In Treatment‘s greatest success was the subtle manner in which they shifted the attention from Paul‘s patients to Paul himself. Clearly he was the star, but the first week or so offered just a few glimpses of his own character. By the end, I was just looking at everyone else through his eyes and how it all related to his own crumbling life. The first season didn’t really do much to clear up any of the debris, and Friday’s finale ended on an almost sickeningly ambiguous note. Not that I really mind or expected anything more. The only loose thread that really upsets me is his relationship with his wife. As for his patients and his own therapist, their stories tied together quite nicely – even though most of them were razor blades next to the bathtub depressing.

Laura grew on me, mostly just because I fell in love with Melissa George’s speaking voice. At first I sort of looked at her as a manipulative hussy, but when Paul started pursuing her after she left therapy, I realized how protective I’d become of her. She figured out more about herself than anyone else in the series, and she deserves a lot better than to be with a man several decades her senior who’d always have some sort of unethical thrall over her. Hopefully she’ll get that now that he put the kibosh on it.

Alex died. He sure was a creep, but that may not have been entirely his fault. Also: he was totally gay right?

Sophie seemed to mature unrealistically fast for someone of her age, unfortunate circumstances and fragile mental state. My interest in actress Mia Wasikowska waxed and waned over the course of the series, but that has a lot to do with my inability to ever fully embrace child actors. It’s always hard to tell if they’re playing angst well or if they’re just annoying. The unusual bond she formed with Paul by their final session was one of the few heartwarming moments the dark series afforded, so I’ll thank her for that.

Jake and Amy decided to divorce. This breaks my heart because they were both so messed up, being together seemed like the only way they wouldn’t end up alone. Amy’s hysterics in week six and Jake’s emotional collapse in week seven were my favorite scenes of the entire series. Leaving them in such a broken state, as individuals and as a couple, was probably inevitable, but it still hurts.

Gina got less important as the weeks passed and they weren’t as strict in keeping to the real-time sessions. Her relationship with Paul wasn’t as developed as it really could have been, and insights into her past were just whack-you-over-the-head allusions to Paul’s situation. Also, in reference to her own crush on a patient, I will have nightmares of Dianne Wiest saying “I wanted to eat him up!” for many years to come.

Watching In Treatment certainly was an experience – one I don’t think should necessarily be repeated in a second season but one that I appreciated and kind of changed the way I think of storytelling.

Monday
Laura (Melissa George) is a mess of a girl. She forms unhealthy attachments and talks in frustrating circles (something shared by many of Paul’s patients). She’s been seeing Paul for over a year and reveals to him the first episode that she’s been in love with him the entire time. This is after she recounts a particularly lurid night the bathroom of a bar. While describing her sexual shenanigans, she pauses to ask if he’s disgusted. Of course he’s not – at least not outwardly. Well, I am. Laura’s sad display makes me physically uncomfortable, and my penchant for grimaces reminds me of why I never thought of pursuing psychology. I’m tempted to rule out this night, but the fact that her issues look to be one of the biggest reasons Paul is seeking council for himself means I may see it through.

Tuesday
The interesting thing about Alex (Blair Underwood) is that he isn’t someone you would expect to see in therapy. He doesn’t fit the bill as well as his costars. A cocky Navy pilot with an unconscious death wish, Alex might also be a latent homosexual. In his first sessions he nonchalantly talks about how he accidentally killed 16 children in a bombing like an affected frat boy would write off a night of drunken misconduct. This is the only chapter I am tempted to write-off immediately. Blair Underwood has a recurring role in several million TV series right now, so forgive me if it’s hard to muster sympathy.

Wednesday
It must be rough to be the only unrecognizable player in an ensemble like this, but Mia Wasikowska holds her own as Sophie, the gymnast who has to seek therapy as part of a lawsuit brought on by a car accident. What Paul must decide is whether or not Sophie’s accident was actually a suicide attempt. In the first session, he also uncovers a potentially pedophilic relationship with her coach.

Thursday
This is what I’m here for, folks. Embeth Davidtz and Josh Charles are two of my favorite actors in this whole wide world, and seeing them as a combative couple pleases me to no end. After five years of trying to have a baby, Amy and Jake finally find themselves pregnant with their second child – only to question whether or not they should actually have it. The absolute highlight of the week comes when Amy gives a speech about how she doesn’t love the child inside her and doesn’t know what she’s capable of doing to it if she carries it to term. She pauses and reveals that she is just kidding. It’s fantastically chilling. Amy is a liar and Jake is an ass. They remind me a lot of Brenda and Nate from Six Feet Under. Whether I stay on board for any other nights is really up in the air, but I will be here for each of the nine sessions with Amy and Jake.

