Rerun Redux

Normally I'm not a fan of "special encore presentations," but last night's Lost did it right. ABC replayed the spectacular season three finale, Through the Looking Glass, with a pop-up video style scroll that added extra information to the on-screen action.

It served as an official peek under the tent (or at least into the writer's room ;) that illuminated some secrets of the show. The CW got in on the action, too, albeit for a different reason. They re-ran the Gossip Girl pilot with interviews and behind-the-scenes stuff – not so much in an effort to dive deeper into layers of twisted mysteries, but to court new viewers beyond the Facebook crowd buzz.

It's a perfect solution to this strike-shortened season – almost the equivalent of a free DVD-style commentary track. Rather than flooding us with wretched reality, let the writers pick up a mic while they put down their pens.

It's the end of the world as we know it...

...and I don't feel fine. In fact, in the spirit of this wretched show, I'll share a shocking revelation of how not fine I felt: during the broadcast, some leftover chinese food gave me a ripe case of the runs... which was more pleasant than watching Moment of Truth.

If you haven't followed this train as it prepared to run off the rails, Moment of Truth is a game show of sorts. Think of it as 500,000 Pyramid... of Lies! It goes like this: some desperate loser, in front of his family and friends, answers questions designed to rend his relationships apart in pursuit of a bigger bank account while a feral crowd hoots and hollers. Oh, and it's hosted by someone named Mark Wahlberg, but unfortunately he's not the one with the Funky Bunch, he's a puffy exercise in smuggery shoved into an ill-fitting suit.

If it's not clear by now, this thing is a repugnant disaster. It feels like one of those misguided faux shows that you see in near-future science fiction shows designed to illustrate how society has broken down and we'll all be living like Lord of the Flies soon. You know, like how they don't play football in 2010... instead it's "KillBall," complete with spiked walls and firepits filled with robot sharks. Or like those "I'll buy that for a dollar" segments in Robocop... except replace the satirical elements with abject humiliation and failure.

On the premier episode, a pompous personal trainer "won" $25,000 by admitting he checked out other guys' packages in the locker room and has done things in his marriage that would make his wife not trust him before he got bounced for lying about whether he's inappropriately touched any of his clients. Of course, by lying, his wife found out that he had, but that's beside the point... I guess. Then we moved on to an addictive gambler who fessed up to the fact that not only was he a member of the hair club for men, he stuffed his pants in the past to bulk things up south of the border.

At all of these things, the laugh-track like crowd went "woooooaaaahhhh" and applauded, while the wives and girlfriends alternately looked dismayed and urged their men to keep dialing for dollars. It's hideous.

And worse, it's hideously slow. The host puts a pregnant pause between every question, and the results of the lie detector tests are announced by a futuristic robot female voice that waits so long before saying true or false that her pauses prolly need to be induced. To push this metaphor into the realm of bad taste that this show revels in, Moment of Truth should have been aborted several trimesters ago.

It's supposed to be surprising and titillating, but it comes off as horrifying and depressing. If you can't stay away, DVR it and watch in the morning before you get ready... 'cause you'll gonna need a shower after.

Look! On YouTube! It's a Bird, it's a Plane, it's...

...well, we never really find out what the thing ripping New York a new one is in Cloverfield, but let's call it the Blair Witch Monster (aka the Anti-Snakes on a Plane), because for a film built entirely on buzz, this one delivers. This shakycam story of a Godzilla-esque monster attack and a group of twentysomethings attempting to survive it is a thrilling piece of filmmaking.

What starts as a going-away party for a friend turns into a going-away party for the entire city as the monster announces its presence with authority by ripping the head off the Statue of Liberty and hurling it across the Hudson. It lands at the feet of our partygoers, and we follow their quest for safety and to save a friend entirely thru the lens of a camcorder.

It sounds like a gimmick, and it is. Much like the teaser trailer that only released the date (and not the name) of the film. As well as the viral websites that fill in the backstory that's not shown on screen. But here's the thing about gimmicks – sometimes they work. There's a sense of immediancy that the camcorder conveys – I don't really wanna test this theory, but I'd guess this is pretty much exactly what it'd be like to be terrorized by a multi-story monster for an hour and a half.

So put aside your concerns about camcorder battery life or durability and get your tension on – Cloverfield's a killer.

