Heller Hath No Fury

The Wire's beloved man-child Det. Jimmy McNulty (Dominic West) has always been a lovable troublemaker — mouthing off to superiors, drinking on the job, hookin' up with Russian prostitutes while working undercover… you know, the usual boyish shenanigans. But last night's episode "The Dickensian Aspect" proves that this season, McNulty has lost his McMarbles — not to mention his moral integrity. Season 5's phony serial-killer storyline is inane and totally improbable, but most of all, it's morally reprehensible and it's destroying one of TV's best-written characters.

This last point was driven home for me most clearly as I watched McNulty abandon a childlike, mentally ill homeless man in a lonely shelter hours from Baltimore. McNulty paused for only the briefest moment of hesitation before getting into his car and driving off, leaving that helpless man with no way to get back and no way for his family to trace him. Jimmy's always been a bit self-centered, sure, but this season his behavior is downright cruel. His silent, unexplained abandonment of the beloved Beadie (played by the brilliant Amy Ryan, who now finds herself stuck in a cardboard "wife" role). His harsh, pornographic sex scene with a barfly floozy in a parking lot, when he disgustingly flashed his badge mid-act at a passing police car. His self-righteous arguments with Bunk over his bonkers plan to curry police funding from the city budgeters. And now the escalation of this impossible-to-buy fake-serial-killer bill of sales. McNulty's become a mere cog in the wheels of his own elaborate insanity.

Sure, the serial-killer storyline is a convenient way to tie the goings-on in the police department with this season's thematic focus on the dirty doings at the Baltimore Sun. But it's clear that show creator and former Sun reporter David Simon is using this season to settle some old scores regarding the press' tendency to buy any story, no matter how bogus, in order to sell papers. And here's the thing about score-settling: It backfires if it looks bitter and maniacal. Also, unlike past Wire seasons that examined various aspects of Baltimore culture — like the dockworkers or the schoolteachers — the edit desk at the Sun isn't populated with a single likable or even distinctive character, making every Sun scene look gray and gloomy. So between the sunless Sun and McNulty's inexplicably brutish lunacy, I can't help but worry — is this stupid storyline destroying the final season of my favorite show on television? Is McNulty's fake killer fraying The Wire?

Didn't your mama tell you never to mess with Masterpiece fans? The discussion boards on the new website for PBS' recently overhauled Masterpiece Theatre series are aflame with controversy — and it's all about the Masterpiece theme song. The iconic trumpet fanfare — originally composed for the court of Louis XV by Jean-Joseph Mouret — that has introduced Masterpiece for some 35 years has now been replaced by a tinny, synthetic-sounding something or other composed by an outfit called Man Made Music. And old-guard PBS fans have their bloomers in a bunch about it.

The new music is part of PBS' plan to revamp its oldest program by updating the look and feel of Masterpiece's introductory segments, replacing the host with Bleak House star Gillian Anderson, and splitting the season into three separately themed sections — Masterpiece Classic in the spring, Masterpiece Mystery! in the summer and Masterpiece Contemporary in the fall. The "prime suspect" behind all this is PBS' marketing department, which, presumably, is trying to attract the attention of the marketing world's prom queen (the 18-34 demo) and in so doing has betrayed its frumpy old Honor Society geek roots. For shame, PBS, for shame.

Compare clips of the new and old Masterpiece themes, and sound off on what you think!

This time of year, much is always made of best-dressed ladies who sport glamorous gowns on red carpets and awards shows, but what of the day-to-day stylings of our favorite small-screen characters? To honor the small-screen costume designers who too often get the short shrift come awards time, here's my top-five list of 2007's most memorably fashionable TV characters. (Check out the related photo gallery here.)

1) Melinda Gordon, Ghost Whisperer:
Melinda is an antiques dealer who likes to talk to dead people, so it's psychologically fitting that her fashion choices would have a close link to styles of the past. From lined, box-pleated dresses to richly textured portrait-collar blazers, the girl knows how to exude professional competence while still showing off that world-famous bustline. Sure, her much-maligned eyelash extensions can be a bit distracting, but when combined with her modern-day revamp of '50s fashions, her eye makeup becomes an accessory in its own right. She's Tammy Faye meets Meg White, and I love it!