Friday
With such a colorful roster of clients and a wife wearing him even thinner, it’s no wonder that Paul (Gabriel Byrne) has to solicit help for himself. On Friday he begins regular meetings with his former therapist Gina (Dianne Wiest). Paul stopped meeting with Gina almost a decade earlier over some disagreement that is not yet clear. Their meetings mix a happy reunion, with the opening of old wounds and our only real look into Paul’s mind. It’s the most interesting night of the week, if only for its ability to tie the rest of the show together into one cohesive story.

In Treatment is something entirely new (unless you’re from Israel). It’s less like television than it is a series of one act plays. Not that I don’t appreciate the thoughtful editing, but for all intents and purposes, these installments are essentially one-shot, real time glimpses into the seriously sordid lives of well-spoken others. It’s not pretty and it certainly isn’t easily digestible, but In Treatment is the kind of thoughtful, exciting television you expect from HBO. The uncanny timing also makes it the strike-starved watcher’s dream come true.

After even less deliberation, I decided to watch this Sunday’s season premiere earlier this week to gauge if I should go ahead with five before fully catching up. Besides the frequent references to this “Stringer Bell” character, so far I feel up to speed enough to forge on. The seal is already broken anyways.

So this fifth and final season of the The Wire finds the spotlight now fixed on the media in the city of Baltimore – particularly at The Baltimore Sun (a fake one, not the real one). The Major Crimes unit, reunited at the end of last season, is disbanded once again to as part of the city’s ongoing budget cuts for law enforcement. Having killed off one of my favorite characters and recruited another into the ways of the thug, Marlo and company are still eluding the taps and cameras with their savvy and commendable rejection of cell phones. Dear Bubbles is on the up and up again… but for how long? Omar will likely somehow be involved with Marlo’s imminent (we hope?) demise, but he was a non-entity in the opener. It’s unclear after the first episode where the season is going to take us, but we’ve been guaranteed a lot of death and the return of drunk McNulty.

The Wire really is one of a kind in its ability to weave so many people and plots into one grand, complex, gloriously poignant and supremely entertaining story. Season four is a tough act to follow, but at least half of the Fayette Mafia Crew (what happened to “4eva,” boys?) is still involved with the story. For that, I’m grateful. Then again, most of the series before that remains a mystery to me, so I don’t exactly know what I’m talking about. I will continue to watch this season simultaneously with the first three on DVD and promise to catch up soon. Stay tuned for authoritative commentary by at least mid-season.

-Neil Sinhababu at Cogitamus is the new reigning king of absurd Buffy references with his detailed guide to the republican primaries by assigning them to some of the show’s more infamous villains. I applaud anyone’s ability to bring “Moloch the Corruptor” into a political conversation (sorry, Ron Paul), but comparing Giuliani to David Boreanaz is sacrilege in these parts.

-Vulture was kind enough to blow-up the new ads for The Wire so we can indeed read in between the lines. No real spoilers, but this whole “homeless serial killer” business does not bode well for our beloved Bubbles. They also have an interview with Michael K. Williams (everyone’s favorite thug homo, Omar) about the new season and playing the show’s most unique character. More on my excitement for the fifth season of The Wire when I review the premiere this Friday…

-Tifaux has a rundown of the best and worst TV deaths of 2007. I’ll never be done mourning you, U-turn.

-Gawker Media’s new science fiction blog only officially launched today, and the Firefly and Doctor Who references are already too numerous to believe. Keep in mind that those poor kids are paid by page views.

But 2007 took the show in a new direction. The introductory season laid ground for many members of the Henrickson clan to reassess their status as polygamists. Some of their decisions broke my little heart (like Barb returning home with her tail between her legs) and others rocked my TV world. Sarah’s cold “I don’t respect you” speech to Bill during their father-daughter dance was one of the show’s finer moments. I knew she had it in her though. She’s an effing firecracker. One character I didn’t expect to fall for this year was creepy Mormon prophet and fan of child-brides, Roman Grant. Bill’s recent moral failing and Roman’s charming bouts with senility planted me firmly in his corner by the time he was unsuccessfully gunned down. I never really thought much of Harry Dean Stanton, but I challenge anyone to watch him play the harmonica in Mr. Warmth: The Don Rickles Project and not fall in love.