And the Nominees Are...

...not terribly inspiring, given that I haven't seen most of the stuff that's up for awards. Sorry, but titles like No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood just don't scream "get off the couch" for me. I'll prolly get to the big hitter of the year (Atonement) and I've seen the little movie that could (Juno) and Michael Clayton was... you know... a nice tight thriller, but I didn't come out of the theater with Clayton-mania runnin' wild. Far as I'm concerned, the best movie I saw all year was the six-minute Batman short that played in front of I am Legend at IMAX.

So instead I'll comment on the poster.

This year the Academy turned to Drew Struzan, best known for collages of photorealistic heads of science fiction stars. Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Harry Potter, Hellboy, Back to the Future... he's done 'em all. Apparently he "conceived" it, while the actual illustration was executed by his son Christian. I'm not quite sure what the conceptual role was here, given that it's... you know... the Oscar statue backed by flashbulbs.

But it's a solid effort. Doesn't measure up to a recent fave from another well-known comic artist, Alex Ross, but it's worlds better than, say, this one which has a definite thrown-together-in-the-last-ten-minutes-with-clipart feel to it. And given that if it stuck to true Struzan style, we'd be looking at the blended heads of Javier Bardem, Tilda Swinton and an animated rat, I'd say we made out ok.

I Come Not to Bury Simon, But to Praise Him

Apologies to Shakespeare (and unscripted television haters), but based on last night's premiere, season seven of American Idol looks pretty good... and sounds even better.

I'm assuming I don't need to detail the show – if you don't know, you prolly don't read this blog. What's encouraging about these auditions (so far) is that the producers seem less fascinated with the seamy underbelly of attention-starved America and more interested in creating compelling stories about singers.

Oh sure, we met the misguided Gen Yers who've been told that they can do anything! Even be a star! Don't let anyone tell you different! Even people who know a lot more about singing than you do! Plus the hideous losers who still crave their proverbial fifteen minutes even if that time is spent laughing at them. And the sad cases of hopefuls who desperately want to validate their existence by winning a contest they have no business entering.

But we also met singers who – get this – can sing. Rather than parade an endless procession of increasingly awful freaks in front of us, the cameras actually swung around to track endearing Olympics-style stories that turn these kids into characters.

Finally, the judges are in good form. Bear in mind that good form for Randy is incoherent patter (now delivered from behind an odd pair of muttonchops). And Paula sticks to her I Heart Everyone guns, but Simon seems to have put his pistols away. Or at least clicked the safety on, reserving the real rancor for the people who deserve it – unfunny fame whores dying to degrade themselves on a national stage.

So we'll see - traditionally I tire of the auditions pretty quickly, but as last year they outdrew the finale, they're not going anywhere anytime soon. Here's hoping they continue along this plotline path.

No Fate But What We Make...

...particularly if we keep re-making it. I suppose it's not surprising that Fox went back to the well in lieu of new material; what is surprising about this extension of the Terminator franchise is that, so far, it's pretty damn good.

Based on the "Two-Night Premiere Event" (which I believe means airing the first two episodes ;) I think that Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles could have legs. Shiny metal robot legs. Shiny metal robot legs with guns hidden in them, in fact, if the new Terminators have anything to say about it.

I won't drown you in arcane mythology, because the show doesn't either. If you've seen T2, you're good to go. The show picks up a couple years later, where Sarah Connor and her son John drift through life, apparently safe from the threat of SkyNet, the computer system that, in the future, is due to become self-aware and destroy humanity. Emphasis on "apparently," because both good and bad Terminators show up quicker than you can say "it's not a tumor... at all."

Speaking of tumor, these Chronicles, while clearly following in T2's giant cyborg footsteps, does give a nod to T3, where we learned that Sarah Connor died of cancer – in ep 2 of this show, she learns the same and gets herself tested. The showrunners have stated that their intention is to lead into the new franchise, not T3 specifically, but it's nice to see that little Claire Danes film not left out in the cold. The kid cast as John Connor in the show, too, seems to be a bridge between the films, as he looks sort of like if T2's Edward Furlong and T3's Nick Stahl had a son. If that were possible. Of course, we are talking about time-traveling killer robots, so who knows.