2) Barney Stinson, How I Met Your Mother:
No self-respecting best-dressed list would dare to neglect network television's sultan of suits. The man who made men's fashion a national slogan and an imperative ("Suit up!") may be a bit bossy, but his flawless fashion choices always project cool and calm. We've seen inside this guy's closet(s), after all — no detail, however tiny, goes unexamined; he's like the Paulie Walnuts of Midtown Manhattan. Heck, one look at those perfectly planned shirt-and-tie combos and a girl almost feels like she could trust him. And that's all part of his dastardly plan.

3) Joan Holloway, Mad Men
What a knockout. Not only is Joanie's 1960s office attire an exercise in period-piece perfection, but it's a symphony of amazing colors and fabrics to boot. Her carrot hair and coral lips are always perfect complements to her closet's rich collection of emeralds, apricots and plums. And those scarves! And those brooches! She's enough to drive any man mad.

4) Emerson Cod, Pushing Daisies
It's quite a task to outdo the cast of such a whimsical, Wizard of Oz-inspired show, but Pushing Daisies' Emerson Cod (Chi McBride) has done it. The one source of relative reason on a show peopled by some very out-there characters, Cod's detective character pairs professorial tweeds and sweaters with an eye-popping palette of fuchsia and orange silks. Sartorially speaking, the guy's fun-loving but still reliable. Don'tcha just wanna give him a big bear hug?

5) Blair Waldorf, Gossip Girl
Here's yet another reason to wish you were rich. Uber-wealthy Upper East Side princess Blair (Leighton Meester) may have her insecurities, but she's awfully daring and creative when it comes to her clothes. Her lace tops and pearl pendants are straight from Ally Sheedy in St. Elmo's Fire, but then she'll shock you with a schoolbus-yellow hair accessory or a fire-red handbag inspired by Toni Basil. I absolutely love her use of ribbons as belts and hair accessories. Yup, our Blair's got flair.

Honorable Mention: Becca Moody, Californication
I haven't seen punk/grunge like this since My So-called Life's Rayanne. Becca is every bit her mother's daughter (Karen, don't forget, was obsessed with Chris Cornell back in the day) in her flannel tops and Converse. But then she injects her own rock-rebel solo with her severe, jet-black page-boy haircut, her plaid ska skirts and her layered leather jewelry. I love it — keep on rockin', Becca!

The uber-entertaining Red Sox pitcher Jonathon Papelbon was on Letterman last night, doing his famous Irish stepping and his best, most indecipherable Boomhauer imitation. The guy was hilarious, proof that he has a real future as a comedian — and as the captain of this blogger's heart.

Highlights include his secret nicknames for Big Papi ("Bedazzler" and "The Large Father"), an explanation of his semi-naked Underoos jig after the division clinch, and, best of all, a short analysis of what he's thinking about while on the mound. Perhaps that explains why his face takes on the Look of Lucifer when pitching. Check out the full clip here. Papelbon translates to "good paper" indeed.

What, you've never heard of the world's funniest car show? The genre-defying phenom is a national obsession in the U.K., and with-it fans in the U.S. have been downloading it off YouTube for years. But it's fair legal game now — BBC America tossed a bone to us speed-hungry Yanks when it premiered the show for the first time this week.

Part celebrity interview, part Jackass with cars, it's CarTalk but with a budget. And what a budget it is: The premiere episode extolled the death-defying (and -embracing) virtues of the Koenigsegg CCX, a Swedish machine that currently holds the record for the world's fastest speeding ticket (242 mph, somewhere in Texas) and runs at a paltry ₤415,000. That's quite a toy for these boyish lads, who've made a career out of humiliating themselves at the wheel in every imaginable test drive, remodel project and car trial. In the season-opener alone, puckish cutie Richard Hammond drives a neon-pink Nissan Micra convertible with a bag over his head. Later the lads pull the roof off a Renault Espace minivan (a ride that, according to wry elder Gear man Jeremy Clarkson, makes "you feel like you're drowning in wallpaper paste") and then drive it through a lion-infested wildlife preserve. The minivan denouement features a car wash on fire as the boys run away stiff-legged and freaked, ultimately taking shelter behind a dumpster to squabble in peace.

Their hilarious Python-esque antics prove even more riotous when the best and brightest of Britain's entertainment world come a-calling for the road-race segment. Actors and athletes risk life and limb screeching around the track, while Hammond and Clarkson sit idly by eating lady cakes, playing a bit of footie, and, in the premiere, enjoying an impromptu performance from Yes keyboardist Rick Wakeman. The wit is wicked, the cars careen, and everything is still right in the Top Gear world. Rumor has it that the likes of Ewan MacGregor and Michael Gambon will be among this season's guests, so tune in and tune up, America.

