A Note on This Week’s Column: I’ve been sidelined by the Dreaded Deadline Doom this week, so there’s no new column, strictly speaking. But as a special treat — all right, to fill the gap in the schedule — I’m presenting here, for the first time, the very first How Bad Can It Be? ever written.

Jeff Giles first approached me about doing a column about a year ago — November 2008. We kicked around some concepts, knocking the premise into shape. To help me get a grip on it, I wrote a bunch of sample columns, including this one, about the then-current season of NBC’s The Biggest Loser. The start date for the column was eventually pushed back to January 2009, leaving this piece basically unpublishable — hopelessly past its sell-by date. And so it has sat on my hard drive until now. Hope you enjoy this peek behind the curtain — the Secret Origin of HBCIB?, if you will.

As this was to have been the inaugural column, it begins with a statement of purpose — one I find worth revisiting now and then…

I will not cop to charges of snobbery; I find my pop-culture thrills wherever I can. I freely admit, though, that I’m selective. Any consumer of media has to be, I think. There are only so many hours in a day, and so much to fill them with. It’s not so much that I’m actively avoiding anything; it’s just that there’s so much good stuff out there that I’ve not yet experienced — Infinite Jest, “Trout Mask Replica,” Kurosawa’s Rashomon — that I’ve got to be choosy with the little time I have above ground. And because I write about media from the perspective of an enthusiast, rather than a critic, I’m not obliged to watch or read and listen to anything in which I would otherwise have no interest.

In practice, that means gravitating towards a comfort zone. It’s a big zone, as these things go — I’m a pretty well-rounded guy — but in the great spectrum of mass media, it’s a relatively narrow bandwidth. Now, I can and do often enjoy myself when I venture out of that zone; but I always do so with mingled feelings of hope and dread. Part of me wonders, “Am I going to hate myself for watching this? Will I wish I could have this hour back?” And another part of me thinks, “Hey, you never know. This could be a keeper. And really, after all — how bad can it be?”

This column aims to answer that question.

So you can see why it was with some fear and trembling that I tuned in the new season of The Biggest Loser (Tuesdays, NBC). The show is basically a Survivor-style competition; each season, a group of morbidly obese contestants is whisked off to a ludicrously lavish “ranch,” where they are divided into two teams. Each team is assigned a personal trainer, and through a regime of diet and exercise they work to trim down. Each week, there’s a weigh-in, and one contestant is eliminated. The eventual winner — the “biggest loser” — is the contestant who loses the highest percentage of body weight over the course of the program, and he or she is rewarded, as is usual, with a cash prize and an assortment of consumer goods. So far, so Mark Burnett.

What makes The Biggest Loser so car-crash fascinating is the simmering brew of emotional issues and class politics bubbling under the surface. These people aren’t just fame-whores, or even contestants playing a game — they are sick people who are clutching for a chance to get well. Received wisdom holds that you can never be too rich or too thin, and The Biggest Loser promises to deliver on both aspirations — but thinness itself is rapidly becoming a class aspiration. As Greg Critser points out in his book Fat Land (a critical text for understanding the obesity crisis), government subsidies and agribusiness consolidations have overturned historical precedent; in 21st Century America, a diet of pre-prepared, calorie-dense foods is actually cheaper and more readily-available than one of traditional staples. And so obesity becomes a socio-economic issue, with the poor gorging on sweetmeats that would astonish Henry VIII, while the rich pay big money to eat like peasants.

The emotional aspects are even gnarlier. This season, The Biggest Loser has rejiggered its formula; instead of individual contestants, we get overweight family units. The two starting teams consist of four husband-wife couples versus four parent-child pairs. I’m having a hard time imagining this is going to end well for any of them. One fat person on his own is a medical issue; two fat people in a family relationship are a stew of guilt, recrimination, and enablement. Put ‘em in a high-pressure environment, under the ever-watchful eye of the camera — that’s a recipe for entertaining television! (Or possibly manslaughter.)

Struggling with all this, I sit down to watch, and we meet the trainers and the families, most of whom have been supplied, through the magic of editing, with some sort of relatable backstory. Trainer Bob is working with the couples; he looks a little like the guy from The Soup, but with a three-day beard. Of the two younger couples, the Orange team are relative newlyweds who want to get their weight under control before they start having kids, while the Brown team seem mostly just to want to win the game; they’re clearly being set up as the villains. The Red team is a middle-aged couple who’ve left their three kids — including an autistic eight-year old — in the care of relatives, while they ship off to the fat farm. Somehow, I’m not as sympathetic towards them as I think I’m supposed to be. Trainer Bob seems an amiable doofus, like Brad Pitt in Burn After Reading, until he starts snarling at his charges and calling them “bitch” while demanding push-ups in psychotic-gym-teacher fashion.

The parent-child teams are in the care of trainer Jillian. She’s got father-son cab drivers who come on like bit players from Gone Baby Gone; two sets of miserable twentysomething doormat daughters stuck living with their miserable overbearing moms; and a weepy girl who idolizes her father, a cop, who is so debilitatingly huge that he requires an oxygen tank about five minutes into the episode. Jillian is sexy ugly in a way vaguely reminiscent of Sandra Bernhard, and shows her deep emotional attachment to her team by screaming insults at them and smacking them upside the head.

The workout segments are the cheap thrill of the show; we get the sadistic spectacle of a toned, sharp-tongued quasi-dominatrix tormenting a pack of fatsos — for their own good! The rest of it, though, seems constructed primarily as a cross-marketing platform. We get a few perfunctory cooking tips, this week featuring chef Rocco DiSpirito, who of course has a TV show of his own; he briefly addresses the idea that healthy food must perforce be expensive, a throwaway moment that is as close as the show ever comes to addressing the class issues of obesity. And there’s relentless shilling for sponsor products, done with a blatancy not seen since the early days of TV, when Jack Benny would interrupt his own show to light up a Lucky.

The thing is, the damn show is two hours long, and even with the slack pacing, there’s a lot of time to fill and a lot of fake tension to build. And so the contestants are roped into idiotically contrived side bets and games. These segments are hosted by soap opera actress Alison Sweeney, smirking as she puts the teams through activities of dubious therapeutic value and questionable reward.

This week there’s a degrading debacle involving huge, color-coded Slip ‘n’ Slides, with the prize being a phone call home; for people struggling with a health issue related to their family dynamics, you can see where that may be counterproductive. The winner is the wife on the Orange team — that’s the couple getting ready to start a family, remember — and when she breaks down in tears while talking to her father, it’s hard not to imagine an unwholesome backstory. (But then, I have a vivid imagination.)

