The pilot gingerly lays out most of the elements My Own Worst Enemy will need to survive--leaving it to the show to either make its strange case or live down to its name.

Aside from an easygoing quality and mild comic flair, there's not much here to steal the hearts of viewers; instead, it's another modest, lightweight addition to TNT's diner-style menu of comfort food for a weary nation.

The humor is sexist, racy and often falls flat, but when it does work, it connects in a way a male-centric audience--and that's Spike's bread and butter--will appreciate.

The show has already received considerable acclaim in the U.K. (including the 2008 British Comedy Award), a level of praise that seems a bit generous; still, in the long continuum of teen comedies, "Inbetweeners" does qualitatively register toward the high end of the scale.

What the production most sorely lacks, though, is a strong sense of cohesion, which often makes the hours play more like loosely assembled snapshots of the war without a compelling hook to pull the audience along. Nor do any of the key performers really distinguish themselves, dwarfed as they are by the general sense of pageantry--the sound and fury--that usually surrounds them.

Collision wins points for ambition, perhaps, but as the quaint little stopovers on PBS' highway of British drama go, it's one of those rare rest stops that's just as easily skipped.

Like "Saturday Night Live," "Important Things" is often hit and miss, but the simplest way for Martin to smooth over the bumps would be to become more comfortable in the stand-up segment.

Granted, the lack of punchless punchlines was a welcome change of pace, but the canned self-introductions that replaced them were jarring in terms of pacing -- not to mention the awkwardness of the blatant self-referencing involved.

This dark biker-gang drama certainly has its share of fans, but held up against the larger pantheon of cable dramas--including some of FX's recent and upcoming additions--Sons emulates its ride: Plenty noisy, but a relatively low-octane vehicle.

It's perhaps inevitable that this project will range from sobering and moving to, at times, feeling a bit too much like homework.

Simply being quirky, however, only goes so far, so my preliminary diagnosis is that these Pains don't amount to much more than a second-degree "Burn."

While the title character is consistently rough and the language blue, in subsequent episodes (Showtime sent six out for review) the series increasingly feels like all style and limited substance--a star showcase that's less "triumphant return" than "Nice to have you back, but ..."

Yet while Jackie remains a fascinating conundrum--a woman who takes noble stands and cuts corners on behalf of her patients, while hanging by a tenuous thread in her personal life--the brooding tone can become stifling.

Fitfully funny, there's undeniable energy but also obvious limitations to this approach, which perhaps explains each half-hour's segmentation into back-to-back 11-minute episodes.

This is a template as well-worn as "Marcus Welby, M.D.," albeit with greater visual style and an accelerated pace--as well as an underlying "pay it forward" message about organ donation.

The episodes are certainly watchable, but as constructed by writer-producers Josh Appelbaum, Andre Nemec and Scott Rosenberg, the train also takes its time getting out of the station.

There's something intriguing about a summer show that is at once too complicated in storytelling and too simplistic in aesthetics to comfortably mesh with CBS' flashy procedural-stacked lineup.

At this point, about all one can definitively say is whether the cast has potential (they do) and the situations are involving (they aren’t, unless you’re predisposed to such nonsense). On the plus side, the producers pay sly homage to the program’s roots without appearing beholden to it, indicating that the show will have the latitude to evolve into its own entity.

These women aren’t looking for steady gigs on MTV, and they cry at the drop of a hat. That somehow makes them more real, however contrived the situation might be. The weak link, actually, is Conley, who sounds far too determined to make a positive impression and say all the right things.

ABC's eagerly awaited spinoff of "Grey's Anatomy" initially qualifies as a disappointment -- hitting completely familiar medical-drama beats while pursuing a whimsical tone it never fully achieves.

Rhimes (who co-wrote the premiere with Marti Noxon) weaves the dense web of life-or-death medicine and romantic whimsy well enough, and the program is so slickly written and performed it's easy to overlook the familiar patterns that are emerging; still, it would behoove both the characters and show to take a deep breath and find the key players some kind of extracurricular hobby--even if that just means lusting after strangers, perhaps, instead of co-workers.

The nice part about Louie is that its loose structure creates ample possibilities, while its grainy vision of New York approximates the feel of an independent film. For all that, the laughs come only intermittently, and the sequences of our hapless hero doing stand-up are generally superior to his limitations as an actor.