And speaking of nods, the Sarah Connor Chronicles tosses quite a few affectionate ones to the fanboys. The opening and closing shots mirror the iconic dark highway and apocalyptic swingset images from the films. The Connor's initial alias is "Reese," as in Kyle Reese from T1 – John's father from the future. The good Terminator (played by Summer Glau as a spin on her River Tam character from Firefly/Serenity) is named "Cameron," as in James, the director of the first two films... and she also delivers the classic "come with me if you want to live" line. No one's said "I'll be back" yet – perhaps we'll have to wait 'til sweeps.

But it's not all fun and games. While the show preserves the occasional offbeat note from the films (Terminator Cameron gets blindsided by a car, raises her head from thru the windshield to calmly tell the family inside to "please remain calm" ;) it also retains the sobering undertones of humanity's responsibility in their own destruction. A sequence where Sarah learns about 9-11 is actually pretty moving.

So overall, a big thumbs up. A worthy successor to the Terminator saga with a nice time-travel twist. Give it a whirl – we've got to find something to watch until the computers grow up and destroy us all, right? Or at least until the writer's strike ends, whichever comes first.

Cock 'n Bull

Shoot 'em Up may well be the worst movie released all year. It's easily the stupidest, and bear in mind I've recently watched Evan Almighty, License to Wed and American Dreamz. Dreams... with a Z.

I'd warn you of SPOILERS AHEAD, but I'd be doing you a disservice in that you might not know what an abject failure this movie is. The "plot," such as it is, concerns a baby-breeding ring organized by an evil Presidential candidate who needs their bone marrow and colludes with a handgun maker to kill all the babies and their mothers to cover up the conspiracy. I think. The "hero," such as he is, is the son of a legion of British pistol experts who fled to America when the gun laws tightened, who was taken in by Black Ops when he was ten only to reemerge into society in time to inherit his father's gun shop where he unwittingly sold the shotguns to criminals who would later hold up a McDonald's, killing his wife and son with the guns he sold, driving him to live on the streets as a nameless hobo nihilist, surviving solely on carrots until this blissful existence is interrupted by a meeting with one of the baby-breeding mothers who is killed, leaving the last baby in his care – a baby he proceeds to take on an hour and fifteen minutes of the worst "gun as phallus" adventures imaginable.

The fetishistic gun/penis connection is nothing new, but the depths to which this movie plumbs the cliche certainly are. A few of the most egregious examples include the "hero" severing an umbilical cord with his gun, getting in a gunfight while he's delivering the baby, getting in a gunfight while he's making a baby, cleaning his gun on a baby-changing station in a decrepit bathroom and bonding with the baby by showing him how to use a loaded gun. Not to be outdone, the villain of the film uses his gun to both masturbate with a nude woman's corpse and attempt to burn off a hooker with a heart of gold's labia.

The movie attempts to be sort of a giddy ultraviolent take on MacGuyver, but in its quest for kewl it serves as perhaps the most idiotic and insensitive example of an already callous genre. Avoid at all costs.

Next in the City

Cashmere Mafia, the newest attempt to be the next Sex in the City (and from the same producer) premiered Sunday and encored last night to prep for its regular timeslot tonight. Whew – that's a lot of Lucy Liu in one week.

In attempting to inherit Sex in the City's tiara, Mafia follows it pretty much note for note. A foursome of sexy sassy gals take the Big Apple by storm, leaving a trail of guys in their wake. There are a few differences – they seem to have more money than SJP and crew, one of them really might be a lesbian for more than just one episode, and all the male characters seem to have been crossbred with swine to prove the cliche that men are pigs.

The pilot certainly suffers from what I'll call Startup Syndrome, where a season's worth of themes, character traits and subplots have to be shoehorned into forty-four minutes, often resulting in some awkward plot contrivances. Like when Mia (apparently a media buyer pit against her fiance for a promotion) calls the Cashmere Mafia together for an URGENT! meeting... by emailing them all individually. By scrolling across the address bar, we learn that Zoe's a VP of this, Juliet's a VP of that, and Caitlin's a VP of the other thing. Or when their rival, fresh from a nooner with one of their husbands, stops by their lunchtable and proclaims "The Cashmere Mafia... that's what they call you, you know." Thanks. Got it.