Then it’s back to more workouts, more yelling, more close-ups of sweaty fat people. My queasiness about The Biggest Loser, I think, reflects my ambivalence about the morbidly obese in general — an ambivalence heightened by the fact that I’m a big fat slob myself. But while I could surely stand to drop fifty pounds or so, I can still manage a five-mile hike without breathing hard, to say nothing of getting around the grocery store unaided. When I see folks at the market, too fat for the basic function of walking, tooling around in their electric carts, the thought occurs unbidden: You’ve crippled yourself, and it didn’t have to be like this. No one did this to you — you did it to yourself. In much the same way, you’re rooting for the contestants on The Biggest Loser, but watching them moan and perspire and weep, you can’t help thinking that, y’know, they brought this all on themselves.

But enough uncomfortable reflection: It’s off to the weigh-in, padded out over three (!) commercial breaks with fish-faced reaction shots and booming tympani. I’m unprepared for how much math is involved in this show. Immunity and the possibility of elimination are calculated on the total weight lost per team versus total starting weight; there’s also an over-under on the side wager, which automatically puts that team up for elimination. I wish I had a slide rule at this point. In the end, a bunch of people don’t do so good. Weepy Girl and Officer Porky have made a foolish wager early on, and lose badly; when all is said and done, though, the survivors vote to send the Car Talk guys home. Their reaction (paraphrased): “Meh, fuckit.” My reaction: roughly the same.

So how bad is it? Pretty bad. The ugly emotional explosions never arrive, which is a pity; they would have been a distraction from the deep and uncomfortable contradictions at the heart of the show. On the one hand, it The Biggest Loser Families wants to be empowering and heartwarming; on the other, it wants to serve up the red meat of entertainment — a suspenseful game, colorful challenges, and an endlessly-replayed clip of an old fat man falling off a treadmill.

And so the show constantly undercuts itself. Moments of naked calculation and strategizing — like the Brown team throwing a game on purpose because they “don’t want to be seen as a threat” — bounce up against tears and hugs played out against soaring strings; but the pathos ultimately feels unearned. When the Red team calls home and their autistic son — who seldom expresses emotion — tells them he loves and misses them, it actually makes them seem less sympathetic; after all, the reason they’re separated from him in the first place is because they’re off chasing cash prizes and a new RV.

Again and again, the games aspect is at odds with the goal of actually getting well — beginning with the fact that the players who are losing weight most slowly, who obviously would benefit most from staying in the program, are the very ones who get booted out. Jillian gets a lot of great reaction shots, looking convincingly disgusted at the way the producers contrive to set the contestants at each other’s throats; I think I know how she feels. There’s an ugly cynicism at the heart of The Biggest Loser franchise, in how it tries to have it both ways — purporting to help its contestants while simultaneously inviting the viewers at home to laugh at the fatties.

Bottom line: Watch at your own risk. It’s enjoyable enough, in a train-wreck kind of way, but if you’ve got a single spark of decency in your soul, you’ll hate yourself in the morning.

If you haven’t got a single spark of decency in your soul, of course, you can probably get your own development deal with NBC, if you hurry.

Blood Ties stars Christina Cox as Vicki Nelson, a former cop turned private investigator. Her partner is a hunky, ageless vampire named Henry Fitzroy (Kyle Schmid). The two of them are hired to solve crimes that are out of the ordinary (demons, cat people, etc) and sometimes get brought in by Vicki’s old police partner and lover, Mike Celluci (Dylan Neal). Although all three are “friends,” there are lingering feelings between Mike and Vicki, feelings that make Henry a bit jealous. Likewise, Mike isn’t too sure how he feels about his ex hanging out with a bloodsucking bo-hunk. This strange romantic triangle makes for some light moments in between the X-Files-esque cases that form the basis for the plots of Blood Ties.

Nelson is a no-nonsense, hard nosed detective; she’s not afraid of anything. It’s this quality in her that makes her attractive to both men. Of the two, she seems more drawn to Henry and seems open to the idea of living forever. However, Henry knows that should he give her the gift of eternal life, their love will evaporate; he will have cursed Vicki into watching her friends and family die. This makes Henry one of the most sensitive vampires I’ve seen since Brat Pitt bared his fangs in Interview with a Vampire (this show did come out long before Twilight and The Vampire Diaries). Henry is no pushover and is quite protective of Vicki, as is Mike. The tough guy detective draws many stares and places his career in jeopardy by constantly going to Vicki for help. Some begin to question his sanity as he lets slip his belief in the supernatural.

Considering the limitations of working on a basic cable budget, Blood Ties is able to create plenty of atmosphere and just enough spookiness to make it worth watching on, say, a Sunday afternoon when you’re curled on the couch with a bag of chips and a Coke. Cox and Neal have nice chemistry and a playfulness that makes them a pleasure to watch. And Schmid holds back on the vampire angst and gives Henry a friendliness that you don’t often associate with vampire stories. The writing is slick and the production is pretty smooth while the direction and editing is seamless. While the music can get a little clunky, this is a minor distraction in an otherwise decent series.

Unlike so many productions that shoot in Canada an try to pass it off as some locale in the U.S., Blood Ties embraces its setting and puts the landscape to good use. Sure, the plots can be a little predictable, pulling ideas from previous supernatural shows and the horror classics of yesteryear, but the key to this show’s success is in the characters and the actors portraying them. All three leads are likable enough that Blood Ties deserves at least a rental consideration the next time you’re looking for something to watch on a weekend afternoon.

You don’t remember what I was talking about last week. I’ll just move on to — what? You say you do remember? Oh. Crap.

The crux of last week’s column was my belief that there’s no solid reason to be hard on Jay Leno, no matter how bad his show might be, because NBC wouldn’t do anything innovative with the timeslot anyhow. They’d probably fill the space with more dramas about lawyers, cops and doctors. This statement was mildly controversial, spurring a light flurry of responses along the lines of, “If it’s good television, it wouldn’t matter if it is about lawyers, cops and doctors,” and on this I will agree to disagree. With all the stories television can tell, I’m still perplexed by viewers’ seemingly insatiable desire to revolve around these three occupations. This, however, was not the problem with what I wrote.