Beyond the "Dark Shadows"-type atmosphere, The Gates is blessed with an attractive cast, many of whom have affiliations with past ABC dramas....The question is how long the show can get by on those assets before series creators Grant Scharbo and Richard Hatem shed some serious light on all these things going bump in the night.

While Plain Jane hardly amounts to a feminist breakthrough (egad, far from it), given the appetite for such fare, the CW--having kissed plenty of unscripted frogs--might have found a glass slipper that fits.

The resulting half-hour offered a breezy, inexpensive approach to comedy that brought to mind the panel shows of yesteryear.

All told, there's still plenty here to hold an audience through the first two hours. Fulfilling that six-year charter, however, will depend on exhibiting a clearer directional sense, because in both TV and space, gravity can be a real bitch.

Rubicon dares to be smart but, as conventional thrillers go, it's not very thrilling.

So is it super? Not yet. But there's enough spinning around these extraordinary visitors to at least provoke a second visit.

It's not bad, but it initially looks relatively uninspired next to TV's best copshows, including current entries such as TNT's "Southland."

Played partly tongue in cheek, the show's premiere isn't quite unabashedly trashy enough to completely qualify as a guilty pleasure, but one can see it developing into that.

That's not a bad starting point for beginners, maybe, but this "History of Hollywood" feels a little ho-hum for those TCM viewers craving a more advanced course.

While the first four parts (airing in two-hour blocks) of National Geographic Channel's sweeping nature film rival the majesty and wonder of Discovery's "Planet Earth" and "Life," the final three amount to DVD extras, padding out the exercise.

Given the number of dunderheaded pundits holding forth nightly, Lebowitz does feel like a throwback to a wittier era. That said, Scorsese could have gotten his point across in a third less time--as Public Speaking demonstrates, twice over, how even ballsy Manhattan artist types can benefit from an editor's touch.

Animation would seem to be an ideal vehicle for this, but there's only so much it can do--in part because there's no adhesive to the episodes. The three guys sit and bullshit for 20-some-odd minutes--at times entertainingly--until the program simply ends.

It's pleasant enough, but has the potential to stand out only in the manner and pace at which Connie and Larry unspool, without the fairy-tale sparks enjoyed by Ben and Kate.

Lost Valentine occupies the softest side of the Hallmark universe. Thanks to White, though, it's still worth opening this heart-shaped box, even if you already have a pretty good idea what's inside.

Even lensed for TV, the special isn't wholly satisfying, but for anyone who visited "Pee-wee's Playhouse" in the late '80s, the experience is good enough. As for those who might say dismissing the show at that is snobbish, I know you are, but what am I?

While stately and reasonably smart, the first three episodes unfold at a less-than-galvanizing pace, featuring a young King Arthur whose appeal seems more calibrated to please the "Twilight" demo than action-craving men.

They're colorful, yes, but as such concepts pile upon each other, the effect is less ennobling that enervating.

It's just that creatively speaking, the current season looks like it's going to require a major late-act rescue.

And so it goes. The same mix of sob stories, as anxious relatives looking on from the wings. And if there's not quite a Susan Boyle or Paul Potts moment (though one in particular comes reasonably close), the tears flow freely, and one or two genuinely stirring performances emerge.

Even if there are traces of "Desperate Housewives" in "Revenge's" DNA, ABC's latest serial feels oh-so-last decade, which, particularly in the Hamptons, is about as thematically stylish as wearing white after Labor Day.

Creatively speaking, though, Expedition travels such a familiar course it's merely proof that when it comes to unscripted competitions, even top producers like Burnett continue to be extremely eco-friendly--starting with their conceptual commitment to recycling.

Although the series undeniably embodied a certain place and time for a showbiz-savvy contingent of the HBO audience, the show's best days are behind it, and the eighth-and-final-season curtain appears to be coming down none too soon.

While the premise is refreshingly gimmick-free compared with "RJ Berger" or "Teen Wolf," the situations aren't compelling enough to make this much more than a latter-day "Doogie Howser, M.D." with a gender switch.

The show (slated for a six-episode summer flight) represents a breezy diversion, with obvious potential to return and plug a gap left by a canceled series come fall.

