Arrow certainly looks polished (having David Nutter direct a pilot virtually insures that), but there's only so much action an hourlong drama can afford, and the characters necessary to sustain the series are, initially, strictly two-dimensional, even with the island as a go-to flashback.

This is really just a protracted, more explicit (virtually a prerequisite, given the venue) "Mission: Impossible," spreading its caper across multiple episodes. Yet even with bursts of bloodshed, Hunted bogs down in the episodes previewed.

Former "Revenge of the Nerds" stars Carradine and Armstrong (who helped develop the concept) do appear to have fun, but after the opening kick of seeing them reunited in this fashion, even that begins to yield diminishing returns.

Like a lot of newly minted grads, Underemployed doesn't qualify as an instant success. Yet viewed in the context of its ambitions, neither can it be dismissed as an underachiever.

Baio doesn't do much to elevate the limp material, but he doesn't sink it either.

More like great water-cooler gossip than actual true-crime material, the self-deprecating humor helps but doesn't exactly distinguish the series from other examples of this genre.

Jungle Gold uses every available editing trick to heighten the tension and get the audience rooting for Scott and George, but the approach is so steeped in xenophobia and Great White Hunter short-hand this might as well have been made in the 1930s.

The show doesn't feel authentic enough to be convincing, nor silly enough to rise to the level of worthwhile sitcom.

As a whole, the project cries out for the voices of third-party historians--or at least some voice, beyond the grainy newsreel footage and dramatic readings by actors, other than Stone's.

The series doesn't generate nearly enough highlights to merit a filibuster-proof yea vote, much less a ticker-tape parade.

All told, there's enough here to stick around a little while, but this is one of those premises almost designed to strain plausibility over time.

The show has some unorthodox elements, but feels fairly cliched in most of its beats, largely serving as an excuse for bouts of grisly violence and gratuitous sex.

The '80s setting does allow the show to be more frank in tackling issues like sex and drugs, but other than that, the premiere deals in typical teenage girl stuff, the sort one can find in any number of ABC Family shows.

While The Taste certainly works hard to foster a sense of excitement and tickle the palate, this appetizer feels like just the latest half-baked competition idea that doesn't deliver.

Created by David Schulner, the series has done itself a disservice by hewing away from the fantastic and toward the mundane.

Season two yields modest improvement thanks to shrewd cast additions, augmenting the pleasures of Julia Louis-Dreyfus.

Ultimately, though, the story boils down to its central love triangle, with the sides stretching out a little too long as viewers wait for Tietjens to return home and choose whether to pursue happiness and risk public humiliation, or remain in his shattered and unhappy marriage.

To their credit, the producers do keep things interesting, for the most part without resorting to the cheap tricks that have characterized the vastly overrated “American Horror Story.” Nevertheless, the premise becomes its own creative prison, fostering a hurry-up-and-wait attitude as the story metes out its examples of the things that make this duo, well, different.

Even if you’re skeptical about the carefully massaged drama, it’s hard not to admire a single show so meticulously accessorized with that many commercial points of entry.

Jackie remains watchable thanks primarily to Falco, although the best moments are almost invariably dramatic, not humorous.

These hours rely on devices like seeing dead people, while detouring from the central character’s selfless concern about her family to explore subplots that are, almost without exception, relentlessly ordinary. It’s a shame, since Linney still delivers compelling moments.

Guest’s approach is as much about creating atmosphere and fostering discomfort as it is about belly laughs, but there’s a difference between being droll and positively arid.

It’s only too bad the writers (Carter Bays, Craig Thomas, Chris Harris) don’t start by grounding their charges with a little more humanity; instead, the trio proves so mismatched and exaggerated as to have a very long way to reach any sort of common ground.

Diminished expectations might be the best thing the program has going for it, though if forced to commit, it’s at best a “hold” recommendation.

There's not a lot of originality being shown here, which is distressing to see in an initial effort that's so glacially paced. The audience literally knows what's coming and is forced to wait for the conclusion for the scenario to come to fruition.

[The pilot] works a little too hard at establishing a fun-loving, "Swingers""Swingers"-type tone, though at least that represents something of an alternative to "CSI: NY" and ABC's new procedural "The Evidence."

A perfectly serviceable if not particularly inspired bumper.

Despite nice touches in writer-director-exec producer Rod LurieRod Lurie's handsome-looking pilot, there's also a smothering stiffness to it, including Geena Davis' performance as the first female president.