With The Sopranos finally in the grave, The Wire on its way out and John From Cincinnati proving to be barely a blip on the radar, Big Love will likely be seated at the throne of drama on HBO in 2008 (you know, if there’s TV in 08). My only problem with Big Love is the paltry 12 episode orders – that and my fear that they probably aren’t going to keep the wife count at three.

This many months down the line, I’m no longer concerned with whether he lived or died, I’m just impressed that a television show on a premium cable network was able to bring the country to a standstill with ten seconds of blank screens. TV events like the JR shooting on Dallas, Luke and Laura’s General Hospital nuptials or the revelation that Bob Newhart’s second show existed completely in the dreams of his character in the previous series all grabbed the nation’s attention. Things like that don’t happen anymore. People don’t watch the same show at the same time. Fandom, DVRs and the ever-shortening attention span of the collective have polarized viewership more than ever. What The Sopranos did was bring TV watchers together. It made everyone who wasn’t tuning in feel left out.

As much as The Sopranos was landmark television and an unfailing entertainer, its departure was a welcome one. Ten years with a serial so frequently grim was starting to wear on my nerves. I appreciate its contributions though, and I’ll think of it every time I come out on the stinky side of the Lincoln Tunnel.

New York is often portrayed in television (usually on the Warner Brothers’ lot in Burbank) but it rarely resembles the city as I’ve always seen it. The fault lies somewhere between TV’s tendency to glamorize everything and my own, sorry socioeconomic standing. New York is a city of oddly socialized lifers and a slew of immigrants, ex-pats and drifters from far off lands – be they North Dakota or New Zealand. Bret and Jemaine happen to be from the latter, but it really doesn’t matter. It also doesn’t particularly matter that they be in New York, because their struggle is universal. The locale just makes me like it more.

Taking the HBO water cooler phenomenon to the next level, Conchords wasn’t just fodder for Monday morning discussions. Any one of the many three-minute breaks in each episode could prompt a week’s worth of Tourette’s-fueled musical moments for its more rabid viewers. The Sopranos certainly struck a chord with the American public, but for every media mention of their series finale, I’ve noticed at least three partygoers or strangers on the street break into binary solos. For these few reasons, and many more, Flight of the Conchords is both one of my favorites and a cultural first – a serial slacker comedy focusing on hyper-emotional young men who frequently burst into song and/or dance. Its return will likely be one of the most heralded premieres you’ll see covered here in ’08.

The 80-minute conclusion starts at 9PM Eastern on Sunday, and in honor of the show’s vast contributions to awkward humor and self-parody, I’m trying my hand at liveblogging. Occasions for such an activity are few and far between. Event television is a rarity and award shows are wretched. So what better excuse than this to make the jump into real-time criticism? If your Sunday night is looking empty (er, pathetic), bookmark this page and watch with me. I promise more booze-fueled candidness than you’re used to and a few celebrity guests of my own…

8:59 – I am not remotely excited for seven nights of the John Adams miniseries. Keep fishing, HBO.

9:01 – Alright, here we go. Six months of awkward setbacks are going to force Andy to go on Celebrity Big Brother. Here is the story of how it happened.

9:04 – Michael Richards jokes, however stale, are always welcome. British people making reference to Sanjaya are not.

9:08 – Dear Andy Millman, neither Doctor Who nor Hotel Babylon are “camp, frothy nonsense.” XOX – Mikey

9:13 – Bunny is cruising for elicit manlove in a London park. So is George Michael. There is self parody and then there’s just being pathetic. At least “Last Christmas” is in heavy rotation this week – a far more charming legacy.

9:24 – Clive Owen is very tan. And unlike every other celebrity guest in Extras‘ illustrious history, is not remotely interested in Maggie. Refusing to have him throw shit in her face, she walks of the set. Maggie’s OTD as an extra: 9:25.

9:27 – “Am I Bovvered” is so 2006.

9:29 – Darren’s OTD as an agent: 9:29

9:35 – Can’t this show just be funny? I realize that the whole desperately sad human struggle thing makes it better TV, but it’s really bringing me down.

**Brief intermission: our friend Dan at Ithaca Has Gorges will be taking the reigns…**

9:40 – Initial thoughts: This ep has been heavy on the tragedy and production value. The new agent is nefarious. This Moo Shu is going to be delicious.