No, that would be what I said regarding the canceled series Southland. We’ll get into the whys and wherefores in a moment, but the responses (which came fast, furious and often) tended to fit into three categories:

1. “You’re stupid & dumb & stupid.” – If you’ve posted a public column and haven’t been called this at least once, check if your PC or Mac is powered up, because you certainly haven’t been writing on the Internet. Calling someone an idiot on this thing is as common as muck.

2. “You’re a liar.” – When I approach this column and write, I base it on information I have gathered, period. Fabrication serves absolutely no purpose. When I say I’ve received information, you can be sure I’m telling the truth. In the final analysis, though, my defensive pose is fatally compromised. Sure, I’m saying with my heart on my sleeve that I’m giving you the truth as I’ve heard and seen it, but that’s all blah-blah and rubbish when faced with…

3. “You’re ignorant.” – Ouch. So what if I said that the word-of-mouth-meisters were selling Southland on the premise that one of the policeman characters was or might be gay? So what if I’m blindly rehashing what I was myself given by other sources? The cold, blunt truth of it is that I never saw an episode (and said so in the first article, a point I’ve made several times but, in actuality, excuses nothing) and so I never took the time to back anything up. I took the crosstalk and the salespitch and never bothered to see for myself. I don’t need to have a ten-pound Webster’s Dictionary land on my foot to know that’s the definition of ignorance: not finding out for one’s self. I repeat: ouch.

At the very least, that scars my credibility. At the very worst, it’s a display of disrespect to the Popdose readership because, in this day and age of television on the Internet, on iTunes and on your neighbor’s TiVo, I was lazy. I can plead my case ’til the cows come home, but no matter how I arrived at my flawed synopsis, it would have been easily rectified had I just done the homework. This is a mistake that won’t happen again, especially because getting a huge number of responses is only cool when the respondents aren’t calling you a dumb, stupid, ignorant liar.

There is still a problem, though. All the contrition in the world isn’t going to change the fact that if I came to this flawed conclusion about the show, others did too. This was reflected in the more thoughtful responses to last week’s column. There are, I’m sure, other people out there running on assumptions about Southland and its marketing, only they don’t have a soapbox. So I asked people to write in. There were some conditions, though. The first condition: I requested two paragraphs, both concise and persuasive, about the merits of this TV show. Not to sell me on Southland; these folks already pegged me as an ignorant bonehead anyway. No, aim at all the ignorant boneheads, including me, and let us know exactly why you’re charged up about this program.

The second condition was, I believe, more important than the first. You have to use your real name, not some screen name, alias or nom de plume. I didn’t want contact information, this ain’t about setting people up for junk mail or spam, but really if you’re passionate enough to write out the check, sign it. A few people came forward. A lot didn’t. Some refused to step out from behind their anonymity. Their reasons are their own, but if, God forbid, an NBC executive read this piece, anonymous comments would have all the gravitas of the latest LOL Cats postings.  There’s a time for being KingSexyPants84 and a time to not be. My name is Dw. Dunphy, and I have no sexy pants myself.

To my word, the space was arranged for these responses with the assurance that they wouldn’t be edited. I started the clock, waiting for the RSVPs to come in; slowly, they arrived. For awhile I had to wonder where this was headed, especially when Sunday dawned with news that NBC had severed all ties with the program, allowing it to be optioned out to cable TV (probably the TNT network). It will have a shot on cable; I still believe that this is where the commitment and attention span for such shows now resides. My assumption is that, in spite of all the mishegoss, the network itself viewed it solely as another cop show. An assumption, but if they truly thought that had anything else, they might have tried to find another place for it, instead of setting it adrift. It is what it is.

So listen up, TNT, or any other network interested in Southland — the following participants would appreciate your attention. The desire to see the show return is there, and the numbers indicate an audience your advertising partners could get along with. They’ve submitted to my spare conditions, and I’ll take whatever insults they want to want to direct at me in my own column. I cede the floor to the fans of Southland.

Lori Parsons: I can’t say I have anything compelling to say about the show, really.  I’m not one of those who sees a show and immediately gets all, “Oh my God, this is the best show ever!”.  The first season had its flaws.  They tried to branch out to too many characters way too soon but they seemed to get that and had retooled the show over the hiatus and was going to come back with a narrower focus, which I was very much looking forward to.  Regina King’s ”Lydia”, Michael Cudlitz’s ”Cooper” and Ben McKenzie’s “Sherman” were the characters that immediately drew me in. I liked the partnership of ”Sammy” and “Nate” (Shawn Hatosy and Kevin Alejandro, respectively), and “Chickie” (Arija Bareikis) as well.  Some of the other characters I could have done without.  Tom Everett Scott for one.  I like the actor but just didn’t care for, or about, the character.

Alright, so this isn’t sounding much like a defense but let’s just say it had promise and I was more than willing to see the show get into its stride and figure out what worked and what didn’t.  I’ve always liked cop shows but not all catch my attention.  I’m not that into the procedurals, of which there are many these days, which is probably partly why this one caught my attention.  It was getting back to a realism that I feel is missing in other shows, the beat cops and what they encounter, the personal struggles.  Nothing they were dealing with seemed to overly dramatic.  Even the rich kid donning a uniform, as cliché as that could be, didn’t seem too over the top.  No, not anything original but sometimes it’s just the right mix of actors, writers, and cinematography.  The look, the feel….it just hit the right note for me, overreaching scope notwithstanding.

Sure, it’s another cop show among many in a long line of cop shows but such are commonly successful and are so for a reason. People like to see the good guys going out and catching bad guys and everything in between.  They like to see people in such occupations dealing with the same personal problems as “we” are.  People like to see that these “good guys” are not without flaws.  It may be a tired concept on the surface but as long as they keep them human and there are new people give it a try, there’s always a chance that it will strike a fresh feel, depending on what else is scattered across the landscape.  Other “cop shows” I watch/have watched: Adam 12, Starsky and Hutch, Streets of San Francisco, 21 Jump Street (Johnny Depp.  Need I say more?).  I loved NYPD Blue, and currently watch The Closer, The Mentalist (ok, this one’s mainly for Simon Baker… I’m still not above watching a show just for eye candy,) just caught White Collar and liked it a lot.  No rhyme or reason to what keeps my interest really, just some shows “have it” for me and some don’t, for different reasons.  Sometimes I’m in the mood for lighter fare and sometimes I want something more realistic.  Southland falls into the latter.

