman is a bit of a trick. You start it expecting Family Guy with a coat of paint—animal puns, cutaway gags, maybe some light Hollywood satire—but by the time you hit the halfway point, the floor drops out.
Honestly, it’s a miracle the show survived its first few episodes. Most critics at the time, notably from The A.V. Club and IndieWire, originally gave it mediocre reviews because they only watched the first six episodes. They missed the pivot. They missed the moment when BoJack Horseman season 1 stopped being a sitcom and started being a character study about generational trauma and the crushing weight of mediocrity.
If you haven’t revisited it lately, you’ve probably forgotten how abrasive it feels at the start.
The Trouble With Being a 90s Relic
The premise is deceptively simple. BoJack is a washed-up sitcom star living in a literal and figurative Hollywoo (the 'D' gets stolen early on, remember?) who hasn't worked since his hit show Horsin' Around ended in 1996. He’s rich, he’s miserable, and he’s trying to write a memoir to prove he still matters.
Enter Diane Nguyen.
She’s the ghostwriter hired to save his public image. Diane is the audience surrogate, but she’s also the catalyst for the show's most uncomfortable truths. She doesn't just write down BoJack’s anecdotes; she sees through them. The early episodes lean heavily on BoJack’s roommate, Todd Chavez—voiced by Aaron Paul—and his agent/ex-girlfriend Princess Carolyn. On the surface, it looks like a standard ensemble.
But it’s not.
The first few episodes, like "BoJack Hates the Troops," feel a little too much like the edgy adult animation of its era. It’s loud. It’s cynical. Then, you get to episode 7, "Say Anything." That’s when the show reveals its teeth. We follow Princess Carolyn through a day of professional wins and personal devastation, ending with her staring out a window at her phone wishing her a happy birthday. It was the first sign that this show cared more about the inner lives of its characters than the jokes.
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BoJack Horseman Season 1 and the Architecture of Melancholy
Most TV shows about "bad men" try to make them cool. Think Don Draper or Tony Soprano. BoJack isn't cool. He’s pathetic.
Throughout BoJack Horseman season 1, creator Raphael Bob-Waksberg dismantles the "lovable rogue" trope. BoJack does terrible things—he tries to sabotage Todd’s rock opera because he’s afraid of being alone, he poisons his friendship with Herb Kazzaz, and he desperately seeks validation from everyone except the people who actually care about him.
The "The Telescope" is arguably the most important episode of the season. BoJack travels to visit Herb, his former best friend who was fired from Horsin' Around during the height of its success because he was gay. BoJack didn't stand up for him. Decades later, Herb is dying of cancer, and BoJack wants closure.
In any other show, Herb would forgive him. They’d hug. The music would swell.
Instead, Herb tells him: "I'm not gonna give you closure. You have to live with the shitty thing you did for the rest of your life."
That is the moment the show's DNA changed. It told the audience that sometimes, there is no redemption. There is just the "after." It forced viewers to look at a horse and see their own worst impulses reflected back in high-definition ink.
Why We Still Get the Tone Wrong
People often remember the show as being "the depression show." While that’s true, the first season is actually a masterclass in absurdist world-building. Lisa Hanawalt’s production design is doing a lot of heavy lifting here. The fact that a penguin (Pinky) works at a failing publishing house because he’s literally a penguin (and penguins are "cold"?) is the kind of background gag that keeps the show from becoming a total dirge.
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The contrast is the point.
You have Mr. Peanutbutter, a yellow Labrador who is BoJack’s foil. He’s happy. He’s successful. He’s also kind of an idiot. But is he? Season 1 suggests that Mr. Peanutbutter’s "nihilistic optimism"—the idea that the world is meaningless, so you might as well be happy—is a more functional way to live than BoJack’s "nihilistic despair."
This creates a weird friction. You’re laughing at a gag about a navy seal who is an actual seal, and two minutes later, you’re watching a character grapple with the fact that they are fundamentally "broken."
The Diane Nguyen Factor
Diane is the most polarizing character for a reason. In season 1, she represents the "nice girl" who thinks she can fix things. Her relationship with Mr. Peanutbutter is the perfect B-plot to BoJack’s spiral. They get engaged, they get married, and through BoJack’s eyes, it looks like a betrayal.
But look closer.
Diane isn't "the one who got away." She’s just as lost as BoJack is, she just has better social filters. When she finally publishes the book—One Trick Pony—it isn't the puff piece BoJack wanted. It’s the truth. And BoJack hates her for it because he realizes that if people see the "real" him and still don't like him, he has nowhere left to go.
Factual Nuance: The Pilot vs. The Finale
There’s a massive jump in quality from the pilot to "Downer Ending." If you’re rewatching, pay attention to the drug-fueled hallucination sequence in episode 11. It uses a different animation style, it’s surreal, and it’s deeply disturbing. It was the first time a mainstream animated sitcom used the medium to depict a mental breakdown with such accuracy.
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It wasn't just "trippy." It was honest.
The season ends not with a bang, but with a quiet conversation on a roof. BoJack asks Diane if it’s too late for him. If he’s a good person "deep down."
Diane’s answer is the thesis of the entire series: "I don't think I believe in 'deep down.' I think that all you are is just the things that you do."
How to Approach a Rewatch Today
If you’re diving back into BoJack Horseman season 1, don’t rush the first half. The "bad" episodes—the ones that feel like standard sitcoms—are necessary. They build the status quo that the second half of the season systematically destroys.
- Watch for the background art: The puns on the grocery store shelves and the animal-specific architecture tell a story about a world that is trying very hard to be normal despite the absurdity.
- Track Herb Kazzaz: His shadow looms over the entire season. Every time BoJack mentions "the good old days," remember that those days were built on a betrayal.
- Ignore the "it gets better" crowd: Enjoy the discomfort of the early episodes. It makes the payoff in "The Telescope" and "Downer Ending" feel earned.
The reality of BoJack Horseman is that it’s not a show about a horse. It’s a show about the terrifying possibility that we might never change. Season 1 sets the stakes. It tells us that being "famous" or "rich" or "talented" won't save you from yourself.
Next Steps for the Viewer
To truly appreciate the evolution of the series, watch the pilot and then immediately jump to episode 8, "The Telescope." Notice the shift in color palette and the way the characters stand in relation to each other. Once you see the tonal shift, go back and watch the episodes in between. You'll realize the "jokes" were actually warning signs for the breakdown that was coming.
Check your local streaming listings or physical media collections—this is a show that rewards high-bitrate viewing because of the sheer density of the visual gags. Don't just have it on in the background. Put your phone away. The show is looking at you; you should look back.