Top Gear airs on Mondays at 8 pm/ET, on BBC America.

Don't know much about history? That's OK, because not surprisingly History Channel can help. The network's new special The States takes a wry, fun-loving look at the history and culture of each of the 50 states, and its homespun interviews with locals and celebrities native to each state are heartwarming, not to mention hilarious. And heck, maybe you'll learn something.

The beauty of the series is its nationalistic emphasis on state residents' charmingly fierce state pride. Historians and academics get some input as well, but the big focus is on interviews with heavily accented locals and staunchly nostalgic celebrities. Footballer Terry Bradshaw tells a rollicking funny story about corruption in Louisiana politics, the captivating Neil Patrick Harris waxes adoring while describing his native New Mexico's cuisine, and a spry and sardonic elder woman complains about the low quality of rival state New Hampshire's granite compared to that of her beloved Vermont. ("They were named before we were," she moans when explaining why New Hampshire got the nickname the Granite State.) All states regardless of size or historic consequence get equal loving treatment, and viewers will walk away with a textbook ton of trivia. Like, did you know that Oregon is the only mainland state to be attacked in World War II, or that New Mexico has the highest number of PhDs and Louisiana the highest number of bridges? Or that Vermont had the first postage stamp, the first patent, and was the first to outlaw slavery? In the words of champion snowboarder Hannah Teter, "Thanks, Vermont, 'preciate it." As a native woodchuck, I'm inclined to agree. No matter which state you're from, you'll learn something new about your state and love it all the more.

The 10-part series airs Saturdays at 10 pm/ET.

Yes, it's hoaky. Yes, it's camp. Yes, the acting is bad, the hair is big, and there's not an intelligent script line within a mile. But the magnificent John Waters swoops in to save us all in this fictionalized series that looks at just how wrong love can go. He's Court TV's knight in pencil mustache.

The series uses dramatizations of supposedly true stories to show how fast marital love can turn to murderous hate. Each episode begins with a vignette of the happy couple madly in love, usually in some wildly passionate soft-porn embrace. Then trouble comes — in the form of sleazy lawyers, bad prenups, lesbian stalkers, insurance fraud or arguments about the merits of Wayne Newton versus hip-hop. But whatever the particular undoing of each couple, one thing's for sure: There'll be plenty of suspense, plenty of malevolent plotting, plenty of trashy workplace canoodling, and at least one pair of leather pants. And that's not even counting the deadpan peanut-gallery narration from Serial Mom's adorably arch auteur, known here as the Groom Reaper.

Waters' pasty face and sardonic sneer shine through each and every episode as he narrates these tales of romantic woes and won'ts. In one episode, a gold-digging, pistol-packing secretary marries her much-older, much-wealthier boss, but things go stale when post-nuptials she stops putting out. He coldly arranges with his lawyer to end the thing, but the little floozy returns fire with a threat of blackmail. Then Waters appears from the scenery, drolly pointing out, "They say it's the early bird that gets the worm, but in this case it's the night owl that gets the incriminating evidence." (What, huh?) Best of all, viewers throughout can text-vote which spouse they think will be the killer, since they're clearly both equally evil. Ah, true love. Another classic Waters quote? "They went from X-rated to exterminated." It's just too good.

Each episode closes with a hilariously heavy-handed "told you so" when the killer ends his or her cleverly complicated conniving by making one insanely stupid mistake, like accidentally videotaping the murder scene. The whole concept is laugh-out-loud wonderful, and as anyone who's ever seen love go wrong knows, but for a little thing called impulse control we might have all ended up like these poor sods. As Waters himself says, your goosebumps will have goosebumps.

BBC America's miniseries adapting the beloved tale of Robin Hood is at first quite a charmer: stacked as it is with so many adorably blue-eyed, tousle-haired English cuties, you might at first mistake it for a dramatic music video from an up-and-coming Britpop group. But watch on, and you may soon find yourself bored to death — and not by an arrow from one of Nottingham's famous archers.