Maryellen Weinberg: Why is Southland different from other cop shows and why should you watch: because Southland is not just a cookie cutter of what’s already on. For starters, it’s filmed on the streets of Los Angeles, not in a studio. That brings a realism that often isn’t seen on other shows. For instance, any cops that they show in the background are real police officers, not just ‘extras’. They had a retired LAPD officer who was also an ex-SWAT member as an adviser on-set for filming. It’s as close to real as you can get without watching Cops.

The stories aren’t predictable. Unlike other police shows where you can often guess who the killer or perp is by the first commercial break, that’s not the case on Southland. It keeps you hanging until the end. They have some cases that are wrapped up by the end of episode and others that continue from one episode to another, which is also unique. But the thing is, because of how real the show feels, you want to know what’s happening with the characters when they’re off-duty as well and how it affects their on-duty work, and you get some of that as well. You learn they’re people with flaws and baggage just like the rest of us.

Give Southland a chance when it comes back on (and it will!) I think you’ll be glad you did.

Barbara Riecker: First and foremost, it has a pedigree to die for, from the creator, to the writers, directors and an ensemble cast that knows how to take direction and delivers.  Each episode is fairly self-contained.  Locations are real, giving each scene credibility. It is L.A. specific, and totally shows us the underbelly of the city, regardless of the socio-economics of the victims and perps being portrayed.

As to the show’s premise, it promised not to be a procedural and it isn’t. It promised to go into the personal lives of the officers and detectives and it did.  It may have spread itself too thin in Season One, but it’s understandable given they only had seven episodes in which to lay their whole foundation. It also promised to focus on fewer story lines in Season Two, and to maintain its gritty nature.  We were deprived of seeing this for ourselves by NBC, who got the show it commissioned, but couldn’t keep their own promises to Wells et. al.

Michelle Stolowicki: Why are the Southland fans enraged over the show being canceled since there are so many cop shows available? It’s because Southland is not just another cop show. Truth be said, I was initially so turned off by the way NBC promoted Southland that I did not watch the premiere. I caught the end of the second episode and was surprisingly delighted which left me eager for more. Southland has this air of realism to it and at times the viewer feels like he/she is watching a fictionalized version of the show Cops.

The producers achieved this realism by filming the majority of the show on the streets of LA with some shots captured by hand-held cameras, using actual cops and gang members where applicable, having a twenty-six year veteran of the LAPD as a technical adviser, and using real street language which included foul language.  In addition, the actors underwent “cop” training by going to a shooting range, participating in ride-alongs with real LAPD cops, and driving training. Combine this with excellent writing, awesome actors, and a great crew, the viewer gets a real glimpse into the lives of the LAPD. Nothing is sugar-coated, the viewer sees all – the good, the bad, and the ugly. Southland isn’t just another cop show, it is the cop show to watch.

And now, a tangent: For a moment, I think it’s a good idea to reflect on what’s coming down the pike. The battle rages on about net neutrality, which is basically a way of maintaining the open channels of the Internet as we know it, maintaining it as a space for creative minds and technologies to keep expanding what’s there — but it’s only a matter of time before some kind of radical alteration happens. Several telecom companies would rather that open field not be there, in order to make sure toll gates are created on the Internet, to make sure companies and providers get paid first and any big ideas go through a gateway (in loose translation, own the Google minds so they don’t become the Google competition.)  From there, it’s a slow trickle-down, from the creators to the users, the goal being locking down the technology and locking in the user, and that means positively identifying said user. Think about it. The Internet is probably the only venue left that legally allows anonymity and alternate identities. It’s, for best or worst, a golden age of communication, but one that has not truly been monetized yet — not on its face, anyway. It won’t change because of fair or unfair use, or of some high school Twitter junta that goes after a classmate with virtual impunity. It won’t be because someone commits a crime but leaves no digital DNA behind. It will just be because companies market to people, not aliases, and the more these companies can identify them, the greater the chances of selling to them. Remember driver’s licenses before photographs and barcodes?

In short, the faceless sea of Internet communication can’t survive forever because it goes against some of the most cherished tenets of capitalism, and in this cash-strapped age, the prospect of licensing for individual ‘Net users, like the licensing of individual car drivers, becomes both tantalizing and not out of the realm of possibility. You’ll be told it’s for the societal good, or more likely for your own good, but it isn’t, really. It’s just a way of making sure you’re paying in. This is also why it means something to attach your actual name to your sentiments. Like I said earlier, if you’re passionate enough to write out that check, sign it, especially now when it’s your free choice to rise above the masked subset. It’s not in the interests of Corporate America for you to have that option forever, and while that sounds awfully paranoid, it’s also feasible.

Preach, preach, blah-blah. What have I learned from all this? If I’m going to exercise my free choice to rise above that “faceless subset,” I better make sure I have my stuff solidly backed up, checked and double-checked and footnoted if necessary. If column A does not match column B, something has to give. Something has to go. My goodness, my task was merely to sit on the couch and watch the show. Surely a couple jugs of coffee and a bag of chips could have gotten me a passing grade. And when I attach my name to my work, I want it to entertain, to attempt to inform, to give the reader something to think about — whether it’s a serious topic or a trivial one. Mostly, I want to be proud to have my name down there like a badge, and because I opted to tread the easy course, rather than making sure my facts were dead solid perfect, I can’t say I’m all that proud of last week’s entry. There was never any malice meant, but what you feel and what you know can be very, very different. Double check, triple check, know it for certain. This was a particularly hot fire I needed to pass through, if only to burn off the dross so that what emerges on the other side is better for it. And do you know why that matters?

Because my name is Dw. Dunphy. I will be here next week. (Get a nosh of that veal, it’s to die for.)

The Life and Times of Vivienne Vyle comes from the mind of the talented Jennifer Saunders, one half of the hilarious Absolutely Fabulous. Saunders plays a talk show host whose show would fit perfectly between airings of Jerry Springer and Ricki Lake. In the first of the three episodes on the DVD, Vivienne is crushed under an overweight crew member when a segment on her show goes wrong. Vivienne experiences an epiphany and decides that she wants to veer into Oprah territory and move away from the kind of trash television she helps perpetuate. Problem is, none of her people, who include her longtime/gay companion, Jared (Conleth Hill) and her drug-addicted producer, Helena (Miranda Richardson), want her to change. They all know her show is a cash cow and don’t see any reason to disrupt the status quo. But Vivienne persists and changes are made.

Saunders is dedicated as the diva Vyle and her supporting cast is top notch (the cast also includes Jason Watkins as Dr. Fowler, a psychologist roped into working on the show). Direction of the show is fine and all technical aspects are held to a high standard. The problem with The Live and Times of Vivienne Vyle is that the writing tries to be biting and dark, but I found the show tedious.