It's hard to escape the sense we're watching the bastard child of the union between "Shark" and "House."

Given how familiar the premise is, the show's modest appeal hinges entirely on the cast's marginal chemistry and the rapid-fire jokes, making for at best a hit-miss proposition.

Like a test-tube baby, "Inconceivable" has the feeling of a series birthed less by passion than clinical precision.

Deschanel comes off a little too much like a sorority girl rather than a scientist with missing-parent issues.

Most of the beats suffer from a been-there quality, and there's a glut of interlocking storylines that might be less of an issue, admittedly, if two or three really merited attention.

Credit the veteran cast with making the series barely tolerable, but for the most part "Crumbs" is pretty crummy, the sitcom deconstructed to its most primordial form.

The final leg proves something of a letdown.

It's tough to get an audience to care for any of the players in a show that's just 30 minutes long.

A sly, cleverly understated concept -- for about three minutes. Stretched to a half-hour, it's a tedious exercise.

The strongest and one redeeming storyline involves Raver.

It's a fairly impressive cast (of characters, not cars), albeit one left skidding around on a rather slippery premise.

As much as the direction and writing capture appropriate tension in the pilot, they allow it to go slack in the second [episode].

To the producers' credit, this storyline advances fairly rapidly; it's just not that engaging or surprising.

[Knights] has its moments in a "Honeymooners" sort of way but, especially after viewing the second episode, feels destined to run out of gas long before its central sextet gets any satisfaction.

If brilliant, psychotic lunatics are your bag, by all means, climb aboard.

If this attempt to put a youthful spin on Robin Hood isn't bad per se, it's at best a warmed-over remake that would be diverting for kids if it wasn't occasionally quite violent.

Earnest but scattered and a little plodding.

[It] basically plays like "Deal," inasmuch as the questions are so simple that amassing thousands isn't much harder than guessing which case to open.

"John From Cincinnati" might be the strangest show ever produced for American television.

Broadly aimed at kids, with cheesy monsters and two youthful protagonists joining in the world-saving exploits, the series may be modestly entertaining for the moppet crowd but will test the patience of adults in this dimension or any other.

Even with an attractive cast and tart moments, the whole remains less than the sum of its parts.

Women's Murder Club has the tone of a show that's designed rather than crafted, a show more concerned about appealing to a target demographic instead of just flowing.

As is, though, the series seeks a tone of whimsy and settles for irritating, leaving Applegate to look perpetually baffled and perhaps longing for the subtlety of "Married ... With Children," without doing much to humanize her character.

Beyond Greer's latter-day Mary Tyler Moore shtick, there's not a note or character that doesn't feel warmed over.

The intent seems to be baiting a drama with a tantalizing marketing hook, but the resulting gumbo--despite a few promising ingredients--is all gristle, no beef.

Based on a subsequent episode, however, the backstory feels thin, and even with its gritty tone and a serialized plot thread that loops back to the first case, the hour proves numbingly procedural.

Tin Man proves a bit of a mess. Sci Fi has done well with minis in December, but despite the intriguing concept three consecutive nights of this adventure falls several Yellow Bricks shy of a load.

There's no nice way to state the obvious--that despite the creative stamp of producers Ridley Scott, Tony Scott and John Calley, stars Chris O'Donnell, Alfred Molina and Michael Keaton simply don't work in their roles, obscuring the solid supporting work, especially by Tom Hollander.

There's no escaping a nagging sense that the series springs from a well-worn playbook.

Samurai Girl tries to spice things up visually with comicbook-style act breaks, but the fighting sequences would need to be staged more imaginatively to compensate for the various deficiencies, and frankly -- even with a few skewerings and a torture scene -- those shiny swords can do only so much damage on ABC Family

Everything about the show screams small potatoes -- including the $5,000 payday for successfully fulfilling a challenge--which would be fine if the execution didn't feel so stilted. As is, this lightweight diversion yields a few amusing moments thanks to the assortment of folks the two actors encounter.

Mostly, though, Sit Down is simply off-the-charts silly--a disappointingly blunt instrument from creative collaborators associated with better.

Exec producers David Simkins and Jack Kenny might still make something of this hash, but the concept has the decided feel of an idea that's been batted around and put through a homogenizing blender.

Sullivan's theatrics notwithstanding, Castle's home environment also proves relatively bland (does primetime really need another precocious teenager?), which means the two episodes previewed pivot largely on the strength of the cases, whose twists certainly don't break new ground (though it is nice to see Keir Dullea in a guest role).