9:42 – Nefarious new agent [NNA] said ‘Dr. Who’, then ‘Hotel Babylon’, and Mikey squirted chocolate milk from his nose.

9:46 – Andy’s shorts put the ‘short’ in ‘shorts’. This suggests that before his shorts, ‘shorts’ existed exclusively as the letter ‘s’. Someone please consult Wikipedia.

9:49 – OTD of When The Whistle Blows [Andy's sitcom]. Andy asn’t been aving any laffs.

9:51 – What’s not hotter than the What’s Not Hot list? Maggie scraping food [refried beans?] in her new job as dishwasher.

9:53 – “VERNON KAY!!” Number of notable TV presenters presented to an otherwise unaware audience = 1.

9:56 – Darren’s back at the carphone warehouse, and as much as we’re supposed to feel sorry for him, I get the feeling that he’s barely employable in his current job.

9:57 – The second clip of Kate Bush doing “This Woman’s Work” makes me think I’m watching ‘If These Walls Could Talk’, not the prequel to The Office. That’s what he said!

**End of Intermission. Thanks, Dan**

10:00 – How perfect! I’m back just in time for the David Tennant cameo. Andy shows up on Hotel Babylon too, but we don’t get any of the cast.

10:03: – Extras has always been self-referential to the cast’s real life careers… is Maggie thinking of moving to America? To star in Fugly Metty, mayhaps?

10:05 – What’s up with “The Ivy” anyways? Is there a British offshoot of the LA landmark? I’m getting really sick of Andy’s nemesis, whatshisface showing up. It’s too much.

10:07 – “Did you know that the number one killer of household cats is feline AIDS…?” God damn this is depressing.

10:10 – Ok, we’re up to Celebrity Big Brother. Andy has chosen fame over integrity. Maggie watches at home and frowns. The only British D-lister I recognize is that girl from that band. She’s doing that dance!

10:15 – Everyone does that dance! I am reminded of my awkward, childhood Brit-pop obsession.

10:21 – Andy makes his big speech about fame and apologizes, through the television, to Maggie. They’re crying. I’m crying. When did Ricky Gervais become such an incredible dramatic actor? Weirded out!

10:25 – Andy rejects fame and all that junk. Yusef Islam sings. Closing thoughts to come…

With less than eight hours of original programming under its belt, Extras was barely a blip on the TV radar. But in its brief tenure, it gave us more savvy humor and heart-tugging thoughtfulness than most of its longer lasting contemporaries. The extra bitter bittersweetness of tonight’s finale was justified by the uplifting nature of the last five minutes. Andy and Maggie, though not in the best of positions in life, have each other. And they’re finally free of the expectations that held them back for so long.

Five Days explores one of my favorite (and the most frustrating) topics in contemporary media: the fascination with missing and/or murdered blonde women. In this case, it’s Leanne Wellings – a woman who pulls over to buy flowers from a roadside stand and seemingly falls off the face of the earth. She leaves her two biracial children (and their new puppy!) behind in the car, and despite it being 2007, they crawl over the cellular phone in the front seat and go wondering across the British countryside and ultimately wind up in a kidnapper van. The three month time frame of the series makes me think that the fate of Leanne and her children won’t be the brightest (missing ladies are like people in comas – if things don’t clear up in the first couple of days, they’re pretty much screwed), but there are apparently enough twists and turns over the next four episodes to shock even the most jaded TV watcher.

The second episode airs tonight, and suspicions turn to husband and father Matt when he’s reluctant to address the press. I don’t think he’s behind the disappearance, but he’s definitely shady. Busting your mobile in the middle of the night? Arguing about rusty shivs? Owning a motorcycle? These are not characteristics of a man on the right side of the law. The only thing that’s clear at this point is that nobody makes a miniseries like the Brits. Check it out.

Five Days airs Tuesdays at 8pm on NBC

I wanted to review Torchwood in week one, but the pilot wasn’t remotely sexy – and that’s what has earned the show most of its buzz. That changed in the second episode when we met an alien that fed off of sex with humans until they were reduced to pile of dust. Not what you’d expect from a Doctor Who spin-off, but it’s what we got. DW veteran “Captain” Jack Harkness (John Barrowman) leads this small cast as they try to make the streets of Cardiff safe … and he’s more than happy to sleep with anyone who looks at him right. There are a couple of reasons to tune into this one. Barrowman’s real life sexuality is shared by his alter ego, and Torchwood’s willingness to show their lead in comprising positions with both men and women is definitely a first. The show is also entertaining as hell and captures the sublime amalgam of comedy, camp and drama that has made the new Doctor Who such dynamic programming. Either way, I’m sure the folks at Sci Fi are kicking themselves for not securing the rights to this one.