This series was billed as a hilarious new show from Ab Fab’s Saunders, but I found it anything but funny. In fact, I found it nothing but dull. While the acting is impeccable and the idea of a trash TV show host having an existential crisis is an interesting idea, I never really connected with any of the characters, in particular Vivienne.

With only three episodes, I kept hoping for more: more comedy, more empathy and more interest. But none of that materialized.

People Like Us, on the other hand, is witty and smart. If you enjoy the Christopher Guest films of faux cinema verite improvised comedy mockumentaries, this is a series you should look into. Written and directed by John Morton and starring Chris Langham as inept interviewer Roy Mallard, each episode focuses on the day in the life of a professional. In each case, Mallard comes off overly earnest and not terribly bright. Always offscreen, although you do catch glimpses of him, Mallard asks inane questions and gets caught up in the mini-dramas that skew each episode. For example, in the episode, “The Managing Director,” Mallard inadvertently fires an employee from a small company. In “The Photographer,” Mallard follows the life of a photographer (a very dry Bill Nighy) who isn’t very good and who probably shouldn’t have quit his high-paying corporate job to pick up the camera.

Throughout the 12 episodes in this complete series, there are plenty of uncomfortable moments and good laughs. The easy pacing has all of the hallmarks of a real documentary series. In fact, from what I’ve read, some viewers were fooled by the show (because of its lack of a laugh track) into thinking that they were watching the lives of real people. Credit must be given to the fine actors in each episode. Besides Nighy, other notable thespians that appear in People Like Us include Davis Tennant, Jessica Hynes and Sarah Alexander.

I had never heard of People Like Us before I had the opportunity to review it. In the promo materials the BBC states “before The Office, there was People Like Us.” Indeed, this series shares many of the same qualities of Ricky Gervasis’ classic sitcom (which, ironically, was picked up for a full series run, preventing People Like Us from getting a third season). However, there is a gentler spirit in People Like Us that reminds me of the Guest films, a spirit that makes you laugh at the subjects and interviewer Mallard, but also makes you see a little bit of yourself in the lives of these characters. Maybe I’m getting old, but it’s that spirit that made People Like Us more enjoyable than The Life and Times of Vivienne Vyle.

I have not come to refute the claims of editor-in-chief Jeff Giles, because it would be pointless. NBC is slowly finding out just how pointless, in fact, as they proceed to take a pounding from their advertisers and affiliates for their penny wisdom. “Jay Leno is beloved,” they said. “Jay’s fans are loyal, ” they said. What NBC brass feared was losing Leno to ABC, who probably would have snapped him up right quick, dumping Jimmy Kimmel like, well, like Sarah Silverman dumped Jimmy Kimmel (What, too soon?) With the costs rising by the year for scripted programs, the nighttime dramas leading the charge with more explosions, dead body mannequins and pricier locations, the Peacock network sought to kill two birds with one formerly skunk-haired stone. Talk shows are cheap. Run one five times a week and tell David E. Kelley to take his tired crap elsewhere. And with Jay, you get an instant audience! Win-win!

Only now, NBC has to wonder if the sponsors clamoring to back out of the 10 PM timeslot, and the money they represent, is more or less than the expenditure they would have otherwise incurred. Jay Leno, it seems, has become an albatross around the network’s neck, and if you think the added pressure would have caused him to step up his game and liven up the show, you probably were thinking this was originally a pretty good idea. No, the show still sucks.

But give Jay the teeny-tiniest break here. What would they have run in that slot if they hadn’t taken the big gamble? As I’ve said many times before: lawyers, cops and doctors. If for no better reason, give the big man a pat on the back for at least momentarily derailing the same old hackneyed, worn out and blood-drained train of thought that has plagued these “wonderful” nighttime dramas lo these many, many moons. It has been a long time since St. Elsewhere, L.A. Law and Hill Street Blues and, unlike the diehard loyalists, I don’t think the last couple seasons of ER were anywhere near the level of the first three. But there’s no doubt in my mind that without Leno shoving his chin into that ten o’clock dike, the dam would burst forth with edgy cops with hearts of gold, horny doctors still adherent to the Hippocratic Oath and lawyers who’ll do anything to win, but they won’t do that (No, no, they won’t do that.)

I never saw an episode of Southland, the most recent NBC cop show to bite the dust. I suspect I wouldn’t have bothered to, either, as the promotions department kept throwing out the tidbit that the show featured “the first primetime gay policeman!” like the whole show would rest on that plot point as some sort of radical departure for broadcast TV. NBC has Must See TV and gay cops! This, friends, is what is known as a stunt. What would have been revolutionary would have been to have that same character in the program and not made such a stink about it. It just is; no need to shout from the 30 Rock rooftops, “It’s here, he’s queer, watch NBC!”

Television critics have taken to calling the past decade a new golden age of TV, and they may be right. Among all the half-wits clamoring to be famous for fifteen reality-filled minutes, and all the other half-wits who were formally famous and now trying to reclaim notoriety by putting on tights and shaking their groove things, we’ve also had shows about Mob families and their regular families, siblings who run a mortuary, an advertising agency, vampires, and foul-mouthed, crudely animated children who usually find something potent to say about current events, all the while marveling at the massive girth of feces. We’ve had shows about police as well, but The Wire was also about politics, journalism and the lives of the criminals and seldom-seen that tie the three institutions together. Cable TV has succeeded in mining new veins for drama by looking into entirely different caves. The only standard broadcast program to come close to this nirvana of creativity is the long-running Lost, a show indebted to the viewer’s desire to engage in mindgames and, not so subtly, to the British drama from the late 1960s, The Prisoner.

An Americanized redux of The Prisoner is underway as well, and while the notion first causes me to wince, I have to remind myself that the most insightful program about politics, religion and the human condition in I don’t know how long was based on the bones of an often campy Star Wars clone from the 1970s. Who thought the Battlestar Galactica reboot could have been as well executed as it was? Who thought, initially, it should have been rebooted at all? That it took the framework of something that was better left to memory, turned it inside out, then retrofitted it into a modern allegory once again indicates where the best minds have been hanging out, and it’s not over at the Big Four. Sure, House isn’t bad, but there isn’t much else over at Fox that screams “revolutionary.” “Exploitative,” maybe. And over at CBS, they have two NCIS shows now, three C.S.I.’s with the threat of a fourth looming on the horizon, and a wide swath of C.S.I.-like shows littering their schedules with mutilated corpses. They learned their lessons well, yes they did. They learned from NBC, which found that cloned Law & Order shows practically sell themselves until, apparently, they don’t.