It's just that Merlin is clearly shopping for tricks in the bargain bin, and like the song says, the new Camelot's shining moments are all too brief, indeed.

America's Toughest Jobs misfires, primarily, due to the fact that the elimination component feels like a tired add-on to the summer-camp-for-adults premise.

From the tramp to the Christians, everyone but Amy feels more like a type than a genuine character. Although a degree of shorthand is to be forgiven, these characters are caricatures at best as the series careens all over the place.

Sticking absurdly close to the same formula as the original, down to the opening theme and the filming style, the new version lacks that same sense of wonder and awe that Beverly Hills decadence and excesses once held over viewers.

Where the movie was content to focus on that process, director Mikael Salomon and writer-playwright Robert Schenkkan throw in a veritable kitchen sink of elements. [...] Too bad, because the project has assembled a solid cast, even if they're constrained by spouting all that scientific jargon and spend too much time squabbling and grappling with outside distractions.

Mostly, though, Gary trades insults with his ex-wife (Paula Marshall, who really needs to stop jumping into the sack with uninspired series) and stammers toward the beautiful young woman (Jaime King) with whom he's in bed when the premiere begins. The prospects for transforming that slim premise into a satisfying show would seem less grim if those elements could survive a half-hour.

Despite solid tune-in out of curiosity about the new kid, Fallon’s Late Night got off to a rocky start, with uninspired writing and taped pieces, an at-times visibly nervous host and a first guest, Robert De Niro, whose taciturn nature made him a poor choice for the assignment.

Besides a few screwball scenes and hints at a possible pairing a la "Romancing the Stone" between Danny and moony-eyed romance novelist Kate Providence (Christine Lakin), the rest feels rather ridiculous.

Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior, a by-the-numbers extension of another Eye network franchise.

Beyond snapshots of his quarter-century of tyranny, though, there's precious little that penetrates the surface, despite vague references to his stepfather slapping him around.

Clearly, the producers have endeavored to offer a snapshot of their service, but because Carrier lacks a sharp point of view, there's a kind of "duh" quality to the results.

What's really missing are the kind of big conflicts and geopolitics--the king's war with the Vatican, say--that gave "The Tudors" what little heft it possessed. Lacking that, the focus falls more squarely on Rhys Meyers, who isn't convincing enough in either appearance or bearing.

The network has cast a strong ensemble adrift in a bland workplace environment.

There surely have been worse hours on primetime, but seldom has there been one more predictable--not in the resolution of the cases, necessarily, but in every beat surrounding them.

Ultimately, Bored feels like a rather wan, younger, low-stakes version of Woody Allen's "Manhattan Murder Mystery"--and winds up demonstrating the gap between literature and television.

There's just not that same level of drama when designing a standard blue blazer.

Before long, issues of pregnancy will assail both generations, giving birth to subplots that become so credulity-straining it's hard not to yearn for another song to relieve them.

Created by Ian Edelman, none of these threads really add up to much. And while there's a serialized arc to the storytelling, after four episodes it's still difficult to identify what the principal hook is supposed to be.

So is Shark Tank cathartic, or merely depressing? Perhaps appropriately, it's a little of both.

So while there's a genial enough beat at Ruby's heart, based on the pilot, the prospect of regularly watching the show is enough to make you "Da Doo Ron Ron" for the hills.

There's no shortage of comedy with a semi-improvised flair trafficking in detached irony, but by the end of three catered affairs, I felt every bit as bored and blase about life as Henry.

Too much of Bill Gallagher's self-consciously arcane script and Nick Hurran's direction unfolds as if through a funhouse mirror, offering less in the way of clues than marking time until the vague, conspiratorial reveal in the closing chapters.

Serving as producer and star, Cox's cache might help get the program sampled, but if the pilot is indicative of the show's direction, it's unlikely many will yearn to linger for long in Cougar Town's untidy litter box.

The cast and writing (the showrunner is Mike Kelley, coming off CBS' vastly superior "Swingtown") are efficient enough, but nothing really pops--other than perhaps the desire to run out and eat a nice, heavy, carbo-laden meal.

Househusbands pretends to be about shifting marital dynamics and social mores, and almost by accident, there is some evidence of that. Mostly, though, it's just another family sitcom starring a bunch of actors--and one ambitious morning TV host--auditioning for their next jobs.