If the target audience can endure tortured dialogue like, "A lie's a lie, but if the reasons are reasonable, then maybe you can forgive the lie," then, truth be told, Lying might stay in the game for awhile.

As usual, it's all a roundabout way to create a cop dynamic with the mildest of twists--what plays like a polished procedural, with a bit more character--as well as built-in romantic tension between the leads.

It's all played solidly enough, though so many elements seem plucked from other fare.

AHS derives inspiration from so many horror films there's some fun in simply identifying those moments. But there's also a surreal quality that feels wildly overdone--and periodically risks tumbling from inspiring fright into inducing giggles.

The show's ethereal qualities are interesting in places but never particularly enlightening.

While their chemistry hasn't quite gelled--especially difficult with the show still rushing from segment to segment--there's not a bad apple in the bunch.

All-American Muslim should not be dismissed for its laudable aspects, but it's difficult to escape a sense TLC took its game up a notch merely by virtue of the title.

Luck--for all its quirky exchanges and marquee performers--proves at best a photo finish as to whether it's worth the effort.

Weed Wars presents its quirky combatants with only the vaguest aroma of condescension, and should find a fairly receptive audience subset among the many Americans who view smoking pot as a law they have no trouble violating.

So lightweight the show might fly away if not tethered down, the concept's interesting, broadly speaking, from what it represents.

The program is moderately entertaining and very much in keeping with the tone of "Californication."

Although there's no shortage of romance surrounding Alcatraz -- and the idea of hardened criminals becoming dangerous anachronisms is a time-worn concept -- there's a nagging sense these are just going to be (very) cold cases, which will grow tedious without something more, and quickly, to fuel the larger mystery.

Although light on laughs, with its spare design and limited animation Unsupervised does create a reasonably cohesive, grimy little world, made tolerable by the absence of actual kids.

It's a show for a very narrow slice of the channel's subscribers.

The glossy you-won't-see-this-on-cable production values support a relatively straightforward competition structure, whittling down 14 contestants until a single winner emerges.

While the big-finned Cadillacs and old pop songs create an aura of pre-"Mad Men" nostalgia, the show is conventional in most other respects.

It's potent enough--more in subject matter than execution--to deliver for History.

The Newsroom essentially presents viewers with two options: Lament how the series doesn't match the lofty crests of Sorkin's finest work, or admire the show's ambitions and embrace of serious ideas, and grudgingly roll with its uneven tides.

Yet if the premise sets up a promising square-off of titans, the premiere retreats to a rather predictable, time-killing murder mystery, which serves to establish Lamb's new role, but also smacks more of CBS' stodgier procedurals than a character-driven drama.

Producer/director/co-writer Jeffrey Roth spent extensive time with the man and endeavors to humanize him, but ultimately delivers a film long on biography and short on insight.

No one associated with Political Animals needs to hide under the covers, exactly, but nothing here qualifies as a game-changer, either.

This is, quite simply, a Frankencom, stitched together from pieces of other comedies. To their credit, Sheen, the talented cast and seasoned writers know how to make it all look slick and polished.

[Even with Matthew Perry,] the familiar game plan and trappings make it at best a crapshoot as to whether Ryan and his wounded heart will, well, you know.

For every arresting image, there's a lot of wandering around in the overgrown woods, and reason for skepticism as to whether audiences will patiently stick with the show.

The cast is certainly strong...[however] the formula could become awfully repetitive if the primary characters' story is augmented each week by a "B" plot regarding another resident, which is what transpires in the pilot, and doesn't prove particularly compelling.

The truth is once you've moved beyond the set-up, the only real moment that counts is the inevitable reunion, when the women return and the men, presumably, tell them just how much they were missed and how indispensable they are.

While hardly for everyone, to a genre-savvy crowd that can appreciate the joke, score it as a near-miss.

The second chapter isn't much more eventful than the first.

The Americans is an intriguing and provocative concept.... The execution, alas, initially isn't worthy of the premise, becoming fairly standard spy stuff, and relying heavily on awkward flashbacks to fill in the backstory.

It's the program's central device--the prolonged trial-like exchanges between Hooten and whoever might have tripped up--that overwhelm the more promising elements, and keep "Monday Mornings" from being worthy of a Monday-night appointment, despite the tonal compatibility with its "Dallas" lead-in.

