The most interesting thing about Killing Lincoln, in fact, is how it can be so tepidly uninteresting.

Some of the bits are awfully predictable, like tough-guy Sands mellowing into a big-brother type for a young street punk who (amazing coincidence alert) has a hottie older sister. Others are more interesting, particularly a debate between Goldberg and Marte over whether warring on drugs makes any sense.

The show's intricate plotting and finely rendered characters will engage your brain, but there's plenty of below-the-shoulders action, too.

Monstrously misconceived and incompetently executed, powered by a high-octane blend of arrogance and contempt, The Newsroom is an epochal failure, a program destined for television's all-time What Were They Thinking? list. Not since NASA's first Vanguard rocket blew up on its launch pad in 1957 will Americans have seen anything crash and burn on television with such hellish spectacularity.

Carrie's antics in New York are a kind of chick version of Matthew Broderick's madcap adventures in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. But Schwartz can't cut the umbilical cord--perhaps fallopian tube is a more apt metaphor--to his original source material, and that's where The Carrie Diaries goes off the rails.

Actually the dimly befuddled Cleveland works pretty well as a foil to the collection of redneck psycho neighbors, oversexed stepchildren and Russian bears (don't ask) who make up the cast.

Half the fun in this outlandishly funny sitcom is that Penny is so spacey that she doesn't appear to recognize what hard-core nerds Leonard and Sheldon really are--even the presence in their bathroom of Luke Skywalker No-More-Tears Shampoo doesn't tip her off.

The CW, having exhausted every bit of its creative energy on The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll, is now simply remaking Fox's old prime-time soap lineup one by one. And the garden apartment complex at No. 4616, though filled with a new collection of 20-something drama queens, is the same vortex of hyperkinetic hormones, ambition and criminality that it always was.

This is sporadically funny, but Tim is too slight -- the back-to-back episodes are only 10 to 12 minutes long -- and relies way too much on the supposed shock value of cartoon characters uttering four-letter words to be consistently entertaining.

Intelligent and entertaining reimaginations of stupefyingly bad pieces of 1970s sci-fi hackwork.

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.

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

The show is kind of amusing, at least in a summer-TV sort of way.

Watching her construct a self from a handful of jagged fragments is a seductive pleasure.

Charmless and predictable, Scoundrels seems like a tepid rehash of The Riches, a lively and thoughtful FX show about a family of gypsy thieves trying to go straight that was done in by the 2008 television strike.

The sordid ugliness that festers inside Magic City's voluptuously beautiful wrappings makes irresistible television.

An absurd fairy tale.

Secret Circle is competently performed and produced and liable to entertain anybody not old enough to remember Alyssa Milano and Shannen Doherty doing pretty much the same stuff in Charmed back in the 20th-century day.

The show's witty, inventive writing would be fun even in the hands of a less capable cast.

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.

As funny as 1600 Penn can be, after a while the laughs grow fewer and further between. And the misfires are more frequent and painful.

The show shrewdly offers more than a monster of the week, with some absorbing subplots that continue from week to week.

A little old-fashioned police brutality may seem downright appealing compared to the pseudointellectual runamok of CBS' cop drama Eleventh Hour, in which British actor Rufus Sewell plays a scientist who has regrettably turned his genius to fighting crime

Watching Crystal fire off demands to Ben while working out on a treadmill wearing high heels and a business suit is wondrously, bizarrely funny. If Mr. Sunshine can relocate moments like that from the show's periphery to its center, it may stick around for a while.

As a reality show, Miracle Workers is unique: It is neither Machiavellian like Survivor, nor messianic, like Three Wishes, nor grotesque, like Fear Factor. It's as serious as life and death.

Welcome to the tawdry, tantalizing and altogether terrific world of Gossip Girl.

The testosterone-infused interplay as they taunt each other over career potholes, curdled marriages and sexual depravities and deprivations is scathing and hilarious, though an astonishing percentage of it cannot even be alluded to here.

The result is compulsively watchable pulp, provided you have a high threshold for decapitations and copulations, sometimes simultaneous.

What would otherwise be a tedious collection of working-mom and lawyer-show clichés is saved by an excellent cast.

Six Degrees starts off almost as an anthology series, with six stories set in six different worlds, each one quite interesting. But as their orbits draw closer, interest rapidly morphs into fascination.

Equal parts sly and stupid, rousing and ridiculous.

Give it credit for consistency: a bad concept, badly written for bad actors.

Fillion and Katic occasionally seem a little too self-conscious--a little smirk goes a long way--but ultimately the characters are too appealing to resist.