While the idea doubtless looked good on the chalkboard, Brothers turns out to be all game plan, and no game.

Everything about Beat, from the accents to the Elvis impersonators lining the police station, from Hendricks' after-hours hobby singing at a bar to his underdeveloped co-workers, suggests a series working too hard to achieve the evocative atmosphere and offbeat characters that come so effortlessly in FX's superior Southern-set drama "Justified."

Uninspired writing and Rose's lack of heft combine to undermine the Parker character, who is pivotal not only as the newcomer to this latest permutation of unusual TV hamlets but figures in a serialized twist about what might have brought her the assignment.

Appropriately for a pilot with so many threads, there's little time invested in establishing basic character before delving into their particular peccadillos.

The problem with the new approach, even in the premiere, is it feels like some bits are being padded to avoid front-loading the show.

Dentists can indeed be funny, but not when they're as toothless as Glenn Martin, DDS.

Given the edginess generally associated with pay TV's forays into reality--focusing on things like whorehouses and bail bondsmen--this is a surprisingly toothless affair, as if Showtime bought a concept, wound up with nothing to show for it and figured what the hell, let's take a shot, as it were, by airing the episodes.

Probst's heart certainly appears to be in the right place. Still, in terms of surviving in the rough-and-tumble of reality TV, he ought to be the last guy who needs being told it's a jungle out there.

William Shatner makes the pilot barely watchable, but only because the fleeting moments of heart overshadow the mostly limp one-liners. In a business obsessed with younger demos, the septuagenarian Shatner is an unlikely sitcom star, but he provides the lone spark in this otherwise-formulaic comedy.

Speed doesn't kill, necessarily, but it can't save weak material either. And after viewing the second episode--in which the defendant is a stripper and her sister a nun--let's just say there seems to be little danger of anyone succumbing to mental exhaustion in the writers' room.

Chase settles for inertia, when the task of capturing viewers would appear to call for bolder strokes.

The best the pilot can muster is a few silly hops.

Eccleston, who lacks much of a physical resemblance to Lennon, certainly nails the biographical portrait, but Lennon Naked spends a lot of time probing around its subject's thin skin without exposing much that augments his legend. It's a movie with music as its foundation that hits occasional high notes but, ultimately, can't carry a tune.

So boring? You betcha--perhaps even for many who otherwise admire Palin.

Granted, one can argue that such programs, including History's "Pawn Stars" and Syfy's auction series "Hollywood Treasure," tap into a recessionary desire to mine moolah from unexpected sources. Such deeper meaning, however, proves elusive in the sheer banality of the process.

The series opens with the doctors taking a cliff plunge into the inviting ocean, but this is a show where nothing qualifies as a creative leap, much less the sort of dive to merit keeping Off the Map on viewers' radar.

Kyle Bornheimer's the best thing Couples has going for it, and that's hardly enough incentive for viewers to turn what amounts to a hastily scheduled speed date into a one-night stand, much less a full-blown relationship.

Still, worrying overly much about plot misses the point. Spartacus is all about atmosphere, and even its cheesy "300"-type visual style (a little more polished than last time) and slow-motion action exist entirely to advance that aspect.

Being tasteless doesn't mean Bob's Burgers is completely devoid of flavor, but the show too often falls on the wrong side of that "entertaining"/"annoying" divide.

Too bad we've seen it all before, with more inspired execution and interesting characters.

Frankly, none of the couples really stand out by reality-TV standards in the first two episodes, but the basic template contains enough relatable elements--struggling with weight, and stressing about wedding details--to carry the show along.

Tyson is joined by a colorful group of guys who easily could have been extras on "The Sopranos," but his quest to become a champion in this new arena simply doesn't hold enough interest to stay airborne.

The gag [that Reiser is "is happily bored"] loses considerable steam, though, once you realize he has chosen to busy himself writing, producing and starring in this tepid art-imitates-life comedy, which only serves to make "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and "Seinfeld"--its closest comedic kin--shine even brighter by comparison.

The real puzzler is how many clients seem completely unabashed about having their preferences and fetishes captured on film--undaunted by paid-for frolicking (between two, or more, consenting adults) with a camera crew in tow. Once you get past that, the series proves reasonably compelling while relying on typical tricks of the trade--a brand of pandering commonly known as "reality TV."

Mostly, though, Mob Wives arrives too late on familiar turf to be truly interesting, and even with ample doses of bleeped expletives that almost outnumber the audible words, free-flowing tears and (yes) a hair-pulling fight in the "This season on" tease, the situations come off as staged and contrived.