Robin and his boys do certainly hold their charms, however. The Hood in question, played by Jonas Armstrong, comes back from the Crusades to find his estate in shambles, his people in poverty, and his homeland suffering under the cruel tyrannies of the sheriff of Nottingham (Keith Allen) and minor despot Guy of Gisborne (Richard Armitage). Even worse, a couple of Robin's childhood pals are now under threat of hanging, all for the inconsequential crime of having stolen some flour. There's some good news, though: his childhood sweetheart Marian (newcomer Lucy Griffiths) has managed to escape the noose of nuptials these past five years, so although she's fiery, temperamental and playing very hard to get, Robin's happy to learn that she's nonetheless technically up for grabs. And we all know that grabbed she will be.

The movie sticks to the legend pretty closely, and the tale's exacting pronouncements about the true nature of economic equality and social justice are proclaimed with unerring clarity throughout — all part of England's national identity of political anticlassism. Even the sets themselves are classically "shire": you'll find rolling green hills, stone cottages with dear little thatched roofs, filthy freckled children frolicking in the fields, and more than a few buxom country wenches who are eager for a roll in the hay with the Hood. But the miniseries is stymied by its painfully slow pacing, its jarring handheld camerawork, its trenchant anachronisms (the girls are so heavily made up, one might mistake the series for an episode of EastEnders), and its stunted dialogue that too often falls awkwardly flat (upon seeing Nottingham's devastated, empty villages, Much daftly exclaims, "Where is everybody?" not once but twice in about 10 minutes of screen time).

Still, Jonas Armstrong, with his mischievous eyes and wry humor, is a charismatic choice for the leader of the Merry Men, and the miniseries' structure shows a side of the legend rarely focused on: Robin and his pal Much, through their goofy, accidentally successful world adventures, grow as close as brothers. This makes the whole affair seem at moments like a big, rollicking buddy movie that happens to be set in medieval times. And perhaps it's best viewed as such.

The miniseries airs its five episodes through April.

No, I wasn't a guest (one fine day, folks, one fine day). A friend meandered by last week and picked up a pair of extra tickets, so I went as a member of the studio audience. And boy was it strange.

First off, remember when Letterman was all avant garde and edgy, mocking guests without them even knowing it? We all know those days are gone, and my experience as a member of the audience only served to prove it. No edge left at the Ed Sullivan Theater, no sirree, now the halls are lined with — literally — cheerleaders. As ticketed guests line up in the lobby, Worldwide Pants staffers in jock-boy jackets scream, "Are you excited?" with merciless repetition. It's annoying at first, then downright alarming, then nervously laughable in a "Somehow, suddenly, I am in a cult" kind of way. But after that, weirdly, my friend and I started to have fun.

The staff of Letterman's production company, Worldwide Pants, is made up of about 10 intern-age kids who help line up the audience and tell them where to go and what to do. But the staff's more important job is to warm up the audience after lining them up; it was repeatedly explained to us, in loud, excitable, laughing-gas-smile tones, that the Late Show with David Letterman proudly does not use recorded laughter, so it is up to us to provide the giggles and the claps. Whereas if watching at home you might smile at a joke, here you gotta guffaw, and they're there to put you in a guffawing kind of mood. They do this with a series of comedy acts (Eddie Brill most notably) and with musical performances from the CBS Orchestra. Seating is "random," which means that the Pants staff put happy-faced, good-energied people in the front rows (I shoulda been an actor — I got third row!). Before Dave comes on with his warm-up act, as well as during commercial breaks, the band plays, and these frantic, fresh-faced interns literally dance madly in the aisles. What's most strange is that, bizarrely, in a magical act of emotional transformation, this sneery cynic right here found herself laughing and clapping along. I was grinning like a loon, frankly. Who needs Prozac when you've got Worldwide Pants girls?

The taping I saw was Samuel L. Jackson, touting his new movie Black Snake Moan. I've seen the ads for this thing (I've got me a little Timberlake problem, so it, shall we say, caught my eye), and that movie truly looks like a cinematic fart. But, that said, one cool thing was that the CBS Orchestra's own Felicia Michele Collins was Samuel L. Jackson's guitar teacher — he plays a blues musician in the film and had to learn to play quick. So he chatted a bit with Dave and then got in the orchestra pit to play with his teach. That was very cool, and he, well, he just bleeds cool. Dave himself was sharp, obviously, and every bit on the game as he seems. What you don't realize when watching from home is that when Dave and his guests are sitting at the desk, they're facing a half-moon of huge camera and sound equipment, so they can't really see the audience and the audience can't really see them. Most of the interview I was watching from the monitors, even though I was in the third row, although when Jackson started guitar-picking, I had a perfect view of the band. That Paulie Shaffer, what a stand-up guy.