Viewed charitably, the series isn't bad as a sort-of "Dallas" knockoff, though it's worth noting TNT's rebooted "Dallas" covers similar territory in a more satisfying manner.

It's just too bad a show paved with such an enticing premise doesn't get a little deeper under your skin.

Some viewers will no doubt find this intriguing, while others will be quick to dismiss it as overwrought poppycock. Fortunately, the show has Anthony Edwards at its center, bringing a much-needed Hitchcockian Everyman quality to his role as Hank Galliston.

If it's not high art, the moody exercise achieves a level of atmosphere and momentum that makes it work as a mild diversion, and the plot and pacing pick up in subsequent hours.

As presented, it’s moderately suspenseful but also an awfully dry, unimaginative approach to the story, with McCormack’s personality and natural sense of humor completely lost in this straightforward cop role, and Davidovich burdened by Frankenstein makeup. Barr, at least, is convincing as the ladies man with a dark streak, however familiar that might be.

Goofy, moderately sweet and too rarely funny, it’s a natural thematic companion to “Modern Family,” if not an especially strong one.

Accompanied by its own behind-the-scenes Web series, Inside Amy Schumer still represents more the promise of talent than one fully realized.

But more often than not CSI isn't sure if it's trying to be intellectual or just sensational. John M. Keane's heavy-handed music, inversely proportional to the events onscreen, doesn't help. Subsequent episodes would do better to pull back on attention-grabbing stunts in favor of the mystery and drama that lies at the core of this premise. [4 Oct 2000, p.2]

A bleak, agonizingly downbeat and occasionally over-stylized vision of prison existence. It's about as pretty as a decaying corpse, and there is no one to root for. [11 July 1997]

Although the program has never wasted much time developing characters, the banter between detectives Lupo (Jeremy Sisto) and Bernard (Anthony Anderson) seems even more disposable than usual.

Single and in their 30s, each is a distinct blend of guile, guts and needfulness, traipsing through the dating world with predictable and even trite results, their chatter constantly hitting on sex, relationships and sex. Some good acting and some nicely shot romantic interludes provide some redemption for the series, but scripts need to loosen up and inherit some of the playfulness the actresses bring to their roles. [3 June 1998]

Even if the material is a trifle slight, pairing of John Lithgow and Jeffrey Tambor brightens matters, serving up smiles if not outright guffaws.

This is... one of those concepts seemingly destined to leave a small but outspoken fan contingent grumbling next summer at Comic-Con about its cancellation.

Wildly uneven.

The second flight of episodes shares much with year one -- showy [performances] tethered to uneven writing and a less-defined premise than those of other top pay TV dramas.

Despite laudable elements -- particularly the magnetic Oded Fehr as the cell leader -- [the] series is too uneven to dub this ambitious mission a complete success.

It's Don Johnson's irascible charm as a boozing, bottom-feeding barrister that occasionally elevates this hour above its mundane legal jockeying.

Although the show works a little too hard at being quirky, "Head Cases" does deliver a pair of well-defined protagonists, but initially not the kind of obsessive-compulsive magnetism it will need to flourish in a pretty inhospitable timeslot.

A model of midseason mediocrity, an hourlong that neither excites nor bores, driven by professional if uninspired acting, writing and direction.

An inoffensive but not particularly distinguished half-hour.

[The] first episode of this weeklong experiment does a creditable job building suspense, but it's hard to imagine the premise... possessing much staying power.

There's a fine line between mysterious and just plain mystifying, and "Day Break" lurches over it.

Woods is such a compelling presence that he might be able to elevate even procedural fare.

A high-octane cast brings some promise to the show.

"Psych" isn't nearly as much fun as it ought to be, offering a breezy but not particularly captivating twist on a very well-worn buddy formula.

Having four women with sufficiently distinct personalities and a pleasant tone should help the show secure some viewership, but it really belongs on a specialized femme-oriented cable net.

Despite fine elements, then, the show feels a trifle rudderless--content to deal in edgy high-school archetypes (a gay kid, an irreverent Muslim youth, even one boy with a "Dawson's"-like crush on his teacher), but archetypes nevertheless.