As for Tell Me You Love Me, it’s impossible to mention the show without making sex the focus of the discussion. The story of three troubled couples and the therapist they share, TMYLM aims to shed an unforgiving light on intimacy. And they accomplish this… by showing testicles. Creator Cynthia Mort maintains that the graphic sex and nudity is just there for heightened realism, but it’s actually quite distracting and, in many scenes, horrifying. Besides, is there ever any sex or nudity in film and TV that isn’t gratuitous?

That’s not to say it’s bad. Where the documentary style filming and elderly bjs are tiresome, the acting and character development (especially on the part of the women) is remarkable. Most interesting of all might be Carolyn (Lost veteran Sonya Walger). The British actress plays a woman desperate for babies with the steely resolve of a vampire on the prowl. Her ignorance of how she’s destroying her marriage with her quest to brood is hard to watch but even harder to turn away from. Also noteworthy is Katie (Profiler’s Ally Walker), whose sexless marriage and resulting loss of gender is like watching a car accident in slow motion. She’s so consumed with her role as mother; she doesn’t even remember how to be alone.

Torchwood (BBC America; Saturday; 9PM) is fun, and Tell Me You Love Me (HBO; Sunday; 9PM) is kind of fascinating. Neither are required viewing, but both are worth checking out.

Since live-blogging would have required my watching the show in its painful entirety (and the onslaught of FOX plugs), I hope you’ll settle for my slightly delayed reactions to the big winners…

Supporting Actor in a Comedy – Jeremy Piven – Is it fair to award the same actor two years in a row for playing the same stagnant, stereotypical character that isn’t remotely different from who he is in real life? Apparently so. Piven, you may have Emmy, but you’ll never be half the bro Neil Patrick Harris is.

Supporting Actor in a Drama – Terry O’Quinn – As big of a Heroes fan as I might be… their Drama nod seems a little undeserved. Not so for Masi Oka though. He should have had this. Terry O’Quinn is all well and good in Lost, but if you’re going to award the supporting cast of the island, you could at least have given it to Ben Linus. Nice speech, though, Terry. Can’t say the same for the shirt…

Supporting Actress in a Comedy – Jamie Pressly – In all honesty, I’ve never watched more than five minutes of My Name is Earl, but I’m having a seriously hard time believing that a glorified extra from Not Another Teen Movie is more deserving of this award than Jenna Fischer or Vanessa Williams.

Supporting Actress in a Drama – Katherine Heigl – The reach of America’s love of Denny Duckett goes on long after he’s in the ground! “Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Drama” is now officially the “Lengthiest and Most Annoying Mourning Period” award. Not that I don’t adore you, Izzie.

Lead Actor in a Comedy – Ricky Gervais – I love Gervais. I love him for his work on Extras, and I love him for not being there to speak.

Lead Actress in a Drama – Sally Field – Have people seen Brothers & Sisters? I watch it religiously, but it’s all kinds of sucky. Unless this Emmy is for the episode when Sally got stoned with Margot Kidder, I don’t buy it. Also… nice editing, Emmy guys! A full hour after Tell Me You Loved Me showed real-life vagina and prosthetic wieners, FOX still can’t let America hear a middle-aged woman say “god-damned.”

Lead Actress in a Comedy – America Ferrera – Wow, the first award of the night I actually called. And one of the few I don’t object to.

Lead Actor in a Drama – James Spader – Can I say “wow” again? Boston Legal is not something I’ve ever watched, or ever intend to, but it can’t be all that bad. Somewhere in Los Angeles, Gandolfini is watching Mannequin and getting trashed.

Outstanding Comedy – 30 Rock – I hate to throw it out there so soon, but 30 Rock is flirting with Arrested Development-type prophetic doom.

Outstanding Drama – The Sopranos – Despite the acting snubs, the Emmys’ love for The Sopranos could not have been more obvious. That Jersey Boys homage? They might as well have just paid someone to felate a bunch of HBO execs live on stage for three minutes. Whatever, it’s not like they don’t deserve it.

… Oh, and Tony Bennett won everything else.