The Samuel L. Jackson interview, which also includes a very funny bit from comedian Jim Gaffigan, airs tomorrow night. But never mind those guys, look for me in the third row!

My biggest guilty pleasure in life is derived from the candy-coated trash (and occasional true artistry) found in the oft-forgotten field of the music video. Why directors (and art directors, and costume designers) don't tout their music-video accomplishments more often is beyond me, since a number of big-name moviemakers got their starts (or further padded their bank accounts) in music videos — Scorsese, Jarmusch and Michel Gondry to name a few. But what's really great about a music video is what it reveals about a musician's level of charisma: some people (Jack White) have none, others (Justin Timberlake) have so much it turns you to jelly. (OK, maybe that's just me.) In any case, depending on the narrative style of the video, you can tell a lot about a musician's future as an actor (Mary J. Blige, I love you, girl, but you cannot act), or, if the video is less a narrative and more a performance, a video can say a lot about a musician's nonmusical skills as an "artist." Since members of the record industry no longer like to refer to themselves as mere musicians, it seems perfectly fair to me to evaluate their musical value based on their skills as performance artists.... Heck, I don't even have to like a song or a genre of music to totally appreciate a video. Anyway, to that end, I list here my top five favorite music videos from artists nominated for Grammys this year. Most of this stuff doesn't even fall within my preferred genre (I'm an indie rocker all the way), but this year I saw some real gems nonetheless. Here they are, in no particular order:

1) Chris Brown, "Run It": This baby-faced rapper looks like he's about 16, which makes my reaction to him totally against the law. But I don't care: He's got mad charisma, mad choreography, and an otherwordly self-assurance that'll make you melt. Big-smiled and sweet-eyed, he doesn't have an ounce of the arrogance you see in the average hip-hopper, and to further distinguish him in the genre, the female dancers he casts are sexy as hell while still seeming classy, smart and — shocker — blessed with backbones that have uses in life other than humptastic moves at the club. His "Gimme That" video also has some terrific choreography, and the costume design — which has a Roaring Twenties, gin-soaked satin feel — truly shimmers.

2) Ludacris featuring Mary J. Blige, "Runaway Love": Scratch what I said about Mary J.: This stinking video is so powerful it made me cry. Yeah, it's over-the-top melodrama, but that's what Blige does best. The song tells the story of two 12-year-old girls who run away from home to escape abusive environments, and the two young girls cast in the video are amazing young actresses. It's heavy stuff, it's an important topic, and it's beautifully done.

3) The Flaming Lips, "The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song": After your cathartic Ludacris-induced cryfest, this hilarious Lips entry is the perfect antidote. Everybody's favorite freaks from Oklahoma never fail to illicit that huh? response (the last Lips show I saw featured dancing bunny costumes wearing pasties, and there's been talk of vibrating underwear that operates by remote control), and this video reads like an SNL skit, except that it'll actually make you laugh. It's tough to even begin to explain, but essentially lead singer Wayne Coyne, dressed in a Mongolian emperor caftan or somesuch costuming, lectures a dusty village crowd about the evils of selfishness and ambition, while indoors a group of wide-mouthed backup singers use electrical tape to fasten schmear-smeared bagels on the various vulnerable body parts of a pudgy corporate schmo. Said schmo is then released into the village to square off against a cabal of men in bull costumes. A crack-up-out-loud chase scene ensues — and that's just the first half.

4) Pink, "Stupid Girls": I love Pink, not for her music but for herself. She's so utterly comfortable in her skin, and smart, and self-effacing, and in this video her comedic skills are on full display. She picks on overtanned Hollywood girls (and slutty rap-video dancers, and giggling fashionistas with microscopic dogs, and underfed gym dolls), and she's so very good at it. The scene where she sends up Paris Hilton's car wash commercial... somebody cast her in something, now!