ESPN's eight-episode mini-series plays remarkably flat despite a sharp portrayal by John Turturro as the eye at the center of the storm.

Jon Harmon Feldman’s naughty script doesn’t develop much chemistry among the guys.

The result is a series that wants to do good and still have enough "edge" to do well in the rough-and-tumble, less-nurturing environment of reality TV, which feels out of step with all the good vibrations.

Easy to dismiss at first glance, the series does exhibit some possibilities in its second episode, though it's still a relatively uninspired time-killer for those of us with just one life to live.

"Flight" is pretty much a snooze until the music starts, at which point the show kicks up into something quite weird and occasionally wonderful.

In Treatment's intensity does build as the weeks progress, but it's never completely absorbing, and you wonder how many viewers will commit to such a demanding regimen even with multiple plays to catch up on missed half-hours.

Clone Wars--the "Star Wars" animated series that amounts to an "interquel" between Episodes II and III--is vastly superior to the advance theatrical movie. That's mostly beacuse the half-hour episodes are so jam-packed with action the clunky dialogue flies by less obtrusively, and the irritating characters have less time to annoy.

Alex's gender does open the door to further explore the era's sexual politics, but much of that was still addressed in the first show, and Hawes' dry performance doesn't seriously alter the dynamics.

There's nothing howlingly bad here (except perhaps for a few of the supporting performances), but nothing particularly distinctive, either.

Baker does possess a certain roguish charm, and writer Bruno Heller ("Rome") and pilot-directing guru David Nutter mine that--as well as the central character's slightly menacing backstory--to try and invest the series with a bit of depth, mostly to little avail.

It's understandable why CBS would take its own low-risk shot with "Flashpoint" as summer filler. Yet as viewing experiences go, the series itself possesses so little flash, finally, that it's difficult to see the point.

Cupid remains a rather wispy premise, with this second go-round bookending other similarly themed premises, such as NBC’s “Miss Match,” which failed, too--and in that case also featured a female lead who couldn’t quite follow her own romantic advice.

Harper's Island too often indulges in slasher-movie absurdities, with a murderer who seems to be everywhere at once and genuine clues in too-short supply.

The series does feature some solid performers in supporting roles, including Kevin J. O'Connor and "The Wire's" Larry Gilliard Jr., and the close of the second hour offers a modest tug to see where the story arc might be heading. The actual cops-and-robbers stuff, however, remains mundane at best.

While it's nice to see McCormack and Cavanagh back in episodic form, their similarities diminish their interplay, inasmuch as it's not a reach to envision both in either role. Everyone else pretty much falls into predictable archetypes, from the nerdy young creative team to Griffin Dunne as the constantly frazzled boss.

The series has assembled a promising cast, including Perrineau, Goldberg and Terry Kinney as the unit's snarling captain. In addition, there are vague hints at more sober storylines to come--if, thus far, little reason to emotionally invest in them.

Diva has potential, but just as when the revived Jane first squeezes into Deb's old clothes, it's an awkward fit.

Throw a bouquet, then, strictly to the casting folks for the assortment of types they've assembled. Beyond that, Stylista qualifies as fierce, to borrow producer Tyra Banks' phraseology, only in its steadfast commitment to copying the same old models.

Ultimately, it's harmless but pretty stupid, which generally describes most of actor-producer Ashton Kutcher's forays into primetime.

As is so often the case, however, it's difficult to invest real-life police work with the sense of excitement that television doles out in scripted programming--even with music whose urgency borders on the comical.

It all makes for an intriguing setup that doesn't quite gel, even by the end of the third episode.

Perhaps appropriately, the period trappings and costumes are impeccable, part of a miniseries that weaves six production logos into its hemline--suggesting more commerce than art in its conception.

Demons isn't bad, and some of the makeup effects are reasonably effective; still, compared with the better angels in BBC America's portfolio, it's as weightless and disposable as the fog that enshrouds its most dramatic moments.

Sure, it's mildly intriguing to unearth details about your ancestors, but even allowing that the stars are being good sports here, their reactions often reflect off-putting degrees of self-absorption.

The pilot is breezy enough, and there are solid supporting players, including Ashley Jensen and Grant Show. Those ingredients, however, are thus far more promising than what first comes out of the oven

All told, it's a rather ignominious birthing process for a movie that isn't painful, necessarily, but delivers little that's worth paying admission to see, either.