Who better to sing out the summer than Justin Timberlake? Well, Don Henley for one, but no matter. In a supernova of white clothing that officially became uncouth as of 00:00 hours, JT closed community pools and reopened public schools with his breathy crooning in a 2 1/2 hour extravaganza on HBO. He danced, he swaggered, he played the flippin’ keytar, but for the casual JT fan (as most of us are), was it any good?

Of course it was. Though it could have stood some generous editing (I started dozin’ around 105 minutes in), Timberlake is a showman if anything. He sang almost his entire solo catalog and even offered something from the halcyon days of N*sync. Amidst remixes, reworkings and annoying displays of musical aptitude – we get it, you’re an artist – there were even a few private moments with the man himself. Karen Duffy continued her welcome, though bizarre, renaissance by covering yet another televised concert and dishing out the Qs in the Q&A that bookended the show and filled the intermission. (I don’t think anyone was under the impression that this was a “live” broadcast, but they have to do their best to maintain suspension of disbelief.)

Timbaland’s cameo was definitely the highpoint. It’s always nice to see the man kind of behind the curtain come out to a raucous reception, and watching the two of them dance together is almost too charming to bear. Things really slowed down towards the end though and almost stopped completely with an encore that was all kinds of superfluous. Strolling out all by his lonesome, in just a t-shirt and khakis, Timberlake played what piano, sing a sad song and offered an affected thank you to the audience. It left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth after such a nice evening and would probably have been better suited to Lilith Fair… My only real complaint I suppose; that and the fact that I still have no clue what FutureSex/ LoveSounds are.

There are a few enchanting shows on television that are so good, their season finales actually elicit physical pain – the thought of months of and months without new episodes is just that devastating. Big Love is one such show.

There’s so much going on right now it’s kind of a slap in the face to make just 12 episodes at a time. Last night’s season-ender gave us next to no resolution for any of the subplots, and what closure we did get… was not exactly what I had hoped for. Sarah chose to assert her independence by screwing her future-pedophile boyfriend when she should have just moved in with Heather’s family. And instead of finally giving Bill the kiss-off she’s been considering all season, Barb took a big ol’ gulp of the polygamous Kool-Aid and fully embraced her life as one of several wives – as long as she can be the one with all of the power.

Bill is getting slimier by the minute, and last night’s unexpected return of potential fourth-wife Ana was not without some pantry-side canoodling. I like Ana and all, but the addition of another Lady Henrickson would drive me all kinds of nuts. Margene’s naive insistence on her inclusion won’t likely be placated by Barb’s grand gesture.

My love/hate relationship with Nikki dissolved this season when her antics went from whimsical to inexcusable. Her father, however, stopped creeping me out long enough to became one of my favorites. Roman returned from his coma slightly loony and definitely a lesser evil to his son Alby. Alby is good for drama, but he owes all of his success to what an idiot his sister is.

That brings me to my biggest gripe: the power struggle at the compound is never nearly as exciting as the conflicts that play out in the Henrickson’s communal backyard. Part of me hopes that the writers will find some way to include the Juniper Creek folks without spending too much time on political issues that follow them, and if they’re interested, I have ten months to think about how they might do it.

I realize that a highly skilled director and screenwriter such as Kenneth Branagh needn’t appear in all of his Shakespearean adaptations, but is it so much to ask that he do it anyway? His most recent jaunt, BBC and HBO’s joint production of As You Like It, is as lovable and charming as we’ve come to expect of Branagh, but it did lack a certain bravado without the master of ceremonies taking on one of the leads himself.

Following in the footsteps of 2000’s Love’s Labour’s Lost, Branagh chose to completely mess with the time period and location for As You Like It with ambiguous Westerners living in 1800’s Japan. The opening scene finds the players in a luxurious home deep in a Japanese forest, when they are attacked a band of sword-hurling ninjas. This is a particularly considerate move; had Shakespeare actually been aware of ninjas, he most certainly would have included them himself. Hopes are officially high, but once all but one of the cast are banished to the woods, we find that the movie is basically ninjaless and was probably filmed in Branagh’s British backyard.

With the lush backdrop proving to be just a tease, the success of the following two hours was entirely dependant on the cast, and there are a remarkable number of ways one can royally eff up Shakespeare. Thankfully, such eff-uppery was kept to minimum. Kevin Kline, who took an odd turn from being the selling point of every project he’s involved with, seemed the most aloof. If there were a role that begged to be swapped for Branagh, it was Kline’s stagy Jaques. Romola Garai (of Dirty Dancing 2 fame) was the most exciting. As the play wore on, her rustic surroundings took her from glamorous Victorian nobility to barely lucid, semi-feral hobo. And we all know how much hobos bring to the table.