5) The Raconteurs, "Hands": This song wasn't Grammy-nominated (that was "Steady, As She Goes," which was directed by Jim Jarmusch and looks an awful lot like the White Stripes' "White Orchid" video), but I love it too much not to mention it here. I'm always a sucker for a good narrative video (I'll always love Paula Abdul's "Rush"), so this one had me at "Oldham Prison for Young Offenders." The story is that the boys in the band break out of juvie and in their escape route they come upon a school for deaf girls. (The school apparently is real, and the girls in the video are real students.) The two groups take a liking to each other, swapping jokes, doing magic tricks and just generally hanging about. The girls teach the boys sign language, the boys teach the girls about music, and the whole thing is filmed with a jerky, sepia-toned Bonnie & Clyde fantasy feel, except that it's sweet and heartfelt and totally without acting of any kind. Adorable.

Some special mentions:

6) Gwen Stefani's "The Sweetest Escape": A horrible song, but Gwen is so lovable and genuine, and, of course, her clothes drive the ladies wild with envy.

7) Justin Timberlake's "Sexyback": Not his best video work, and the narrative left me feeling awfully confused as to who was who, but seeing our little curly-haired Justin in a sex scene while singing about being whipped is... so unexpected, even indie-rock girls such as myself melt over this guy's charisma. And speaking of charisma, his oft-collaborator Timbaland nearly rivals him in that field. He's cuddly, puckish, self-assured, and, like Timberlake, every bit the gentleman: See Nelly Furtado's "Say It Right" for proof.

8) Lupe Fiasco's "Gotcha": Funky, video-game theme has a friendly, fantastical Gondry feel, a lot like the White Stripes' "Fell in Love with a Girl."

9) Christina Aguilera's "Ain't No Other Man": The return of the blues-drenched twenties as a fashion trend is in full force in this piece, and Christina pulls it off like she made it up herself. "Dirty" Christina is so gorgeous now that she's had a bath.

In MTV's new reality series I'm from Rolling Stone, six college-age interns take on Jann Wenner, competing for a single permanent writing gig at the venerable rock rag. But what they really end up doing is showing, in matte relief, the vast difference between rock fans of today and those of yesteryear.

The six interns are rocketed into the world of rock journalism full throttle; their first assignments include interviews with big names like The Roots and Ghostface Killah. But many of these kids are so unpolished, it's hard to see why they were chosen at all, except perhaps to add drama to that most MTV of genres, reality. To be sure, they're smart kids and affirmed music geeks, but when, for example, Peter writes his first piece drunk, or Krishtine bitches about having to endure rewrites (what does she imagine, that she has nothing to learn?), or Russell jokes with Nelly Furtado about grabbing inappropriate body parts, it's hard to not, like, roll your eyes so far back into your head they get stuck. It seems more important to them to present themselves as hip and cool-enough-to-hang, rather than intellectual, respectful and articulate, like the writers of rock journalism's '60s and '70s golden age. No child-prodigy, Almost Famous-style writers here, for these apparently are different days we live in. Nowadays, evidently, Tika can lose her notebook on the train, Colin can think Boho is short for Brooklyn, and interns can skip work, blow off deadlines, and try to attribute homophobic-sounding remarks to Nellie McKay without having concert notes or, for that matter, proof of any kind to back up the claim — all without losing their jobs right there on the spot.

But unlike your average reality show, where people are pretty plastic and often selected for their looks, this one has the advantage of being about arty, difficult people — drinkers, aspiring musicians, bipolar sufferers — who come with a truckload of insecurities rather than the boatload of ceaseless self-promotion you see chez The Apprentice. This fact alone should make the series more interesting, but its failure lies in the fact that the show's central struggle is about who's got writing talent, and as viewers we can't read their articles for ourselves. It's difficult, therefore, to determine who has the talent and who doesn't, so we're left with assessing candidates by their interpersonal styles. This is certainly an important aspect of any journalism job, but these kids don't present themselves like little Cameron Crowes: They're too busy trying to get their interview subjects to think they're cool. Add to this that most annoying but omnipresent of habits, when people end their statements like they're questions? Whatever, dude.

Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker's prodigal son Jay has gone truly radical now: He's starting a church in the epicenter of hipster culture, Williamsburg, Brooklyn. This bepierced and betatted son of a preacher man — who listens to Social Distortion and writes his sermons in coffeehouses — is ending his six-episode series One Punk Under God, airing Wednesdays at 9 pm/ET on the Sundance Channel, with a move to the absolute opposite of Jim Bakkerland — New York City — where his wife Amanda will go to med school while he tries to start a new chapter of his church, Revolution.

