Just about everybody is having sex with everybody else: Kings is one giant raging id of a show.

Do Not Disturb is apparently trying for an upstairs/downstairs feel, but it comes across more as above-the-waist/below-the-waist.

A hacky remake of a mediocre 1971 film of a pulp-science 1969 novel, this miniseries (it concludes Tuesday, if you must waste two nights of your life) is a poster child for generational decline: Whatever few IQ points were present in the original have long since leached away.

It's hard to enjoy characters in such dire need of a hard slapping.

Its essential shallowness is on display from the very start, when 11 contestants for a junior editor's job at the fashion magazine Elle are issued their first challenge: Bring the boss breakfast.

If you think "SpongeBob Squarepants" would be funnier if it added a couple of hookers and a cross-dressing junkie, this is the show for you. Everybody else should take a pass.

On Tuesday night, we're going to see if you can get it from television, with three shows that--intentionally or otherwise--document seriously disturbed minds, with results ranging from riveting to revolting. Tending toward the latter is Mental.

Virtually everything in Accidentally on Purpose is some kind of cheap sexual crack or double entendre. The essential sweetness Elfman showed in Dharma & Greg and the later, unfortunately little-watched Courting Alex curdles into mean self-parody as she scorns her new boy-toy as an intellectual and economic inferior even as she grovels before his bedroom skills.

Dismal and disoriented, under-plotted and over-allegorized, the six-hour Prisoner miniseries that debuts on AMC Sunday night is an exercise in full-tilt dramatic tedium that will appall anybody who remembers the original and bewilder anyone who doesn't: What was the big deal about that?

Watching this dismal intragenerational cluster of families is sort of like seeing a Roots for the cannibal gangs in The Road.

Mostly lost in the Technicolor goo of the fabulously exotic mutilations and lacerations is Miami Medical's purported dramatic theme, the psychological toll taken on doctors whose professional diet consists solely of grotesquely lethal cases.

There's an unfortunate whiff of Marie Antoinette about Grammer's breezily ungrounded Hank.

As drama, Memphis Beat is a dreary failure, a formulaic cop show distinguished only by its poor execution.

What it does have is a sleek but shallow cast that cannot lend any weight to the lighter-than-air writing.

Louie is so low-key that it has no discernible pulse. To say it's unfunny is accurate (profoundly so) but also beside the point: It's un-anything.

New Zealand, however, cannot be blamed for The Gates, approximately the 1,712th American television show about vampires.

Plain Jane, The CW's counterfeit ugly-duckling show, is too triflingly stupid to reach Breakthrough's profound depth of awfulness, but give it points for its abject phoniness.

Nonlinear storytelling, with so many flashbacks and flash-forwards and dream sequences that pretty soon you can't even remember the last time you saw a naked chick bobbing around the cabin. My advice: Rent Barbarella instead.

Turgid and plodding, Rubicon has the pace of an industrial-training film and the lucidity of a Czech art movie with the subtitles turned off. It would have to triple its pulse to rise to the level of lethargy.

The new version, with Jonathan Sadowski as Shatner's estranged son seeking to establish a relationship, feels less like a Twitter feed and more like an actual television show--but not a good television show.

Rigidly formulaic drama is almost always a bad idea, and in this case it's, well, criminal. Neither Maura Tierney as the prosecutor nor Rob Morrow as the defense attorney get enough screen time to develop their characters past the cardboard stage.

Ken Kwapis, who developed Outsourced for TV, had nothing to do with the movie. And in his hands, the film's charm has curdled into caricature. All the Indians are dysfunctional weirdos, incapable of even simple social interactions.

Mostly I winced: at the irritatingly arch dialogue; at the hoochielicious every-other-scene dance routines; at Michalka's acting range, which seems to have just two settings--smug and self-righteous.

What Fox programmers failed to notice was that their new show was peopled entirely with unpleasant characters working from a 100-percent laugh-free script. Watching Running Wilde, you can actually feel your eyes and ears disconnecting as they go off in search of some way to amuse themselves.

The aggressive fakery of School Pride makes it unfortunately difficult to believe when the show throws some unexpected punches.

The show's pea-brain sociology is eclipsed only by its Dadaesque conception of courtroom drama.

Syfy's show relies a lot more on dripping fangs and never speaks in a whisper when a bellow will do--even the simplest conversations are conducted with the neurotic intensity of a bad soap opera. Simply put, this Being Human lacks any human warmth.

Every attempt at treating a Big Idea seems sophomoric and irritating. Even in its look, the show lacks the elemental rawness necessary to throw its intellectual conflicts into sharp relief.