That’s why you get Leno five times a week. See, without him, you would get policemen five times a week, or lawyers five times a week, or surgeons five times a week, not a new wrinkle to be had in the lot. Don’t mourn the loss of these dramas because you’re not really losing all that much, simply a carbon copy after a Xerox of a mimeograph. But I’m fairly confident you knew this already, which is why cable viewership has, in aggregate, managed to eat away at its freebie cousins. There is a simple honesty to Mr. Jay’s show, and that in and of itself should be considered a breath of fresh air. They’re feeding you the same old story Monday through Friday, but they always have.  At least they’re not trying to convince you that “it’s new to you” now.

New Tricks: Season One (2009, BBC)

Call it Cold Case for the retired crowd. The BBC’s mystery series New Tricks doesn’t break any new ground as far as procedural dramas go and the whodunit aspect may not have you on the end of your seat, but the series has an interesting premise and a charming cast of eccentrics that really clicks.

Amanda Redman (so great in Sexy Beast) plays Superintendent Sandra Pullman, an excessively competitive Scotland Yard detective whose career was on the upswing until an unfortunate dog-shooting incident during a hostage rescue. It wasn’t the dog that derailed her career, it was that the hostage leaped from a window and wound up in a body cast. The embarrassment to the police leads to a demotion, of sorts. Pullman is assigned to lead the Unsolved Crime and Open Case Squad, a new division made up of retired detectives.

The first person she approaches for her new team is Jack Halford (James Bolam) her old boss and mentor. A well respected member of the force before stepping down off, Jack is a widower still grieving over the death his beloved wife, Mary. He lives a lonely life in a big house where Mary is buried in the back yard. After long days Jack can be seen conversing with his dead wife, seeking her advice, needing her comfort. These scenes are touching, but Bolam doesn’t milk them for tears. In fact, some scenes are often humorous as he details the shenanigans of his new crime-fighting endeavor.

After a comical interviewing montage, Pullman and Halford recruit two other members: The first is Gerry Standing (Dennis Waterman) a womanizing old-school detective who initially clashes with Pullman. Gerry is thrice divorced with three daughters. He’s a man whose personal life has always been ruled by women and now that he’s rejoined the police force, his boss is a woman, too. Standing has a contentious relationship with his former bosses, one of whom he punched out.  But with three alimony payments, three daughters and a grandchild on the way, the man needs to be making more money. Standing has my favorite quote from season one. When Pullman commends him for maintaining good relations with his three ex-wives, he replies, “I’m a naughty boy, but I’m not a bastard.” He and Pullman gradually form a mutual respect for one another.

The remaining member of the team is Brian Lane (Alun Armstrong). A once respected detective, Lance’s career ended under a cloud when a prisoner died on his watch. Brian had a nervous breakdown. His wife, Ester, is against him going back into police work, but Brian needs his brain to be solving crimes in order to feel alive. As he digs deeper into cases, Brian becomes more neurotic. He’s convinced that his downfall was the result of skullduggery, and the three other members of the UCOCS must deal with his OCD tendencies and conspiracy theories.

The three new “recruits” have an antiquated way of doing things; their methods are so 20^th century. Computers and new technology frustrate them. Luckily they’ve been assigned a young assistant, PC Clark (Chike Okonkwo), to guide them into 21^st Century crime fighting. Meanwhile, the team goes about business the old fashioned way: investigating their mysteries through legwork and instinct. Because of their years on the force, they know so many people and have so many contacts that they can usually get any information they need. Furthermore, because they aren’t officially police (they’re civilians working for the police), the guys tend to play outside the rules. Of course, Pullman constantly has to put out fires because of them. But they get results, which makes the bosses happy.

As I said, the mysteries aren’t going to keep you on your toes. New Tricks uses many of the same storytelling techniques you’d see on any American crime show. What makes the show worthwhile is the four leads. Redman is strong and confident as Pullman, but capable of showing the character’s soft side, such as when Pullman goes to a therapist to confront her self-destructive tendencies. Halford carries himself like a proper Englishman, but there are flashes of rage that come out during stressful moments. Bolam handles Halford with a light touch, especially those moments when conversing with his deceased wife. We’ve seen this story device many times in film and television, but it’s very effective in New Tricks. Armstrong is riveting at Brian Lane. As Lane teeters between paranoid delusions and manic sanity, Armstrong keeps him interesting but never has him come off as a parody of a mentally disabled person. My favorite performer is Waterman. He has charm, just the right touch of snarkiness and the bit of devilishness in his eyes that are the hallmarks of a great character.

The Season One DVD of New Tricks is a three-disc set that contains the 90 minute pilot and all six episodes from season one. While there are no bonus features, there is enough entertainment in the show itself to keep you satisfied.

“Oh, yeah,” he said as I gently took it down and turned it over in my hands. “I wrote the first draft of the screenplay for that project.”

My face began to get hot. It was a sign. Despite his ponytail and potentially cheesy facial hair, I really was supposed to be here.

“To be honest,” he continued, “I don’t really like the source material much.”

Gentle reader, I wish I could say I walked out upon hearing this. But I didn’t. He did have excellent taste in literature, and despite the hair choices, he was definitely my type. Still, I should have taken a stand…in the name of the SDF-1.

Robotech came to me unasked-for, as most wonderful things do. My teenage soulmate, Christopher, first exposed me to it. He and I were seated next to each other one year in math class, and found we much preferred passing goofy, irreverent notes to paying attention. Our communications evolved to full-fledged works of original fiction, all in the science-fiction/fantasy vein. I was fascinated with Chris’ unrestrained imagination and he appreciated my facility with prose. Our mutual admiration was only further strengthened when I joined the Church of Robotech, of which he was already a devoted member.