We also learn about the men in their lives, all of which exist to showcase how awesomely full of Grrl Power the titular characters are. One of them calls off an engagement because he can't compete with her at the office. One of them cheats on his wife because he's jealous of her in the bedroom. One of them makes whiny objections to everything because he can't keep up with her at home. And one of them complains about what he's not getting from the relationship, because he can't satisfy the (maybe) lesbian.

It's not like we don't need more examples of strong female characters in the media – guys are fairly well represented, so it's not an unforgivable crime that the male element of the show is a little weak. What won't work over the long haul is that the show is so one-note. It has potential, particularly in some of the performers – Bonnie Somerville was pretty terrific on NYPD Blue and Kitchen Confidential, and Miranda Otto (Eowyn from Lord of the Rings) is a stage-trained actress who, in explaining the unspoken bargain she's arranged with her cheating husband, provides the best scene in the show. And once the showrunners stop trying to illustrate how crazy sexy busy everyone is by having them constantly flash their blackberries, the characters might get some room to breathe and develop.

So it passes the Pilot Hurdle, particularly because the next one's on tonight and we're mired in the writer's strike. When Lipstick Jungle, the next next Sex in the City clone, premieres in February, we'll see which one sleeps with the fishes.

I Also Fight Like Seven Hundred

Frank tagged me, which is nice. He also apologized for doing so, which is even nicer. So, without further ado, I'll drop seven nuggets of knowledge on you:

1) I once rigged a White Sox ticket sweepstakes at my local Jewel (or "the Jewel" as some people inexplicably say). In direct violation of the "one per person" rule, I filled out all the remaining entries in the top tear pad. In direct violation of (I'm sure) some other rule, I stole the remaining tear pad. Oddly, I won. Even more oddly, I now work in promotions, often on... sweepstakes.

2) I designed the pre-Sesquicentennial logo for my hometown of Elmhurst, IL. I was prolly eleven, I not exactly a designer, and I was apparently not a photographer as I never got a picture taken of myself with the "149 and Counting..." banner that spanned the length of a bridge – despite it being up for a year.

3) When asked to create a team name for a six-person group project in college, I presented the name "Six Pack," unaware that "Six Pack" was the example given in the textbook to explain the exercise... as I hadn't bought the book, opting to skim sections in the university library when it seemed appropriate.

4) I had a catch with my dad on the Field of Dreams.

5) As a college intern, I asked Kristy Swanson to my office Christmas party, only be rejected by her publicist because she was currently dating Chad Lowe. Whose ass I prolly could've kicked if need be.

6) I spent last summer watching all 7 seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, all 5 seasons of Angel, the first 2 seasons of Grey's Anatomy, the mini-series and first 2 seasons of Battlestar Galactica and the entire series of Kitchen Confidential.

7) In office softball leagues, I regularly played second base in a pair of baseball pants worn by former White Sox hurler Rich Dotson.

ARE YOU ENTERTAINED??!?!?!??!?

Well, no – not really. Here's hoping the re-launch of American Gladiators gets launched from the prime-time schedule soon, because it's a disaster. These "re-imaginings" are tricky business; sometimes you get Battlestar Galactica, sometimes you get Bionic Woman. And sometimes you really strike out and get Planet of the Apes.

The original Gladiators wasn't exactly high art, but had a certain schlocky charm for its time. Unfortunately, as it is wont to do, time marches on. But Gladiators hasn't – aside from repainting the Power Ball cones and adding pits of water... or fire... or firewater, it's exactly the same show. Which in a world weaned on wrestling, action sports and reality TV, is completely irrelevant.

Instead of battling blank "personalities" like Crush (pictured above), Titan and Insert Generic Power Word Here, contestants should be going up against former UFC and WWE champs. If you wanna dust off 80s relic Hulk Hogan, put a pugil stick in his hand instead of a microphone. And update the events instead of polishing retreads that seem like holdovers from the Presidential Physical Fitness Awards.

Overall is it watchable? I guess, in the sense that it's people hitting each other with brightly colored objects. But you'd prolly have a better time throwing Twizzlers at each other. Pass.

As Michael and Arnold Have Said...

...albeit with far less impact, I'm back. Was out for the tail end of the year on vacation; Dave wondered where I went – here's a clue:
Any guesses? No prizes to the winners, but I will do a review if you want me to...