Everybody in Brothers is funny, but the unquestioned star of the show is Pounder, a rapturous mix of menace and guile in the struggle to keep her men in line.

As a cop drama, Haven--marred by busy and blurry story lines--is barely competent. But as a narrative of eccentric, slightly damaged yet ultimately warm characters, it's quite successful. The deadpan my-badge-is-bigger-than-yours needling between Rose and Bryant is particularly engaging.

Rather than suspense, Happy Town appears to be going for the goofball irony of its ABC ancestor Twin Peaks.

This is an intriguing blend of The Fugitive and The O.C.: half suspense and half intergenerational melodrama.

A purported sitcom, it draws no laughs... but does manage the impressive achievement of making Stockard Channing and Henry Winkler, playing Gorham's parents, thoroughly unlikable.

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.

Cupid, like most romantic comedies, can be sappy, sloppy and schemingly manipulative. But the bright writing (no surprise to anyone who watched Thomas' snappy teen-detective drama "Veronica Mars") and affecting performances by Cannavale and Paulson make being manipulated seem a guilty pleasure in this case.

With enough intrigue for a spy thriller and enough careening car chases to satisfy the most deranged Fast and Furious cultists, it's an action series that engages your brain as well as your clutch foot.

McKidd and castmates Gretchen Egolf as his wife Katie; Reed Diamond as his brother Jack, a cop who used to date Katie; and Moon Bloodgood as his spectral fiance, Livia, play this with just the right mix of credulity and dry wit.

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

The Beast is singularly unimaginative, a collection of set-pieces barely bound together by a narrative thread, substituting attitude for substance and coyness for coherence.

An abysmally dumb plot peopled with some of the most irritating characters in the history of television.

It's funny and smart, with affably quirky characters who aren't cut from cardboard.

Highly entertaining.

At least Azaria and Hahn do have an uncertain chemistry that might have developed into something watchable had the producers not decided to provide it with a Greek chorus of locker-room cracks by loutish co-workers.

With so many different directors and writers involved, it's always hard to judge where anthology series may be going. But the first two episodes of Fear Itself are good, goosebumpy fun, with the deft set-ups, rousing action and surprise endings of a comic book.

The jibes quickly wear thin and predictable, and there's simply not much to Help Me Help You.

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.

It is relentless and ultimately meretricious in skewing history to its conceit that the United States is a murderous war machine destroying everything in its path to empire.

A dumb but powerful serialized mystery that has an equal shot at being the season's biggest cult hit and its most mind-boggling flop.

No surprises here, unless Shannen Doherty oozes out of one of the petri dishes. [23 Sept 2003, p.4E]

If you can ignore stuff like the impossibly clean subways and the fact that the cops call one another ''constable'' with straight faces, Flashpoint is actually rather formulaic.

No, it's not Twilight--but it's not bad, either. The Vampire Diaries, The CW's new fang-gang drama, successfully hitches the sanguinary sexuality of the vampire ethos to the in-group/out-group dynamic of the teen soap.

Much edgier in confronting issues of class and ethnicity. But it never loses its sense of humor. [19 Sept 2002]

Welcome to The Captain is less a TV show than a grim ransom note from the striking Hollywood writers.

After a few minutes in front of ABC's bewildering sorcery drama Eastwick, you may wish that Bewitched's Samantha would twitch her nose and make the whole thing disappear.

Cougar Town (which doesn't debut until Wednesday, but I wanted to give you time to disconnect your TV set) is downright unwatchable, an agonizingly unfunny gutter-ball that will almost certainly be the first of the new season's shows to be canceled.

The sheer power of these stories carries The Kennedys even during the occasional stumbles that result from trying to pack 40 years of history into five and a half hours of programming.

Sharply written and acted.

With a gorgeous cast (even -- especially? -- the dead ones), plenty of cool slow-mo martial arts action, a glorious collection of lethal hardware and an intriguing plot, Blade's got something for the whole family, provided they rank somewhere between the Munsters and the Mansons in sensibility.

More often, though, the laughs range from tepid to nonexistent.

It's really one lonnnnng sex joke. That said, some of the punch lines are pretty funny.

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.

Kelley's compulsive fascination with erratic eroticism turns everything in Swingtown into hypersexualized sleaze.

None of them is very interesting, and it's actually kind of hard to tell them apart.

It also helps that Heather Graham as Emily is so appealing that it often distracts from the fanciful idiocy of what she's saying or doing.

Oprah's Big Give is no mere appallingly bad television show but a refutation of human decency itself.

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.

What it isn't is very dramatic. If watching attorneys haggle like rug traders was all that interesting, Feige probably would still be doing it. Nonetheless, there are worse ways to spend an hour than watching Raising the Bar, especially since the cast members are all quite pretty.