Those of a certain age will remember when Japanese animation – or to use the connoisseur’s phrase, “anime” – was not on every cable channel. Today, any kid knows about shows like Sailor Moon, DragonBall Z and Naruto, but Robotech was a whole different animal. A few of the most popular animated series from Japan, like Speed Racer, Star Blazers and (my personal favorite) Battle of the Planets, had been shown American TV in the ’60s and ’70s, but mostly in an edited, dumbed-down form believed to be more palatable to our impressionable youngsters. So some L.A. nut cases with time on their hands decided to try to maintain the operatic, loopy, teen-angsty spirit of the original shows and brought us Robotech, a multi-part sci-fi drama (85 episodes total) about planet Earth being embroiled in a global civil war, then attacked by aliens, its surface completely scorched and its population decimated, then invaded by different aliens and used as a massive plantation until finally, humans are able to get their shit together and take it back. It ain’t like Voltron, where every frickin’ episode ends with a hearty laugh and a freeze-frame. Several key characters die violently, and the world is, as I mentioned, laid to waste. However, there’s also plenty of romance (often cross-racial and/or cross-species) to give the viewer something to continue living for, in addition to space giants, tons of clones, and a singing cross-dresser.

Chris set his VCR every morning to record the show and had kept virtually every episode. I borrowed his tapes and spent many subsequent evenings immersing myself in a wide-eyed, spiky-haired future world where, between battles, a teenage fighter pilot could find himself in a love triangle with a squeaky-voiced pageant queen and his own castrating but passionate superior officer. (Three guesses which girl I rooted for.) I’m sure someone could write a book (if they haven’t already) about why the Japanese are so fond of cartoons wherein the planet is blown to smithereens and giggling adolescent girls are equally as likely to break a guy’s neck as to kiss him; however, mine was not to question why, mine was merely to luxuriate in the heady mix of machinery (a.k.a. “mecha”) and mating, of explosions both literal and figurative. I had always found myself a bit torn between “boy fun” and “girl fun,” dodgeball vs. dollhouse, the aggression of masculine play vs. the feminine attachment to (melo)drama; Robotech provided a satisfying infusion of each.

When one becomes a devotee of a niche genre, all kinds of craziness comes into one’s life. One can shrink from it or one can embrace it. I chose the latter. My Robotech fixation was the gateway to full-fledged anime fandom, which in turn led to a rather expensive convention habit: a couple times a year, I would drop a C-note or more of my allowance savings on posters, T-shirts and bootlegs from faraway Nippon. Though I had begun as something of a follower, I necessarily became a leader when Chris’ family moved away, leaving me, heartbroken, to continue running the anime fan club we had started up at school. (It was still going strong over a decade later.) My bosom buddy and I were eventually estranged by time and distance, but Robotech remains a source of pleasure and a point of connection, no matter where I go in life. Even in adulthood, I continue to discover fellow Friends of Miriya, and if I do say so myself, we are a pretty bad-ass crew, in our mega-geek fashion. (For the record, I don’t dress up, but that’s just my cowardice.)

These thoughts and others raced through my mind as I held the Robotech DVD box set and listened while my new screenwriter acquaintance explained that he had been hired to adapt my beloved cartoon space opera into a live action film script, but had really only used the show itself as an “outline,” preferring to produce something more “profound” and “believable” than the original. Sadly – or happily, depending on how you look at it – his draft was not a hit with the egos in charge, and had subsequently been passed on to a more experienced, more famous writer (believe me, you know his work), who apparently couldn’t get a handle on it either. The movie’s release is currently scheduled for 2012, the year we are all supposed to die. So maybe Rick, Lisa, Minmei, Zor Prime and Rook Bartley just aren’t destined for the big screen, or for mainstream audiences. Not every good idea needs to be handed over to the masses. Perhaps after all, Robotech’s complicated, messy, overwrought character is best appreciated by complicated, messy, overwrought people, and not by pretentious industry types who are duds in the sack.

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is the twisted spawn of Seinfeld. Much like NBC’s beloved sitcom, the show centers around four friends (three males and a female). In this case, they run a bar in Philly while carrying on their egocentric lives. Although the set up is similar to Jerry and company, the tone is more like Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm: The people are primarily out for themselves. The characters, Dennis (Glenn Howerton), Dee (Kaitlin Olson), Charlie (Charlie Day) and Mac (Rob McElhenney) are all close friends, but that doesn’t mean they’re above abusing each other and double crossing one another to get what they want. I used to watch the show regularly in its first two seasons but my viewing habits changed and I got tired of the conniving and abuse that the four characters threw at each other. Moreover, when Danny DeVito joined the cast as Frank, I didn’t feel like it clicked.

Watching the few episodes provided for me from the It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia Season 4 DVD box set, I wish I had stuck with it. The show had me doubled over in laughter and I couldn’t get the damn songs from “The Nightman Cometh” episode out of my head. In that particular episode, Charlie writes a musical and casts the gang in his play. “The Nightman Cometh” was so popular among the It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia fanbase that when a live production of the play within the show was performed live at the Troubadour in Los Angeles, the two performances sold out in 10 minutes. Not bad for a cult show that airs on FX.

If you happen to love this show and are kicking yourself for missing those live performances, fear not; video cameras were on hand, and one of the performances is available on the season 4 box set as a bonus feature. To watch the cast in front of an adoring, and I do believe drunk, audience is a little touching. I don’t think they were quite ready for the response they got.  Still the show went on, with the fans singing along and cheering in all the right places. Made me want to have a beer and join in the fun.

I’m happy to find out that It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is still going strong and that the five castmates gel so seamlessly. Next time a new episode airs, or the next time I’m on Hulu, I’ll probably catch up on the new season. Until then, I have some good, indecent fun to throw into my DVD player whenever I want a side-splitting laugh.

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia Season 4 is available for a retail price of 39.98 (pretty much the standard price for any seasons worth of episodes these days) and can be purchased at any of your finer entertainment stores, or online at Amazon.

Life on Mars: The Complete Series (2009, ABC Studios/Buena Vista)

Being a fan of the original BBC version of Life on Mars, I was leery of the ABC version when it premiered last fall. I loved the original show, an intriguing amalgam of science fiction and ’70s era cop shows. With great stories and a fantastic cast, I was worried — very, very worried — that once ABC got their hands on it they would fuck it up.

However, show producers Josh Appelbaum, Andre Nemec and Scott Rosenberg were big fans of the BBC show, as well, and set out to maintain the mystery, tragedy and fun of the original. Looking back on the entire series contained in this box set, I’m happy to say that they met the challenge.