See you next year, I'm on...

No joke.

I realize I'm opening up a door that has the words "potentially tremendous disappointment" written on it, but Warner Bros. continues to raise my expectations for The Dark Knight, the followup to Batman Begins. They laid a fantastic foundation for the franchise with the first film, updated Batman's costume to make him much more mobile, and now they've unleashed a torrent of terrific teasers. From the election-appropriate introduction of Harvey Dent to a crazy quilt of joker jests, their marketing department is killing it.

The latest salvo is today's release of the teaser poster, and no joke – it's real and it's spectacular. Combining the more mature take on the material (i.e. the Joker is a deranged lunatic, not a merry prankster) with iconic imagery that fuses hero and villain, it's a breathtaking piece of dark design. If the movie's half as good as the poster (unlike, say, The Phantom Menace) we're in for some serious smiles next summer.

Shitman

I was tempted to stop the review right there, Spinal Tap-style, but a few more words must be said. Those words are: do not, under any circumstances, see Hitman.

Timothy Olyphant, good in pretty much everything else he's ever been in, is not in this. He plays the titular Hitman, a killer with neither a name nor conscience - just a tattoo on the back of his bald head indicating the number an order of monks that trains assassins branded him with. I'm basically skipping over the fact that there is, apparently, an order of monks that trains assassins because the movie does, too. I guess we're supposed to have memorized the videogames the movie's based on for it to make any sense. Or at least to explain why Olyphant shambles like an improperly assembled mannequin thru most of the flick.

The plot feels hastily tossed together by a member of the target audience, which I presume are frustrated fifteen year olds. Hitman kills some guys. Turns out one of the guys is a double of another guy. Other Hitmen try to kill Hitman but he talks them into dying with dignity, so they don't shoot him - instead opting to get sworded to death. Some chick wants to have sex with Hitman but he doesn't, because he's so cool. Hitman kills some more guys. Hitman kills a lot more guys. One guy traps Hitman in a chair, but a helicopter flies by and shoots everything up. Hitman escapes, goes back to nail that chick, and stands on a building to look cool. With a gun. 'Cause he's Hitman.

I mean Shitman. Pass.

Prison Broken

Ok. Prison Break always required a healthy suspension of disbelief. But even as an ode to coincidence, it had its pleasures. The gee-whiz neatery of the original escape. The pleasant surprise that was the on-the-run fun of Season 2. And, for tha ladeez, the fact that Wentworth Miller would have to frequently take off his shirt to inspect his tattoos. But as the curtain fell on the strike-shortened "fall finale," it's time to come to grips with this... Prison Break makes no sense.

The third season had a potentially nice twist - Michael Scofield, the original prison breaker, found himself behind bars and his recently-freed brother Linc, the original prison breakee (?) had to get him out. Isn't it ironic... don't'cha think? However, the showrunners didn't stop at some fun hunter-has-become-the-hunted deliciousness, they opted to up the ante by locking Scofield inside "SONA."

Which is a Panamanian prison.
Where the police have sent the worst criminals imaginable.
Then backed off to a safe perimeter.
And let the inmates run the asylum.
While they flew unicorns down a trail of rainbows.

Well, the last bit hasn't happened yet, but my DVR cut off the scenes from the next episodes, so who knows - it wouldn't be out of character for this show that apparently takes place in some grungy South American version of fantasyland. In addition to the completely nonsensical locale, Scofield is saddled with a mission that involves busting out not only himself, but another criminal named Whistler, wanted by "The Company."

The conspiracy elements of the show have always been the weakest, but they were allowable amidst the Shawshankian hijinks inside the walls of Fox River. But now, where Scofield might as well change his name to MacGyver and establish a rate card for breaking out of increasingly ludicrous prisons, trying to follow the exploits of Whistler, who needs to be broken out of SONA for... some reason, by... some people, at... some specific time is an exercise in frustration.

SPOILER ALERT for people who are still watching: to close the fall season, The Company, much like the rest of us, got tired of waiting for the kids to break out of SONA and stormed it with helicopters. It's unclear why they didn't do this, say, before Scofield showed up. It didn't work, Scofield got blamed for it, and as his punishment... got freed from the prison. It's unclear why they didn't, say, shoot him like every single other person who tried to escape. One assumes he'll be put in an even worse prison - perhaps on the moon. Or Atlantis. Or in The Running Man.