By the time it was over, all I could think was: See no more of "The Voice." Hear no more of "The Voice." And after Tuesday, no reason to speak any longer about "The Voice."

Alas, [the guest judges are] the only fresh ingredient in the series, from the format to the cast, with a dozen participants--all in their 20s and 30s--who arrive spouting the usual "I'm here to win" platinum-plated platitudes.

Admittedly, the whole career/mom juxtaposition in this sort of extreme setting will surely resonate with some viewers, but it's so limply handled as to make ABC's similarly themed "Body of Proof" look scintillating by comparison.

The supporting cast (including Torres and Rick Hoffman as a rather suspicious attorney who can't stand Harvey) almost redeems the show, but they amount to accessories, while the two primary pieces aren't especially colorful.

Standout installment not only benefits from guest appearances by Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim but also channels their uniquely off-kilter humor in a trippy sci-fi storyline that sustains its length. Too often, though, Van lends credence to the theory that TV sketch comedy's primary usefulness isn't in appointment viewing, but in feeding the voracious appetite for viral videos online.

Still, for a show chronicling this modern conflict, Combat Hospital seems painfully old-fashioned, as the script by Petrie, who shares story credit with creators Jinder Oujla-Chalmers and Douglas Steinberg, recycles any number of hospital-show cliches in the pilot alone.

While Wilfred will doubtless find cultish admirers, after previewing three episodes, the size of its pack should be limited.

In short, Same Name is too respectful to both halves of its equation to be fully engaging by reality-TV standards.

While the project had its devotees in its original form, the first four legs of a 10-episode flight feel stilted, claustrophobic and only fitfully amusing as stitched together for Showtime.

Unfortunately, star Rachael Carpani's Abby Kowalski is the least interesting character in a not especially galvanizing show--no further investigation required.

Even so, the disjointed, choppy approach leaves this meticulously outfitted production looking overdressed for the occasion, and while there are enough moving parts to potentially turn up something interesting, turbulent takeoffs seldom bode well for the rest of the trip.

Among Grimm's more immediate challenges are Giuntoli's initial blandness as its lead, along with questions regarding how long his confused partner ("Lincoln Heights'" Russell Hornsby) can continue showing up at crime scenes without ascertaining something's weird in the state of Oregon.

It's presented in such a familiar single-camera manner it would be easy to mistakenly assume "Man Up!" is a rerun of recent sitcoms past.

Allen Gregory's over-the-top characters don't promise to age very well. That's a shame, really, since the show has a cool look and actually the potential to be about something in dealing with how a pretentious egghead tries to fit in.

As constructed, it amounts to a Peter Pan prequel lacquered up with a revisionist space-age paint job.

Spartacus: Vengeance is up to the same old tricks, endeavoring to give gratuitous violence and sex a good name.

The series is a pretty good metaphor for the original law firm: outwardly slick and polished, but with a hollow core.

Rob might be a lot things, but "smart" isn't an adjective apt to crop up frequently in connection with it.

The Borgias remains a serious letdown as well, so grim and joyless it’s hard to derive much satisfaction from seeing Jeremy Irons in a role he was seemingly born to play.

The series keeps retreating to familiar tropes of the docu-soap genre, from a contentious dinner to a pool party that produces more finger-wagging verbal pugilism.

The problem is by thrusting the duo almost immediately into what amounts to a highly straightforward procedural, the dynamic meant to distinguish Common Law from every other copshow--including several existing ones in the basic-cable universe--feels flimsy at best.

This stately effort manages to be too big, and not nearly big enough.

Veep sparks to life only occasionally.

Cast changes and additions (a la Jennifer Hudson's new diva) can't obscure a skein whose soapy doings drown out its tunes, and where even the music often comes across as flat.

Mostly, though, there's just nothing terribly distinctive about Men at Work, so much so it's almost impossible to imagine how the pitch went without these actors to instill its tired one-liners with some modest zing.

Considerable effort and care clearly went into that process, but unlike the city by the Bay, there's not much heart left in Hemingway & Gellhorn.

As it stands, to put it in Western terms, Longmire is all hat, and no cattle.

Speaking bluntly, though, the show simply isn't as piggish as would be required to feel truly provocative.

Hollywood Heights comes out flat in a manner that, far from Loren's contortions to see Eddie, isn't worth breaking curfew to see.