After the obligatory multiple-wedding had tied four couples’ respective knots and frolicking had ensued, the credits were interrupted by the uncharacteristic epilogue. Bryce Dallas Howard, who was delightful as the star, stares directly into the camera during her brief soliloquy as the one-shot takes her off the set, past the craft services table and through a small maze of trailers. Just when we think we might be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Kenneth, practically the modern embodiment of the bard himself, Howard closes the door on her dressing room with a wink and a nod. Such a tease – but at least an enjoyable one.

Those vacant looks say it all. In the 10 mind-boggling weeks since The Sopranos left us hanging, John From Cincinnati did what it could to rebuild Sunday nights. And though it will surely go down as one of the more inventive attempts at serialized storytelling, there won’t be much to reference. Last night HBO confirmed what we already knew: JFC will not be getting a second season.

What few fans remain will now have to stalk creator David Milch if they want to know what the hell it all meant – assuming he even knows himself. He did offer a few tidbits on Sunday’s series finale (as did episode writer Zach ‘Joss’s bro’ Whedon) to Variety‘s Cynthia Littleton. You can read them here and here. Personally, I feel like I’ve been let off the hook. I watched John for watching’s sake, but my attention waned as soon as the opening credits ended – which, if you never caught them, were pretty effing awesome.

Despite a few of us still holding onto the hope that John From Cincinnati will rise to the occasion before its first (and likely only) season comes to an end, it’s quite clear that it will never be the heir to HBO’s now vacant Sunday Night throne. Flight of the Conchords ensures that the evening remains destination watching, but it can’t very well replace The Sopranos. The pay network is without a flagship for the first time in over a decade, and everyone keeps talking about which of their upcoming programs might fill the fabled cement shoes. Yet no one talks of Big Love.

Amidst annoyingly scrutinized finales, over-hyped launches and shows that have fallen into unacknowledged creative crap-holes, Big Love silently plugs along as the real star of HBO – its modesty almost in tune with that of the devout family in portrays. Critics are divided, audiences are turned off by the premise and Tuesday morning water coolers are dominated by fools rehashing Hell’s Kitchen and Two and a Half Men reruns. It hardly seems fair. Luckily, yesterday’s refreshing confirmation of a third season and an upcoming move back to Sundays might mean that HBO is ready to move their eggs into Big Love’s most deserving basket – and with good reason.

The caliber of the acting and writing improves almost every week, their successful juxtaposition of humor and anxiety is almost unparalleled and with the appearance of the Mormon mob (or Mor-mob, if you will), Big Love seems to be getting more Sopranos-y by the minute. The sinister waif of a man, Roman Grant, is no longer the only creep claiming to be the one true prophet. Dueling sects of polygamist Mormons are about to get dirty, and our dear protagonists (whose lifestyle seems strangely acceptable now) are caught in the middle. For a nice dose of absurd humor, they’ve even added sex scenes choreographed to Avril Lavigne and a transgendered Mormon henchman who likes to brand those who her cross her like cattle.

In a promo more fitting for Desperate Housewives, next week promises Big Love’s “most dramatic episode ever” that “everyone will be talking about.” I don’t doubt that former is true, but they’ll have to win a few more people over before they achieve the latter.

In the past, I have mocked television shows (er.. network marketing folks) for their futile insistence to incorporate online and viral elements into their television show. Most recently HBO’s Voyeur seemed like a novel idea, but then the actual manifestation was too fuzzy to see, and they started peddling unwarranted t-shirts at their flagship on Sixth Avenue. Stupid internet tricks will almost never widen a show’s audience; they merely make PR folks feel a sense of Oregon Trail-esque accomplishment. Finishing a viral marketing push, without catching cholera or loosing all your oxen, is as much of an accomplishment as you can hope for.

But if there were ever an exception to the rule, it would come from Flight of the Conchords. You’re now well aware of Mel, the Conchords’ biggest fan, if you’re smart enough to keep paying attention between the musical interludes. Mel is one of those strange urban creatures: overly earnest, sweater-set clad girls who haven’t escaped the roles they were given in high school; too awkward to seem natural in the city, but too dependent on forced interaction to live somewhere less populated.