Or perhaps he'll be caught by the most powerful force of all - the Writer's Strike.

Happy Hump Day

Looking at this cascade of logos, I'm reminded of an Oreo. An Oreo of TV shows consumed by someone who can't take the creamy filling. The top and bottom of this show sandwich are surprisingly tasty, while the middle is just a bit too much. So, in proper eating order...

Dirty Sexy Money: Wow, this show sounded like a disaster. A revival of the Dallas/Dynasty style prime time soap, highlighted by Donald Sutherland wearing a silver version of Tom Hanks' hair from The DaVinci Code. But it's turned out to be a fantastically fun slice of cheese that's worth a watch. Peter Krause, freed from the doldrums of being Six Feet Under, serves as a terrifically wry guide thru a billion dollar family that's divorced from reality. Try it.

Pushing Daisies: Speaking of six feet under, that's where many of the costars of this show reside. The conceit is that a man who makes pies can bring people back to life with a touch... but only for a minute, as then he has to send them back to the grave. This is ostensibly to help a private eye solve mysteries, but in truth it exists to shove more whimsy down your throat than if you choked down a sandwich made of Willy Wonka, the Coen brothers oeuvre, and everything Wes Anderson's ever made... with some Edward Scissorhands sauce on top. Rather than being a little quirky and charming, it's QUIRKY!!! and CHARMING!!! So much so that I found myself wishing that the Piemaker would just touch himself and be done with it. It's cute and all, but altogether too cute. Back to the grave, Daises.

Gossip Girl: And, surprisingly, back from the grave is Gossip Girl. The pilot left me really flat, but the show's grown on me over time. It's not high art, but it fills The O.C. hole rather well (not as dirty as it sounds). Will Gossip Girl's narration still occasionally defies the laws of reality (such as when she "spots S & B" alone and undiscovered, but the everpresent shots of people checking their Sidekicks have gone the way of, well, The O.C. And the main characters seem to have re-established some tenuous grip on reality, despite being set in another Upper West Side world of privilege. Not essential viewing, but part of a nice dirty sexy combo for Hump Day. Enjoy.

Practice Makes Pointless

I don't know why this show exists. I mean, I know why – same reason Law & Order spawned Criminal Intent & SVU and why there are apparently CSIs in every county in the country. Spinoffs are nothing new, and not intrinsically bad, but there's a fine line between Frasier and Joey. That fine line representing the red one on your wrists after watching Joey.

But aside from the novel idea that two shows about hot doctors with cutesy names and sexy problems will make more money than one... there's no legit reason for Addison to pack up and move to LA. Her search for "change" and "something different" and "a baby" were shoehorned into an awkward backdoor pilot, and now that she's out on her own, things haven't improved.

Well, that's not quite true. Fortunately, they scrapped an element that was completely unwatchable – a David E. Kelley-style talking elevator, but otherwise the transition from Seattle Grace to Oceanside Wellness Center has been rough. Addison's heretofore unknown best friend was recast, downgrading Alias' Evil Francie to someone who looks sorta similar but seems much angrier. The hot surfer boy receptionist, oddly cast with the geeky guy formerly known as Piz from Veronica Mars, hasn't changed actors, but the character has been completely rewritten to be an apprentice midwife who's smitten with Angry Black Woman. This provides lots of comedic opportunities to reinforce the fact that the field of midwifery is pronounced mid-whiff-ery. As in the whiff made when one swings and misses. Kind of like this show.

Tim Daly plays an alternative medicine specialist named Peter whose nickname is billed as... "Pete." Taye Diggs plays Sexy Black Man who used to be married to Angry Black Woman. People who've portrayed great conflicted characters on other shows (Amy Brenneman way back on NYPD Blue, Paul Edelstein on Prison Break) are saddled with such jarring contradictions that they feel like caricatures instead – she's a psychiatrist who can't stop stalking a former lover, he's a pediatrician who is, apparently, a sexual deviant. Which is great for someone who works with, you know, kids.