Distilled into a half-hour, there's just enough to keep the show from overstaying its weekly welcome, and audiences have clearly demonstrated their fondness for the "Jersey" bunch.

The challenges prove as murky as the cinematography.

Brand X works when Brand doesn't force himself to play with the trappings of the show and he just sticks to the monologue.

Granted, some of these throwback-style shows can work sparingly, but the comedy here feels so tepid and predictable as to virtually cap the upside.

It's hard to imagine Practice ever being more than tolerable, much less making perfect.

Mostly, Couric seems exceptionally eager to please, perhaps too much so.

The backdrop is obviously meant to be relatable, but the execution brings such a stale approach to sexual politics as to feel dated by the first act break.

There's no sense that these stick figures trapped in a by-the-numbers melodrama could be real people swept up in tragic circumstances.

The TLC formula is pretty familiar, and Breaking Amish takes its rightful place alongside oddities like "Sister Wives" and "My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding."

There's nothing initially compelling enough to warrant regular visits, much less house calls.

As is, there's nary a beat in Emily Owens' pitter-pattering heart we haven't seen elsewhere, as if the whole thing was stitched together from pieces of medical-and young-adult series past.

Despite featuring slickly executed action sequences (though nothing viewers couldn't see on Universal's "Backdraft" ride), Fire is almost as drab as a pile of ash.

The series remains a collection of moments (creepy, campy, revolting) and stock characters, designed more to provoke and earn the "TV-MA" rating than to interact.

Unlike the game-changing icons it intends to celebrate, Men fails to leave its mark.

Fine actors like William Fichtner, Robert Knepper and Anson Mount lend some credibility, but almost all of it is paper-thin, relying on Paul Haslinger's pulsating score to maintain and heighten a sense of tension.

The mothers are reasonably interchangeable in the early going, and most of them fit an instant type--many overweight, cultivating the image of someone who either saw better days or never enjoyed them, and who now lives vicariously through her daughter.

The show consistently produces a "Who cares?" response.

Defiance isn’t any worse than some of the so-so international imports Syfy has picked up to add original spice to its lineup, but the ingenuity that went into the process of conceiving the game and show together--as well as the nifty look, visual effects and makeup--simply aren’t matched by similar effort regarding story and plot.

Those who do tune in will find the Rose they see here as being as natural at mugging for the camera as he was at the plate. Whether that will be enough to keep the series around long enough for Kim to actually earn her "Mrs." stripes, well, don't bet on it.

The shiny exterior and show-within-a-show construct can't obscure the pilot's general incoherence--or nagging questions about where any of this might be heading.

Lehman’s character is allowed to exhibit a bit of a personal life, but for the most part the series doesn’t stray far from its criminal motif. Nor do other members of the squad have enough material to register beyond a blip.

Life Is But a Dream simply plays like a video diary, a less-salacious version of the brand of self-confessional "celeb-reality" shows overpopulating cable TV, albeit with lower-octane stars.

Ray and his brood--either extended or related by blood--simply aren't interesting enough to merit more than a one-off.

Phil Spector is watchable, but given the lofty expectations raised by HBO movies, it’s also the cinematic equivalent of a bad hair day.

If the underlying formula is as old as “Dark Shadows,” there’s still a need for more narrative momentum than the 13-episode series initially delivers.

Other than enjoying Maslany in multiple characters, wigs and accents, there’s nothing so distinctive about the plot as to provide an incentive to hang around long enough to sort out all the gory details regarding who might want to eliminate them.

The cloak-and-dagger stuff, however, proves terribly mild, and the romance stiff and hackneyed.

Other than having an African-American woman as the protagonist, though, this feels like any number of similar movies and series, where cops must decide how far they’ll go (do cocaine? Shoot a guy the boss has tied up?) to protect their cover and get the job done. More fundamentally, the show’s naughty bits feel particularly gratuitous.

It’s hard to escape a sense that in a slightly earlier era, this sort of enterprise would have been offered as Saturday-afternoon syndicated filler as opposed to a ready-for-primetime player.

With a concept and general feeling this tired, when it comes to forging any lasting bonds, Family will likely discover water is thicker than blood.

Instead of mining the opportunity to expand its view of a meaty topic, Newlyweds falls back on the sort of bad habits that can ruin a relationship (made-for-TV or otherwise), and far from being fabulous in its design, has instead recycled Bravo’s same old pattern.