Since there’s no way to let her shine too bright on the short program, Mel has a video blog on the show’s official site. Filled with analysis of her favorite duo, dispatches from stalking gone awry and more than a few moments of wide-eyed schizophrenia, Mel’s vlog is brilliant because its content is clearly the brainchild of its star, Kristen Schaal. The short clips will likely leave you wanting more of the comedian, so you might want to head over to MySpace to fully OD. And be sure to check out her short-lived/brilliant series, Penelope: Princess of Pets…

I was not fortunate enough to catch the building-side broadcast of HBO Voyeur, which is a shame, because it seems the only appropriate venue for the undertaking. The much ballyhooed project is basically an ambiguous commercial for the network – a four-minute looped reel of the sensational/mundane events that transpire one night in the stairwell and eight apartments of a lower Manhattan building. It serves as a reminder to us all that that drama can happen anywhere, but it’s an effing guarantee on HBO.

Voyeur is an exciting idea. Aside from the fly-on-wall kicks of seeing people fight and make out, there’s also real estate scoping, a favorite pastime of city-dwellers everywhere. Seeing it broadcast on vacant walls or billboards would be an experience, but watching the same events compartmentalized on HBO On Demand or in poor resolution on the website is just boring.

It’s also BS. Most of this stuff would never happen, and the suggestion that it’s all happening at the same moment, in the same building, is funnier than it is intriguing. HBO’s big ploy is to appeal to our lust for real, accessible drama, but what they’ve given us is comically overdone. I have a friend whose old neighbor did nude calisthenics while he waited for his popcorn to microwave. He could have had his own show.

Everyone really needs to chill the hell out over John From Cincinnati. Stories are told in different ways, and just because this one is taking a more original approach doesn’t mean it should be shunned like it has been by most of the media.

As for the source of all the shunning, the vague arc of John is actually starting to take shape. The supernatural undertones are becoming overtones (or is it just tones?), with “resurrection by parrot” and “spontaneous near-combustion” joining levitation on the roster of weird and unexplained. Thanks to the less than creatively titled episodes, we also know it’s only been two days in Imperial Beach since John arrived – leading one to conclude that the ten episode season is going to play out over the period of just one week. Unfortunately, most America viewers thrive on the pace of 24, and a week is probably too long to hold their interest. For that reason alone, I’m inclined to worry that John From Cincinnati will follow in the footsteps of Carnivale: awesome, underrated and ultimately unwatched.

HBO is not failing to live up to its long tradition of TV’s strongest character studies. And while I’m fully onboard with the Yosts, their friends and the antagonistic duo of Luke Perry and Emily Rose, those three dudes at the motel aren’t going to find a fan in me anytime soon. In a cast that seems to be growing every week, the less time devoted to peripheral folks, the better. Also… mysterious hotel rooms are seriously played out.

What remain to be inarguably amazing about John From Cincinnati are the opening credits. There might be no more sublime way to cap off a weekend than with shots of longboard surfers of yore set to a simultaneously tranquil and rowdy Joe Strummer. It’s becoming my favorite minute and a half of the TV week, and the 58.5 that follow are pretty damn good too if you’re willing to check your unfairly high expectations at the door.

I may have been the only person who hadn’t already seen Flight of the Conchords by the time it premiered on HBO last night. For the past month, the first episode has been available at HBO.com and, by some unknown means of coercion, absolutely everyone seemed to have written about it. I did not.

Bret and Jemaine had a pretty rough handicap with me. I’m not generally a fan of comedians who pepper their shtick with music, and a solid 30 minutes of New Zealander accents isn’t a very enticing pitch either, but Conchords was actually pretty funny. It follows the journey of transplanted buddies in New York’s East Village. Like New York comedies of past, neither seem to have a job or any other source of income – at least their apartment is appropriately modest. For support, they have an overzealous and creepy fan and a dippy manager who echoes a little too strongly of Extras’ Darren.

When their intentionally expressionless faces and monotone voices become almost too much, they burst into song. They sing about falling in love, the heartache of rejection… and robots. It seems like we should have heard these songs before, but the dry absurdity is distinctly their own. Jermaine’s falsetto is a much more welcome vehicle for musical comedy than your Jimmy Fallons and your Adam Sandlers.

Though the Conchords may be better suited to the short MTV promos of the 90s or a recurring Saturday Night Live skit, they don’t overstay their welcome like they easily could. The show drags a little in between the surrealist musical interludes but not enough to fully turn away. And with Entourage apparently still very much steeped in all things Medellín, Flight of the Conchords is a comedy on HBO actually worth watching.