Season two, unfortunately, takes that start and heads in the wrong direction.

For those who buy into the MacFarlane formula this is all riotous fun. For the rest of us, it's a bit like Dane Cook's stand-up act--a reminder that what tickles current teens and twentysomethings is often markedly different from the satirical material that amused their parents.

Series creators Greg Daniels and Michael Schur provide the show with moments of dry wit, and Poehler certainly has acting oblivious down to a wide-eyed science. Yet there's no escaping that this feels like "Office Lite," thrown together as a vehicle for the star rather than out of any grand inspiration.

Directed by Mikael Salomon from Masius' script, the debut hour proves busy but not particularly distinctive.

Tucson hasn't done much to invigorate the formula. Mostly, the situations provide an excuse for Labine to fast-talk his way into and out of trouble, which is amusing so far as it goes.

Grading on a curve amid TV's viral nurse outbreak, the series proves more engaging than "Hawthorne" and less dour than "Nurse Jackie." Initially, though, it just doesn't quite possess the requisite spark that would leave people begging for Mercy.

The presence of camera crews is explained by saying it's for a documentary about entry-level jobs, allowing the CEO to secretly interact with several parts of his company before the big reveal. There's some power in that, but the premiere's emotional crescendos come across as surprisingly muted.

Community embraces the traditional sitcom notion of “family” being what you make of it, but it’s a little too self-conscious about the genre’s cliches--or at least, feels that way because its satirical elements aren’t as crisp as they need to be.

The Middle appropriately falls somewhere in the middle, in a zone where the immediate challenge has less to do with being flown-over than flipped-away from.

So thus far, anyway, it's a promising concept inconsistently executed, and perhaps a trifle miscast.

The series' overall sweetness makes up for a number of its failings.

The pilot goes down smoothly enough, but lacking a single novel beat and with no one but Peregrym registering, there's simply no compelling reason to make another visit to this precinct

It's pretty clear The Real L Word is just another reality show that's only moderately real --the further adventures of "The L Word" with a non-SAG cast.

Virginia Madsen cuts a fine figure as the matriarch trying to hold her family of four kids together while their dad goes to prison, but the fanciful tone makes the show a little too pastel-colored when a bolder palette would seem to be required.

Aside from the lurid nature of the crimes and some salty language, though, Rizzoli & Isles is just what the title sounds like--a place for second-hand goods at reasonable prices.

Still, the raw materials--from the island setting to the underused Kim and Park--have more potential than punch in the pilot, resulting in just another crime procedural with a nifty blue-sky backdrop.

Despite its modest merits, Life ultimately spends most of its time paddling in the shallow end of the dramatic gene pool.

What's left, then, is Danza playing (and there's really the operative word) at being a teacher, with the show employing the customary musical cues and editing tricks to try to generate suspense about whether he can actually teach the kids to appreciate "Of Mice and Men."

Undercovers has its moments, but the show itself in some respects mirrors the initial problem with the central duo's relationship--comfortable, perhaps, but failing to spark the kind of passion necessary to elicit fidelity from viewers.

This latest legal franchise appears to harbor no such ambitions [as "The Good Wife"]--and the gambling, booze and sexual debauchery associated with the town is inevitably going to be rather tepid and implied, even in a 10 p.m. timeslot. The show would be more defensible, oddly, if its characters could be a trifle sleazier.

Better With You fits in with that lesser two-thirds of ABC's returning sitcom block, and while it's by no means an eyesore, it hasn't done anything to improve the neighborhood.

The Big C gets an "E" for admirable effort but still feels like a squandered opportunity. Given the chance to explore what truly matters in life, the show ultimately provides little more than a showcase for a terrific actress, while treating death like the next slightly zany frontier.

The production has grit, yes, but for all its poking and prodding at what makes the title character and his quarry tick, Thorne never gets under your skin.

It's just that we've seen this movie (or rather, reality-TV show) before, dozens of times, in more glamorous settings. And having each half-hour (two will air back to back) conclude with an auction doesn't really foster much suspense.

Once he got past the opening, very little in the premiere could be called inspired. The set didn't break any ground cosmetically, and director Allan Kartun's fondness for shooting O'Brien from behind during the monologue seemed perplexing, if not distracting.