Kolchak's ridiculously precious writing is not the only thing that rings false about Night Stalker.

As assembly-line products go, Three Rivers isn't half bad.

It's an interesting approach, but despite well-drawn characters and the strong cast, there's a sense that the show is trapped in amber, a perfectly preserved relic from another age.

It’s entertaining and engrossing.

It's more like M*A*S*H* for the four-legged, a subversive and perversely funny workplace comedy.

Blond toughie Kelli Giddish (Past Life) is fun to watch as the lead marshal, provided you don't have an excessively ACLUish temperament.

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

It's funny and warm and I dare you to watch it without getting your pants charmed off.

Watching Logan hand small children assault rifles for inspection will no doubt amuse gun nuts and enrage anti-gun nuts. And both camps are likely to blink at one of the (surprisingly numerous) female customers who--jokingly asked if she's carrying a weapon--whips out three concealed knives.

With tepid performances and a lifeless script, Bag of Bones feels like more of a chore than a television viewing experience.

What might have otherwise been a worthy effort seems pallid and wheezing compared to the acid-etched Nurse Jackie.

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

A show with the twin themes that life is high school and the past cannot be escaped sounds inordinately depressing, but the writing and performances on Emily rise far above the apparent limitations.

Valentine in small doses can be goofy good fun, and there are enough hot bods--including Autumn Reeser of The O.C. as the Oracle of Delphi's handmaiden, Kristoffer Polaha (Mad Men) as Eros and Robert Baker (Leatherheads) as Hercules--to soothe even the deepest political paranoia.

Watching Cult is like trying to read a Kafka novel in Sanskrit. When you’re blind. And drunk.

Vulgarian avarice, unfortunately, is one of the high points of Shedding For The Wedding. Far more disconcerting is the number of couples who say they want to lose weight because sex between fat people is--well, let's spare the details and just say "yucky."

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.

An intriguing crime drama.

An exercise in moronity.

If you were reduced to hysterical laughter by the concept of herbal breast-enlargement cream in the film, you will likely be so again by the superpower-conveying acne medicine in the TV show. If not, well, welcome to Normal Town.

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?

Sadly truncated.

As a kind of CSI: Sleaze City, the show is quite watchable.

This kind of comedy only stands a dim ghost of a chance if it has a lot of gratuitous nudity and substance abuse, along with the words ''National Lampoon'' in the title.

Fans of Grey's Anatomy femme fatale Addison Montgomery may find her a little dull now that she doesn't have a husband or boyfriend or intern to cheat on or with in ABC's spin-off Private Practice.

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

Where The Sopranos slices and dices American culture from a thousand different angles and The Brotherhood explores the shadowy nexus between crime and politics, The Black Donnellys sticks mainly to the vices, virtues and vicissitudes of family.

A soapy delight of hard bodies and dirty doings.

The Loop's constant jokes about hot bodies and alcoholic excess would doubtless wear thin very quickly if not for a lunatic cast of young unknowns and gifted veteran character actors.

With the pace of a music video, the characterizations of a comic book and the political-correctness quotient of a Berkeley vegetarian commune this production makes Cecil B. DeMille look like a sober theologian.

Crumbs' approach to the foibles of the family, though not for the tender-hearted, is raucously funny.

It just substitutes South Africa for "Everwood's" Colorado, trite idiocy for "Everwood's" sharp dialogue, and a game of blind-man's-bluff for "Everwood's" casting director--actress Leah Pipes, who looks 25 and sounds 30, is the least convincing teenager since Stockard Channing staved off menopause in "Grease."

Smutty at its best, downright creepy at its worst, this dreadful attempt to mock the coming-of-age genre could well be the first TV show to get an entire day of the week canceled.

Chemistry is just one of the ingredients lacking in the Canadian-made The Listener, NBC's new drama about a psychic paramedic. Others include but are not limited to plot, dialogue and acting skill.

The Cho Show is the television equivalent of anti-matter: no scripts, no punch lines, just Cho hanging out with her self-consciously weird entourage. What a waste of one of the most scandalously funny comedians in America!

The relatively no-name cast (which includes Craig Bierko as a recently dumped financial planner, Rashida Jones as a divorce lawyer better at managing breakups than relationships, and Johnny Sneed as a three-time-loser party boy) is excellent, and the goofball writing hilarious.... But this is buyer-beware territory, with something to offend practically everybody whose age or IQ exceeds 16.

Anger Management is kind of a mirror image of Sheen: scabrously, outrageously funny at times and monotonously one-note at others.

A gaspingly funny show that you ought to watch early and often.

