Honestly, it’s still weird that a show about a talking horse is the most human thing ever put on television. You’ve probably seen the memes. You know the ones—the silhouette of a horse-man staring at a sunset, looking like he’s just realized he’s the architect of his own misery. When the BoJack Horseman tv series first dropped on Netflix back in 2014, critics weren't sure what to do with it. The first few episodes felt like a weird, pun-heavy satire of Hollywood (or "Hollywoo"). People expected another Family Guy clone with more horse puns.
They were wrong.
By the time the first season ended, we weren't laughing at the puns anymore. We were staring at the ceiling, wondering if we, too, were fundamentally "broken" people. The show became a six-season autopsy of the human (and animal) condition. It tackled depression, generational trauma, and the toxic cycle of celebrity with a precision that live-action dramas usually fail to hit. It’s been years since the finale, but we’re still talking about it. Why? Because it didn't give us the easy out. It didn't let BoJack—or us—off the hook.
The "Honeydew" of Television: Why the Early Episodes Throw People Off
If you're trying to get a friend into the BoJack Horseman tv series, you usually have to give them a disclaimer. "Just get past the first six episodes," you'll say. It's the TV equivalent of eating honeydew in a fruit salad. You endure it to get to the cantaloupe and the grapes.
The show starts as a fairly standard adult animation. BoJack is a washed-up 90s sitcom star living in a booze-soaked mansion. He’s mean to his roommate Todd. He’s obsessed with his old show, Horsin' Around. But then, "The Telescope" happens in episode eight. We see BoJack try to make amends with Herb Kazzaz, the friend he betrayed decades ago. In any other show, Herb would forgive him. They’d hug. The credits would roll.
Herb doesn't forgive him.
"I'm not gonna give you that," Herb says. It’s a gut-punch. That moment redefined what the show was. It wasn't about redemption; it was about the consequences of living a life where you prioritize your own ego over everyone else. Raphael Bob-Waksberg, the show's creator, realized early on that the funniest thing about a talking horse isn't the horse—it's the crushing weight of his reality.
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Exploring the Anatomy of a Self-Saboteur
BoJack isn't just a "bad guy." That’s too simple. He’s a deeply traumatized individual who uses his trauma as a shield to justify hurting others. The show dives deep into his childhood with Beatrice and Butterscotch Horseman. We see the cycle. We see how a mother who was told she "ruined" her own mother's life grows up to tell her son the same thing.
The episode "Free Churro" is literally just a twenty-minute eulogy. One long monologue. No cutaways. No B-plots. It’s BoJack talking to a casket, trying to find a "point" to a relationship that was nothing but coldness and neglect. It’s a masterclass in writing. Most shows would be afraid to take that risk. They’d worry the audience would get bored. But BoJack knew that the dialogue was the action.
The Supporting Cast Isn't Just Support
While the show is named after him, the surrounding characters are where the real nuance lives.
- Diane Nguyen: She’s the mirror. Diane represents the struggle of wanting to be a "good person" and realizing that "goodness" isn't a destination. Her arc in the final season—moving to Chicago, dealing with depression, and accepting that her "trauma" doesn't have to be "productive"—is perhaps the healthiest portrayal of mental health recovery ever filmed.
- Princess Carolyn: The ultimate workaholic. She uses "fixing" other people's lives to avoid the emptiness in her own. Her internal monologue episode, "Ruthie," where she imagines a distant descendant telling her story to get through a devastating day, is a brutal look at how we lie to ourselves to survive.
- Todd Chavez: He started as the comic relief. He ended up as an asexual icon and a reminder that you can be happy without being "successful" in the traditional sense.
Does BoJack Horseman Actually Get Better?
This is the big question fans argue about in Reddit threads and bars. Did he change?
The finale, "Nice While It Lasted," suggests that "getting better" isn't a binary state. You don't just wake up one day and you're "fixed." You just keep doing the work. The show avoids the "redemption arc" trope. BoJack goes to prison. He loses his reputation. He loses his friendship with Diane.