Jason O’Mara stars as Sam Tyler, a New York detective in 2008 who gets hit by a car and knocked unconscious. When he comes to, Tyler is blown away to discover that he’s awoken in the year 1973. Has he been shot back in time? Is he in a coma? The only way he can get to the bottom of his predicament is to explore his surroundings and look for clues on how he can get back to 2008, where he belongs. Tyler finds his way to the 125 precinct and is immediately met by Lt. Gene Hunt (Harvey Keitel), a ball-busting, whiskey-drinking commander who plays by his own rules. Tyler is amazed that he’s been expected as the new detective arriving to work in the 125. His presence causes a stir in the squad room. Detective Ray Carling (a long-haired, mustached Michael Imperioli) hates him; junior detective Chris Skelton (Jonathan Murphy) looks up to him, and uniformed policewoman Annie Norris (Gretchen Moll) is attracted to him. Tyler could give a shit about any of their feelings because he just wants to get home. Yet as the series progresses and he gets to know these people, figments of his mind or not, he begins to care for them.

Tyler gradually realizes that he has to play the part of a ’70s cop or he might end up locked away in a padded room and never get home. He reluctantly becomes an active member of the 125 and watches in shock as decades old prejudices and practices are used to solve crimes and put the bad guys behind bars. Hunt is not above slugging a witness to get to what he wants, and most of the detectives regularly discriminate against Annie and subject her to the nickname “no nuts.” At the same time, Tyler receives cryptic messages from his television and over the phone, leading him toward his fate. Tyler must also confront his past by running into his mother, his deadbeat father, and even himself as a child.

Everything about the ABC version of Life on Mars stays true to the BBC series. From the name of Sam’s hometown to several of the plots throughout these 17 episodes, from the use of ’70s-style funky TV music, to the consistent use of a cinematic style reminiscent of a bygone era, this Life on Mars succeeds as well as the BBC version. Initially I had reservations about O’Mara taking over as Tyler as I found John Simms (the British Tyler) so pitch perfect, I wasn’t sure O’Mara could replace him. However, as I progressed through the entire series, I started to like O’Mara almost as much as his British counterpart. Of the supporting cast, Imperioli was the most impressive as Ray. He made the character into an enjoyable asshole; that’s tough to do. Mol is lovely as Annie, with a calming quality about her that made me pay attention whenever she was on the screen. My biggest disappointment with this Life on Mars was Keitel. Hard to believe, but the bad lieutenant himself didn’t have the same presence as the brilliant Philip Glenister, who played Hunt overseas. I wonder how people who never saw the BBC version felt about his performance. But it wasn’t just his acting; O’Mara is just a bigger person physically. I never felt Tyler was intimidated by Hunt the way he could — or should — have been.

Is it fair to compare the two shows? Probably not. But it’s impossible not to do. I know that fans of the original The Office couldn’t help but compare the two. Luckily that show was allowed to grow and become something different than the original altogether. Life on Mars didn’t have that same fate; it was cancelled in the spring. All that we have are these 17 episodes. Life on Mars is solid entertainment, save for the most ridiculous ending to a television series I’ve ever seen. I’m not going to give it away here because I hope there are some of you who will check this show out. But I practically laughed when the big “reveal” occurred. According to executive producer Appelbaum, “It’s one of those endings (he believes) will make you watch the series again.” The only thing I wanted to watch again after watching Appelbaum’s ending was the BBC ending all over again.

Besides the episodes, Life on Mars: The Complete Series has three decent behind the scenes featurettes, the best of which is “To Mars and Back,” which looks at the genesis of the show and contains insightful interviews with the cast and crew. There are also audio commentaries, deleted scenes and bloopers.

Castle: The Complete First Season (2009, ABC Studios/Buena Vista)

Castle, the ABC mystery series, proves one thing: Nathan Fillion is a star. He has charm, comic timing, and enough charisma to make him a wonderful leading man. The first season on the show is out on DVD (13 episodes in all) and the second season has just begun airing on the network. I hope Castle manages to hold its own against CSI: Miami and Jay Leno, because it’s a slick, fun show that deserves to be a big hit.

Fillion stars as Rick Castle, a best selling novelist in the vein of James Patterson (who makes an appearance as himself in the pilot episode). Castle’s latest novel kills off his long-running character, Derek Storm, leading his fans to ask “what next?’ Fate drops that answer in his lap when a killer begins mimicking the murders from Castle’s books. The confident author is brought in by the NYPD as a consultant on the case. Immediately he butts heads with the stunning Detective Bennett (Stana Katic) and bonds with the other homicide detectives in the squad room, Esposito and Ryan (Jon Huertas and Seamus Dever, respectively). As soon as the case is solved, Bennett believes she’s seen the last of him. Not so, say the TV gods. Castle is so well connected that he convinces the police commissioner to let him tag along with Beckett on all of her cases as research for a new novel he’s writing featuring a female detective (in truth he loves the thrill of it all). How long she’s assigned to have him shadow her depends on how soon he completes his book. In other words, indefinitely, which is fine as it allows Castle and Beckett to build enough sexual tension to remind you of the glory days of Moonlighting.

While Castle and Beckett flirt their way around good old murders of the week in a style that’s a throw back to The Rockford Files and the cheeky days of Magnum, P.I., the author-turned-detective also must contend with a home life as a single dad raising a 15-year-old daughter who is wise beyond her years. This TV cliché would be sickening if it weren’t for the sparkling performance Molly Quinn as Alexis Castle. While the role could have been played with plenty of eye-rolling at her father’s shenanigans and the numerous women he beds, Quinn plays Alexis as a teenage girl who looks up to, loves and respects her dad, no matter how hard he tries to be her friend more than her parent. Castle also has his boozy mother, Martha (Susan Sullivan) that he must deal with. Martha, a former actress, lives off of her son’s wealth and likes to put him in his place any chance she gets.

Castle offers plenty of mystery and good humor, with great music and solid technical aspects across the board. What come to mind when I watched Castle are series like the aforementioned The Rockford Files and other shows from the legendary Stephen J. Cannell’s canon of crime-solving shows. In fact, Cannell makes an appearance as himself in the pilot episode. The TV mogul-turned-crime novelist has a good time poking fun at himself while also serving as a peer for Castle.

In the end, though, the series rests upon Fillion’s broad shoulders as the titular character that jumps back and forth from the fictional crimes of his novels and the reality of the squad room. Fillion is so good in everything his does, from Firefly to the horror film Slithers to Desperate Housewives to Joss Whedon’s web series, Dr. Horrible’s Singalong Blog, that it’s a shame he isn’t a more recognizable face to the average television viewer. He has the kind of smooth acting ability that makes watching an hour of make-believe murder go down easily. I hope the show can find a wider audience. This DVD box of the first season is a great way to start, but set your DVRs to record new episodes and give this good show a chance.