There's nothing really wrong with the show, at least nothing you can easily put your finger on. It just lacks that elusive but absolutely necessary spark of life that turns a stack of script pages and publicity stills into something that will stop you from clicking the remote.

Funny and talented, she [Rachel Bilson] tries painfully hard to make the show work and occasionally comes close to overcoming some of the worst writing since Gutenberg invented movable type.

Yet another doomed and dreadful attempt to bring improv comedy to television.

Made in Jersey is only sporadically engaging.

Americans in their 20s have few good-time memories in their young-adult lives. If they can be coaxed away from their computers to the television screen, they may find themselves bonding with the characters of the well-acted and intelligently written My Generation.

It is uniquely stupid, profoundly stupid, an ecstatic nirvana of stupidity, a stupidity that defies all previous boundaries of time and space.

Staleness, however, ranks as a virtue in Sit Down, Shut Up, for the show's token stabs at topicality are truly appalling.

CBS' crummiest imitation of CSI yet.

How to be a Gentleman has some sharp writing, good byplay between the stars and a fair number of laughs.

Devlin's complex relationship with the gangsters is what elevates The Mob Doctor into something a cut or two above a Grey's Anatomy rip-off.

Easily the worst of the bunch--in fact, there's a good argument to be made that it's one of the most atrocious TV shows of all time--is NBC's Breakthrough with Tony Robbins.

With a charming and funny cast, there's lots to like about What I Like About You. [19 Sept 2002]

In short, The Neighbors closely resembles the old Conehead sketches from the early days of Saturday Night Live.

The Beautiful Life, in short, is hopelessly trashy melodrama about hopelessly trashy people. But Paxton, as a tougher-than-she-looks kid with a dark past, and Hollingsworth, as a callow Iowa farmboy trying to make it in the big city, are so unexpectedly affecting that you may find yourself sucked into the show against your will.

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.

If Ozzie and Harriet, the original sitcom mom and dad, might have some trouble recognizing themselves in any of this, surely Houlihan, the bullied boy-toy nurse of M*A*S*H, will raise a clenched fist of solidarity with the hardbitten Iraq war veteran Veronica Callahan of Mercy.

Even if you buy the premise that 2012 Nashville is a redneck hellhole barely familiar with indoor plumbing (big laugh in episode one: Reba meets her first gay person!), the show's performances and punchlines mostly fall flat.

The Real Housewives Of Miami is even more egregiously fake than the average reality show, so much so that the producers haven't even bothered to remove bloopers in which cast members forget what day it's supposed to be.

Just think of all the stolen ideas as a public works program for Hollywood lawyers and stick to the action on-screen, which is quite entertaining.

Nobody is quite what they seem in this show, and watching the layers of deception and falsity peel away is its main attraction. Of course, at some point, there better turn out to be something underneath.

You can pretty much watch this show any night of the week under its other titles, CSI and Law & Order.

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.

No matter how horrible the clichés or gorgeous the gowns, they can't distract from the androphobic virulence at the heart of Lipstick Jungle.

Stuffed with incomprehensible medical jargon and grisly shots of exposed brains, 3 Lbs. would be a major annoyance even if it had an original thought in its seriously underweight head.

Delirious, dizzy, decadent and altogether delicious.

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.

In the case of ABC's turgid legal melodrama The Deep End, you might not want to show up at all.

A lot of this is pretty funny, but for 24 episodes?

Elfman establishes herself as one of the major female comic presences on television.

Allen Gregory is not funny--not even a little bit--and it is not remotely entertaining.

It does have a lot of characters and a hopelessly confusing plot.... But the show is not without its strengths, particularly the scenes in which the magazine editor (Anthony Edwards, ER) argues with young staffers disappointed by his refusal to run a story about werewolves running amok in Romania.

Surface has no complex or cynical subtexts; it's straight-ahead sci fi.

I'll give the show credit; it did make me think what I would ask if granted three wishes. Interestingly, all three involved the flesh of Amy Grant being devoured by rabid weasels.

The unarguable truth of E-Ring's central premise -- that America's national-security bureaucracy probably spends as much time in intramural squabbles as it does fighting terrorism or rogue states -- does not make it any better drama.

It's different, it's droll, it's quirky, it's funny.

The hacky writing is interchangeable with any of CBS' police procedurals, and the boy-band good looks of Alex O'Loughlin as the detective, Mick St. John, inspire neither fear nor dark sexual longings

The show's dialogue feels scripted, its frequent hookups and breakups abrupt and phony, and its scenes from the music business out and out fraudulent.