The whole enterprise is so strained and uninspired, I feel like Avery Brooks, Kate Mulgrew or Scott Bakula should show up at any minute. It's a shame, too – Addison, formerly a sexy sassy foil for the winsome interns of Grey's, has been reduced to someone who dances naked around her beach house because "Whoo! California! Whoo! Freedom!" And producers like Shonda Rhimes and Marti Noxon, formerly of Grey's and Buffy the Vampire Slayer respectively, have been reduced to overseeing ripped-from-the-headlines type swill like babies switched at birth and a widow craving her dead husband's sperm.

The Chief at Seattle Grace said he'd leave Addison's job open as long as he could – here's hoping it's at least as long as it takes for the novelty ratings this show is getting to wane, because Private Practice... should've stayed that way.

Bion-eh-c Woman

I've used the "eh" joke before, but then again, they've made this show before, so I figure... whatever. Which is, in fact, sort of the vibe surrounding this remake - whatever.

Now, I'm no slave to the original show - from hazy childhood memories, the whole Bionic Whoever seemed like standard 70s sci-fi schlock. Battlestar Galactica paved the way for improving on the original, but Bionic is stuck in the mud. It's not that we're treading on hallowed ground, it's that we're following in well-trod footsteps, be they bionic or not. NBC threw a lot of money at this update, but not much in the way of innovation or inspiration.

I won't spent much time on the characters or plot, as clearly neither did the creators. Suffice to say that in the pilot, the Woman becomes Bionic. By the second ep, Dr. Burke has shown up and they battle some improbable virus. By the third ep, I've lost interest. Despite all the gee-whiz high tech-ery, theres not much to care about here.

You've seen the training sequences before, you've seen the fight scenes before, you've seen the cast before. The one new element is Michelle Ryan as Jaime Sommers, but she's a miscast at best. A natural Brit, Ryan comes across as halting and hesitant in the role. The overall feel is squirmishly awkward, which isn't what a show built around the ultimate cyberwarrior of the future needs. Alias, a clear model for this series, had its issues, but buying Jennifer Garner as a supersmooth operator/asskicker wasn't one of them.

Reminiscent of a young Ione Skye, this Bionic Woman is sort of like watching the "she gave me a pen" scene from Say Anything... just with guns and hacky wirework where people leap across huge chasms with their legs flailing and backs arched as if they were hanging from, you know, wires. While the harness may keep the characters from falling flat, the show still does. Pass.

Excuse the Pun, But...

...Moonlight sucks. I know – terrible, obvious joke, but it's no more terrible or obvious than anything in this show. In fact, the first line of the show is "being a vampire sucks." Hell yeah it does, particularly when the vampire's name is... Mick St. John. Seriously? Mick St. John? Sounds like a Morning Zoo DJ.

Anyway, this show both revels in stock characters and cliches (we need another reporter-who'll-do-anything-for-a-story like we need another hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold) and ignores some classics of the genres (these vampires can, in fact, go outside - it just makes their head hurt). Oh, and it's horribly written, cheaply shot, and poorly acted.

Mick St. John's bio says he likes "riding motorcycles, rock climbing, music and playing his guitar." Good to know, as he should be free to enjoy those pursuits soon.

Don't Fear the Reaper, Chuck

If you took recent hits Heroes and Alias, mashed them together and sprinkled some Supernatural sauce on top, you'd get the one-two punch of Reaper and Chuck. On The CW and NBC, respectively, they're both iterations on the "geeks save the world" theme. While it's not a surprise that different networks execute shows along a similar theme (see Singing Bee vs. Don't Forget the Lyrics), it's a shocker that they're both killer.

Reaper's about a slacker who works at a big box supply store who finds out that his parents sold his soul to the devil and is forced to work for him as a bounty hunter. Chuck's about a slacker who works at a big box supply store who finds out that his friend emailed him all the government's secrets and is forced to work for them as a spy. They share wacky best friends, hot potential love interests and terrifically smart scripts. They also benefited from big-time directors at the helm - Kevin Smith knocked out the Reaper pilot while McG made Chuck better than either of the Charlie's Angels.

Also, Chuck's a great companion piece to Heroes and Reaper matches well with... America's Next Top Model? Ok, well, the similarities had to end somewhere. Chuck drew bigger ratings, too, so if Reaper flounders, here's hoping it shifts to Thursday, where it'd slot in nicely with Smallville and Supernatural.

Regardless, they're both absolutely worth a watch - tune in and geek out.