As handsome as the production is, the nature of Boyd's novel makes the miniseries episodic, and the tone of those encounters tends to be highly uneven. While experiencing abundant tragedy in his life, the protagonist's vulnerability doesn't translate very well in carrying the story, even with such a stalwart trio of actors playing him.

Gold Rush brims with can-do spirit, but such an exercise is only as good as its characters, and after two installments, it's hard to distinguish one prospector from the next.

For the most part, there's nothing here to be ashamed of. It's just that at a time when TV drama is so flush with riches, Shameless plays like a poor relative.

While the varied events coming to the center each week do create comedic possibilities, Sunshine will wax or wane less on what passes through that revolving door than on the underwhelming occupants of its regular offices.

This feels at best like a utility player--a hodge-podge of gameshows past. In other words, if there's anything else compelling to watch on another channel--Whoosh!--look out below.

Halfway through episode two, anybody with a feel for such material will see where every beat is heading, even if the trip there isn't always unpleasant.

Taken on its own terms, this eight-part series--which begins in the middle, months after aliens have invaded Earth, thus turning a ragtag New England band into modern colonial resistance--has its moments action-wise, but the soapier elements mostly fall flat.

Assembled through an open call, the cast (many of whom are 17 or 18) is extraordinarily natural. Where Elsley stumbles--especially in the opener--is the exaggerated dialogue, often more borscht-belt comedian than actual kid.

All told, Fairly Legal feels as if the network--despite riding a nifty string of successes by placing a light spin on familiar genres--has dipped into this particular shallow pool once too often.

Although Harrison's baffled newcomer, Slater's mysterious honcho and the elaborate CalTech-style pranks have potential, there's cause to fear the gizmo-driven plots will become repetitive quickly. And while the pilot is fast-paced--with rapid-fire flashes to visual gags, almost like one of Seth MacFarlane's animated Fox comedies--it's not like the nerd-spy-girl template has enabled "Chuck" to hack its way into the hearts of Nielsen viewers (or at least, their peoplemeters).

Joining the story a decade into the colonists' stay does provide series creator Ben Richards ("MI:5") an opportunity to gradually putty in the backstory, but other than Tate--thanks mostly to Cunningham's commanding presence--it's difficult to determine who we should care about here, beyond the littler matter of the human race's collective survival.

While the playful banter among cops and robbers thrown together on the same side has its moments, the characters aren't strong enough, initially, to set off any alarms.

As is, South Riding (named for its fictional community in Yorkshire) is a handsome production, but not an especially memorable one--conjuring only a few moments worthy of the "Masterpiece" pedigree before riding into the sunset.

What Secret Millionaire has no time to explore, conveniently, are the causes of poverty or any larger issues. It is, essentially, all about creating a cathartic experience, where the millionaire's checks affix band-aids to everything from soup kitchens to kidney-dialysis patients.

That restraint, if that's the right word for it, leaves the program feeling muddled, spending too much time with the younger Borgias--who only live up to the "bore" part--and the labyrinthine workings of Vatican politics.

Happy Endings isn't unpleasant, certainly, but might face the same dilemma as its characters: An inability to make--or at least keep--enough new friends.

So while The Crimson Petal is tough, grim and explicit--and by the last measure provocative, at least relative to those accustomed to Dickens or Austen--the production finally feels unworthy of its length or leading lady.

Cinema Verite harbors some merit, and is worth seeing if only for Lane. That said, it's a disappointingly shallow treatment considering the wealth of potential within the premise and period.

As usual, it's a new kid who provides a wide-eyed introduction to the shenanigans, though nothing in the pilot conjures any genuine magic, TV-wise.

Given the emphasis on soapy doings and shiny exteriors, the serial threatens to short-change its most interesting attributes, glancingly commenting on issues pertaining to sociology and the sexual revolution (such as a Bunny marveling, "I make more money than my father") while lacking the latitude to truly probe them.

The series generally gets the mood right but proves miserly in the details, from fleeting glimpses of the werewolf to Scott's eventual moon dance, which leaves him looking too much like Eddie Munster.

It's the very epitome of Winfrey's pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps," live your best life" motto. For all that, she's a poor object of sympathy--whining about having squandered a privileged and pampered existence few could imagine ever enjoying.