The tedium and unoriginality of this new ABC sitcom, the latest entry in the vastly overworked motherhood-as-martyrdom genre, has to be seen to be believed, though my strong and sincere suggestion is that you just take my word for it.

Do No Harm isn't so bad. It isn't so good, either.

Guys With Kids is a perfect confection of witty dialogue and slapstick action.

Partners is witless, predictable and much closer to creepy than funny.

The WB is lying when it boasts that Pepper Dennis signifies a new television life form, the one-hour comedy. Boring, yes; witless, definitely; trashy, oh my God yes. Comedy? Dream on, guys.

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

Testees probably shouldn't be considered part of the fall season, but let's be fair--it's as lousy as anything the broadcast nets have come up with.

Carpoolers, are at least amusing even if equally socially maladroit. Carpoolers is a genially oddball comedy.

Lowlife though it may be, Twins is just plain funny.

No show in the history of television has more relentlessly defamed the male gender as ABC's Man Up!, an alleged sitcom that debuts Tuesday and with any luck will be dead and buried, along with its producers, by Wednesday.

The hardball banter over coolness quotient is coupled with some pretty amusing generation-gap comedy.

A giant bore.

Silly, hackneyed and suffering from a lethal overdose of Hollywood political smugness, it's the biggest lawyer joke of all.

Kath & Kim originated in Australia, which shares the British affection for slobby class humor, but here it falls about as flat as food-court champagne.

Why anybody is paying the writers and cast of Surviving Suburbia for what is essentially an amateur-hour production is just one more of those eternal television mysteries.

Somebody on The Wedding Bells is always saying ''We need to talk about it,'' to which the reply is invariably something like "I'm not big on dating men I've slept with.''

Beauty and the Beast is a little hacky at times, with the characters leaping dozens of plot points in a single bound. But Kreuk and Ryan keep their faces straight and their bodies hard, which is what CW shows are mostly about, and all in all, it could be a lot dumber than it is.

With tediously unfunny scripts and a listless cast that looks as if it can barely wait for the director to shout "Cut!" so it can head en masse to the unemployment office, Last Man Standing is some kind of voracious video parasite that sucks out all intellect, sense of purpose or will to live.

Freddie is a series of collisions -- between generations, sexes, ethnicities and perhaps most of all between youthful Latin macho and imperious Latin matriarchy in the struggle to rule the house.

Big Shots matches affecting characters with genuinely funny stories and dialogue.

A strong cast... breathes life into what might otherwise be just one more tepid medical drama.

There was a lot more to Sex and the City than menage a trois jokes, and whether Hot Properties can move beyond smutty snickers to develop real characters and story lines remains to be seen.

Stripped of the novelty and the jiggle factor--these Angels are fully equipped with functioning underwear--the remake is reduced to its essential self, which is a comic book for the slow-witted.

Maybe the best way to explain UPN's new drama South Beach is to tell you that when Vanessa Williams warns a young model that ''South Beach will eat you alive,'' I fully expected the next scene to be a horde of zombie parking attendants chewing the entrails of half-naked girls in the lobby of the Delano. Cannibalism is about the only thing missing from this delirious new trashfest of hard bodies and soft brains.

This show just isn't funny. At all. Ever. Under any circumstances.

Tr[ies] to distract you from [its] essential awfulness by manipulating the daylights out of you.

As for the lack of laughs, you're just going to have to take my word for it, unless you want to risk serious brain damage.

The truth is that Rob is a rather funny sitcom about the cultural collisions that occur every day in an increasingly blended America.

The network thinks this is razor's-edge television because the characters turn to address the audience during cut-ins. But all the bellowing is straight from The Honeymooners, the jokes from Mandingo and the dialogue... from about sixth grade.

Humdrum.

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.

Where The Class is warm and charming, Emergency is crude and overdrawn.

Liz & Dick alternates between imbecile fatuity (particularly in its device of intercutting scenes of a black-clad Taylor and Burton musing on their relationship like characters who've wandered in from an East German experimental film) and stupefying literalness.

You can practically feel the IQ points leaking out your ears as you watch.

A mess.

Makes a solid bid to win the Most Unpleasant Reality Show of All Time award.

A live-action version of Beavis & Butthead, except with a cast that's considerably less life-like, Modern Men is from the Guys Are Loathsome Pigs And Chicks Must Civilize Them genre that produced Men Behaving Badly, Champs and a bunch of other unwatched and unremembered shows, of which this will soon be one.

A hollow imitation of a sitcom.

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

I'm paying a bounty of $5 per vicious blow administered to the heads of any NBC executive involved in any way with Knight Rider, which cost me an hour of my life and 50 IQ points that I'll never get back.