Don't laugh: The guy just might succeed. Jay is surprisingly sweet and achingly insecure; not a terribly good speaker like his father, he wins his audience by being utterly honest and self-revealing, and totally casual and noncommanding. He reads his sermons from a coffee-stained, overstickered journal, often while puffing on a cigarette, and finishes them by reminding his congregation to tip the bartenders; the whole thing has the earnest supportiveness of an introductory creative-writing seminar. And his marketing materials? Stickers that read, "As Christians, we're sorry for being self-righteous judgmental bastards." Cursing in church might well go a long way in the big bad city.

The most moving aspect of Jay's story, however, is his troubled yet emotional relationship with his parents; throughout the season he speaks a lot about his sick mother (who is currently in treatment for cancer) and her "legacy of love," and he describes how he used to look up to his father before they had a falling-out a few years back. In the last couple of episodes he's visited his dying mother, reconciled with his famous father, taken a controversial stance on gay rights in his church (which cost him a major financial funder), and shown off his PTL tat on national television. He's also made some pretty soulful remarks about his father's character ("I think my dad's a pretty sincere guy — when he's on TV"). Their relationship fast develops into a kind of pulpit-based Top Gun: the son is tormented by the father's successes, and his own failures. It's also true that occasionally one can see past the veil — like how is it that this seemingly unemployed kid can afford to drive a Land Rover? And his move to New York seems a bit contrived.... When he says, "God is calling us to move to Brooklyn," it's awful hard not to laugh. (When exactly did the NYU med school's admissions board become God?) But Jay's hidden weapon is his fearless sincerity; he's so self-revealing, ya just want to give the guy a hug. How ironic, then, that the Atlanta bar where he holds his sermons is called The Masquerade.

The series finale, in which Jay prepares for his first sermon in Brooklyn, premieres on Wednesday, Jan. 17., but check your listings because the episode will be airing throughout the rest of the month.

No, I'm not talking about Friday Night Lights (although props to FNL, quality stuff). I'm talking about the Sugar Bowl, which, much to my amazement, I watched last night. (Confession: it happened in a bar.)

Here's another confession: I waddn't watching no football players. Granted, these guys are remarkable specimen, if for no other reason than the sheer rock-star status they must possess on campus, as mere 19-year-olds. I watch them run around, arrogant-faced and jiggly bicepped, and I can just smell the staggering level of worship they've grown accustomed to, from coaches, fellow students, the press, not to mention the ladies waiting for their attention in the stands and locker rooms. But I digress: My big focus last night was on the marching band.

Their wild-eyed, utterly unabashed enthusiasm. Their total lack of even trace cynicism. The thoroughly selfless, childlike joy on their faces. But best of all, every single one of those kids actually looked their age! Sometimes, their hair looked messy! And in other cases, between plays, they actually looked bored, like real human beings! When you look at the athletes, and the cheerleaders, they're so glammed-up and confident that you have to remind yourself that they've only been of legal voting age for like, 20-odd months. But the marching banders? Real. Adorable.

But I was plagued with questions. How much money must schools throw into these insanely elaborate musical spectacles, provided as mere side shows to another, ever more elaborate spectacle, and why? Do marching-band folk get scholarships? How about the cheerleaders, or those bandie dancers in the sparkly onesies, or the flag girls? When a kid comes home for winter break to announce she's joined the sparkly-onesie squad, is she met with parental pride, or with horror that at 35 grand a year her time might be better spent? Is there a professional future as a musician or dancer for these kids? And what of the flag girls? I worry about the flag girls.

Also, what about bandie social status these days? I can't imagine it's much improved since I was Degrassi age. The players obviously have it made and always have, and the cheerleaders probably aren't doing too bad either, but the onesie dancers?! The instrumentalists have real skill, so maybe they're not getting whatever the college equivalent is of the sign-on-back treatment. But the flag flock? They have to be below bottom in the social strata. And what drives these kids to choose to be hangers-on to someone's glory, continually derided for not being one of the storied legends? Or is there a glory of its own in being a bandie nowadays? Maybe the college-band-themed performances from the likes of Gwen Stefani ("Hollaback Girl" video) and Kanye West ("Gold Digger" performance at the Grammys) of late are having a trickle-down effect and improving the love lives of bandies.

But that would mean... wait a second — is band camp cool now?