For anyone engaged in this discussion, merely capturing how the Constitution remains relevant can’t help but feel a trifle wishy-washy and simplistic.

It blends fleeting moments of inspiration with lengthy stretches of utter banality.

Aaron McGruder's anger comes through loud and clear in this adaptation of his comicstrip into an Adult Swim animated series, but the dearth of humor reflects another awkward and disappointing transition from three-panel glory to TV series.

Lifeless and uninspired.

Its humor is simple and, at times, degrading.

Gilbert at least brings some human dimension to the otherwise relentless silliness.

None of it is particularly convincing.

The best thing about "Surface" thus far is NBC's promo campaign, which, sliced into bite-sized bits, actually makes the program look considerably better than it is.

Remember those scenes on "The West Wing" when the Joint Chiefs assemble in the "situation room" to tackle some faraway threat? Reprise the tension with none of the intelligence, inject flag-waving machismo and high-tech imagery, and what's left is this Jerry Bruckheimer drama.

About 10 years too late to qualify as provocative.

Cultural distinctions notwithstanding (will U.S. viewers double over at a Tongan accent?), Summer Heights High seldom rises above silliness and mostly proves just plain irritating.

The U.S. version of "Teachers" has lost much of its grit and feels thuddingly conventional.

[It] isn't terrible but doesn't pack much of a comedic wallop.

Brings too little that's fresh to a format already exhibiting signs of wear and tear.

The producers of this NBC wish-fulfillment show have endeavored to out-schmaltz ABC's "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," and for those who can stomach this level of manipulative fluff, damned if they haven't done it.

"Fox attitude" in this genre demands that if a show's worth producing, it's worth overproducing, from the music to the faux tension to the various back stories (injuries, struggles, pain) designed to gin up drama.

This isn't to say what these folks experienced isn't harrowing, but these hybrids mixing dramatic and documentary techniques only enjoy a sense of authenticity if both halves work, which isn't the case at least in the maiden voyage.

Granted, the smaller time frame makes it more difficult to chronicle an 80-some-odd-year life, but what emerges is a CliffsNotes version that fastidiously avoids crowd shots (presumably to keep costs down) and struggles to create drama with its worshipful tone.

[A] grim, brooding, utterly muddled crime series.

This overly broad storybook project feels painfully dated.

It doesn't help that the producers shape the episodes as if they were little sports movies, peddling cliches about the nervous rookie, the veteran making a comeback or the underdog team. That might work with a real sport, but it's kind of a buzzkill when dealing with a staged one.

A pastiche of disaster movies past with everything from tidal waves to erupting volcanoes, the some-star cast gamely waltzes through writer-director John Lafia's silly plot beats, which pass at such breakneck speed there's barely time to giggle at them.

The show seems as if it desperately yearns to be a worthy companion to "Housewives" but lacks the requisite bite, despite political references meant to feel edgy that prove mostly banal.

With too many one-note jokes and characters, insufficient barrel laughs and too much controlled chaos, "Big Day" will be lucky if it even makes it to the afternoon let alone a walk down the aisle.

If "30 Rock's" going to survive, Baldwin's comedic chops will be tugging the lifeline.

All sizzle and no steak, producer Jerry Bruckheimer's latest hour occasionally feels like a parody of courtshows, what with its hyperactive pace, pointless "CSI"-type visual bells and whistles and misdirected premise depicting high-priced defense attorneys as semi-good guys.

"Lovespring International" goes for the obvious gags and seems to find itself a lot cuter than most viewers are apt to.

Put it this way: Any comedy that milks multiple jokes from a character being named "Woodcock" is pretty much running on fumes.

The more you see of it, the less there is to like.

While [Danson's] old-pro timing gives the show a modest lift, "Help Me Help You" provides more of an incentive to get off the couch than to plop down on one.

With the quirky tone and lead character's voiceover, this all feels a little too much like "Anne's Anatomy," with neither the wit nor whimsy necessary to sustain a concept that would likely fare better as a romantic comedy feature than an ongoing series.

There's no sign of passion here; it's all awkward.

[It] feels like a Hallmark movie stretched into series form.

Beyond its educational footnotes for potential buyers and sellers, this six-part series is mostly a cartoon, reducing its rotating "stars" to labels like "the Blond Bombshell" and "the Schmoozer."

Silly, poorly cast and full of clunky dialogue.

Limited animation, uninspired character design and ho-hum writing conspire to keep this all on a rudimentary level.