Strike Back does incorporate a few wrinkles regarding its leads, with hints of a larger plot to guide its 10 episodes. Mostly, though, pretty much everyone is reduced to geopolitical stereotypes--starting with the American cowboy and more cautious (if equally sweaty and buff) Brit.

In this case, being respectful comes pretty close to donning a straightjacket. Fortunately, there's enough interest in the couple to provide a built-in audience for this modestly scaled (shot in Bucharest) exercise.

Despite cosmetic flourishes (this time even Bosley has six-pack abs) and a few modest wrinkles, it's hard to escape feeling this is the same old excuse to put "babes" in skimpy outfits, both to thwart evil and inspire swearing off fatty foods.

As is, the pilot created by Emily Kapnek ("Hung") and directed by Michael Fresco finds some warmth in the father-daughter bond and labors rather feebly to expose Hines' character in a less-than-harsh light, but the too-familiar start doesn't bode well for consistently tapping into such elements.

Adopting a kitchen-sink approach, Ringer dumps out so many bread crumbs at the outset it's hard not to wonder where they might lead.

Other than Cummings' slightly off-kilter view of relationships as writer and star, Whitney as a construct is more spindly than her legs.

While the diverse mix of characters could work to the program's advantage over the long haul, jumping to and fro among them creates a diluted, herky-jerky ride in the early going.

After three installments, The Fades' existential components remain somewhat muddled, with the portentous warnings offering small compensation or incentive to hang around long enough to see whether mankind survives.

O'Donnell's program didn't exhibit the fireworks one might have expected, allocating most of the hour to guest Russell Brand, in an interview that was relaxed, charitably, but almost wholly uninteresting.

As for Good Vibes, think of it as another one of those ho-hum waves you can safely let roll by.

Measured against the yardstick of their own lofty standards, the show comes up a little short.

Admittedly, nothing here will make anyone forget "3rd Rock" or "Seinfeld." But watching The Exes after TV Land's "Retired at 35" or "Happily Divorced," it seems reasonable to settle.

Touch has its "We Are the World" heart in the right place. But like another song says, we don't need another "Heroes."

That backdrop [water and bikinis] hardly casts enough of a glow to offset the nondescript characters and premise in a series that isn't bad, necessarily, but simply ordinary in most every way--as if it were plucked, via time capsule, from 1984.

Barson has made a doc too narrow in scope, with about as much substance as a meringue pie in the face.

The mixture isn't dynamite but does have moments of quirky charm, and at least marks a step up in class from "Allen Gregory."

All told, it's a respectable niche addition but won't make anyone old enough to remember "In Living Color" apt to forget it.

What sounds like a daring concept is quickly undercut by attempts to wrap the show in a police-procedural format.

While the show's vision encompasses a touch more character than the average procedural, this latest case of the NYPD blues is hardly a reason to start spreading the news.

GCB will need a lot more meat on its bones if these 'horns are going to hook 'em.

As constructed, though, the series has no teeth, and a sensibility that's slim even for cable.

Aside from the fact spying and parenting don't mix, though, there's nothing fresh about Missing.

A breezy but uninspired half-hour defined by Matt LeBlanc's willingness to portray Matt LeBlanc as a swaggering jerk.

Nothing here is especially hot, perhaps, but compared with the best period dramas currently on TV, it is pretty pallid.

Aside from what's happening with Charlie, the rest of Hope plays like a stock hospital-set soap.

Perception feels like an entry-level course, and isn't nearly as cerebral as it pretends to be.

While hardly a breakthrough on any level--indeed, about as unoriginal as the genre gets--if the goal is simply to keep the torch flickering between the Games and the fall season, mission probably accomplished.

Those who enjoyed "The Closer" will still find something, if probably not as much, to like about this closer, too. Or really, "Closer 2."

It's all fairly predictable.

While the story does capture a sense of the times--and provides intriguing glimpses into the Manhattan of 160 years ago--as constructed, this can't help but feel like "Deadwood" lite.

Coma still provides a few arresting images of what happens to the coma victims, but there's simply too much silliness in the overwrought second half.

The show isn't necessarily bad; if only it thought with something other than its schmeckel.