What, you’ve never heard of Emmet? This adorable 1977 Christmas movie is a retelling of The Gift of the Magi, Jim Henson-style. The characters are charming and eccentric, the puppets are sweet and cuddly, and the story itself has an earnestness that speaks to another place and time. No cleverly overdone pop-culture references in this children’s tale!

Emmet and his mom, Ma Otter, live together in a cabin by the river and make ends meet by taking in laundry and doing odd jobs around the neighborhood. After Emmet’s big-dreaming father passed away last year, Emmet and his mother have grown very close, best friends in fact. They paddle around their river town singing songs and daydreaming about the day they make it big — and the Otter family happens to have some pretty good pipes, by the way.

One day just around Christmas, Emmet and Ma hear that the town is having a talent show, and the winner gets 50 dollars. 50 dollars! Emmet thinks that would be just enough to buy his mom a piano for Christmas, and Ma thinks that would be just enough to buy Emmet a new guitar. But for Emmet’s jug-band instrument, he needs to cut a hole in his mother’s washbasin, the only piece of equipment she has for her laundry business. And for Ma’s performance she needs a new dress, so she pawns Emmet’s toolbox, the one thing he needs for his handyman jobs around town. So will Emmet win the talent contest, or will Ma Otter? Or will the troublemaking bullies the Riverbottom Gang steal the Otters’ glory?

The story is based on the Emmet Otter books by Russell and Lillian Hoban, who also did the wonderful Frances series, and Henson took special care to stick to the tone of the books. The puppets’ faces are soft and expressive and utterly huggable, and their costumes are all mufflers and knit caps and argyle sweaters. You can hear some inklings of Kermit and Cookie Monster and Bert in some of the characters (Henson and Frank Oz did several of the voices here), and the characters’ befuddled-but-still-trying attitudes have The Muppet Show written all over them. Even the town itself is adorable — sweet little cabins, warm Christmas windows and even sledding on the river. But the real star of the show is the music — the bluesy Jug Band packs a beat, believe it or not, and the Weasely talent-show competition from the Riverbottom Gang is all greasy psychedelic rock show, complete with an oozing stage performance by an Eel in a tank (downright sexy, I dare say). Ma Otter and her clear, high-mountain voice specializes in hymns and gospel, and in the end, the story manages to find common ground between different classes, different generations — heck, even different species. It’s perfect wintertime fare for kids and parents both.

British import Cracker: The New Terror is airing on BBC America this month and is a cracking good time. The detective series, which began with a three-part installment in 1993, stars the astonishingly doughy (300 pounds at least) yet inexplicably sexy Robbie Coltrane, as criminal psychologist Edward "Fitz" Fitzgerald. Fitz cracks cases without caring to crack a smile, and his mushed-up bulldog face is utterly inscrutable in the face of the foulest of criminal minds. But the cincher for Cracker is its topical nature: This most recent installment, a special one-off that takes place when Fitz and his wife return from Australia for their daughter's wedding, looks at the roots of terrorism, the conflicts in Northern Ireland, the American fiscal ties to terrorist weaponry, and one Irish soldier's attempts to become a regular civilian again. You can smell the anti-Americanism like a fresh-baked apple pie, and it knocks you flat.

Fitz's role as the department psychologist smacks of Helen Mirren's Prime Suspect role in that it drums up a lot of the same controversies. His razor-sharp insights and big-picture viewpoint belie a lot of the political maneuverings that often take place on police squads, and wry, good-natured Fitz often finds himself at odds with department heads. The series also isn't afraid to humanize killers and criminals: indeed, in The New Terror, Fitz at one point settles in with a known, suicidal serial killer, his three young children upstairs, to chat over two bottles of whiskey, and the killer himself is portrayed as a loving family man driven mad by painful memories from his military past. Cracker doesn't shy away from controversial topics, either, including anti-American sentiment, September 11th, and corruption and incompetence on the police force.

Coltrane himself, a jolly old pudge with a black-as-night edge, is the Scottish John Goodman. He's flawed, with a gambling habit, a penchant for stirring people's pots, an irrepressible love for the ladies, and a habit of consistently choosing career over family (sound familiar, Prime Suspect fans?). His remarkable intelligence drives him to pepper his conversations with astoundingly astute insights about human nature and society, all like so much salt over the shoulder. The series itself has featured the talents of director Michael Winterbottom and actors Christopher Eccleston, Geraldine Somerville and Robert Carlyle.