It’s realistic. Sometimes you hurt people so badly that they shouldn't have you in their lives anymore, even if you’ve changed. The final conversation between BoJack and Diane on the roof is quiet. It’s awkward. It’s the sound of two people who meant everything to each other realizing they have nothing left to say.
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"Life's a bitch and then you die, right?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes life's a bitch and then you keep living."
That line captures the entire philosophy of the BoJack Horseman tv series. It’s not about the end. It’s about the "keep living" part.
Why the Animation Style Matters
Lisa Hanawalt’s art direction is the secret sauce here. If this were live-action, it would be too depressing to watch. The vibrant colors and the background gags—like a bird paparazzi flying or a sheep being shorn at a hair salon—provide the necessary "sugar" to help the medicine go down.
The show uses its medium to do things live-action can't. Think about "Fish Out of Water." A nearly silent episode set underwater. It’s beautiful, tragic, and relies entirely on visual storytelling. Or "The View from Halfway Down," which takes place inside BoJack’s dying brain. The ink dripping from the ceiling, the terrifying door to nothingness, the frantic dinner party with everyone he’s lost... it’s pure psychological horror. You can't do that with actors in a room. You need the freedom of animation to visualize the abstract feeling of a panic attack or a fading memory.
Correcting the Misconception: It’s Not Just for "Sad People"
There’s this weird reputation that the show is only for people going through a mid-life crisis. That’s a narrow way to look at it. Honestly, it’s a show for anyone who has ever felt like they were performing a version of themselves.
It’s a business satire. It’s a feminist critique. It’s a goofy slapstick comedy about a golden retriever (Mr. Peanutbutter) who accidentally becomes a regional governor. The show is hilarious. The wordplay is so dense you have to watch episodes three times to catch every joke on a store sign or a t-shirt.
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The complexity is the point. Life is funny and devastating at the exact same time. You can be at a funeral and still find a way to make a stupid pun about a churro.
Practical Takeaways for Your Next Rewatch
If you’re diving back into the BoJack Horseman tv series or watching for the first time, keep an eye on the background. The world-building is insane.
- Notice the art: Every painting in BoJack’s house is a parody of a real-world masterpiece (like the David Hockney horse version). It reflects his vanity.
- Follow the animal traits: The writers use animal instincts to explain human behavior. Mr. Peanutbutter isn't just "happy"; he’s a dog. He’s loyal to a fault and easily distracted.
- Watch the outfits: Characters' clothes change as they evolve. Diane’s transition from her signature jacket to her "Chicago" look is a subtle indicator of her shifting identity.
Moving Forward After the Finale
The best way to engage with the show today is to look at its legacy in the "sadcom" genre. It paved the way for shows like Fleabag or Barry—series that refuse to stay in one lane.
If you've finished the show and feel that "BoJack hole" in your chest, don't just look for another cartoon. Look for stories that challenge your perspective on accountability. Read The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus; the show is basically a giant, colorful retelling of the idea that we must imagine Sisyphus happy while he rolls his rock.
Go back and watch "The View from Halfway Down" once more. Listen to the poem. It’s a stark reminder that even when things feel irredeemable, the "view from halfway down" changes everything. It’s a plea for life. For a show that spent years wallowing in darkness, its final message was surprisingly, quietly, hopeful: You can always try to be better tomorrow, as long as you're still here to see the morning.
Stop looking for a "grand gesture" to fix your life. Just focus on the next right thing. That’s the most BoJack lesson of all.
Next Steps for Fans:
- Check out Raphael Bob-Waksberg’s book of short stories, Someone Who Will Love You in All Your Damaged Glory, for more of that specific tonal mix of weirdness and heart.
- Explore Lisa Hanawalt’s Tuca & Bertie if you want to see how the animation style evolved into a different kind of character study.
- Revisit the Season 4 episode "Old Sugarman Place" to see how the show uses split-screen timelines to illustrate how the past never truly leaves us.