Roush Dispatch

Two of my favorite things in all of show business— musical comedy and Joss Whedon — combine in the funniest, freshest TV special of the summer, which happens to be available only on your computer starting in mid-July.

I had the great good fortune late last week to get a sneak peek at all 42 minutes of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, Whedon's stylishly scrappy, lovably cheesy and insanely tuneful return to the form for which he showed such incredible aptitude in the classic "Once More, With Feeling" episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Dr. Horrible, written during the writers' strike and filmed in six days this spring "on favors and waivers" by a crew of longtime Whedon loyalists, will be streamed for free in what Whedon cheerfully calls an "Internet miniseries event" on the show's official website (www.drhorrible.com) in three chapters. Part 1 will be available Tuesday, July 15, with the following segments (each roughly 14 minutes) available July 17 and 19. All three parts will stay up only through July 20, but deals are currently underway to make it available for downloading shortly thereafter.

The ultimate goal: a DVD, at which time perhaps enough profit can be made "to pay the people who were doing us favors," says Whedon. In a chat following my nearly private screening (attended only by Whedon, a few of his New York-based agents and me), Whedon confided, "We're already working on some of the DVD extras, which are going to be the finest in all the land. We're actually going to do, in addition to the commentary, what we refer to as ‘commentary with an exclamation point'! A musical commentary that is a completely original musical, that is all commentary songs, and we're writing that now." As I gasped at that audacious notion, he continued: "We're just piling it on. We're like, we're going to make more fun of the idea of extras than anything else."

All in keeping with the sweetly satirical tone of Dr. Horrible itself, which reminded me at various times of Little Shop of Horrors and, in its more bombastic moments, Sweeney Todd (a Whedon favorite, and mine as well).

[Some mild spoilers follow.] In the title role, and starring with adorable panache: How I Met Your Mother's Neil Patrick Harris, whose musical-theater chops Whedon discovered when attending the 2004 Broadway revival of his idol Stephen Sondheim's Assassins. First seen perfecting his cackling laugh in hopes of being taken seriously by the Evil League of Evil, and reading snarky e-mails from his skeptical online following, Harris plays a wannabe mad scientist — "The world's a mess, and I just need to rule it" — who's perfecting a "freeze ray" with which he can stop time and, according to one lyric, "stop the pain."

Because, you see, Dr. Horrible — real name "Billy" — does have a heart, and it belongs to winsome do-gooder and Laundromat buddy Penny (Felicia Day, one of the "potential" slayers in Buffy's final season). Some of Harris's best work, when he isn't singing arias of evil and comically mugging, is in his bashful, stammering pining for Penny — who naturally falls for Dr. Horrible's arch-nemesis Captain Hammer, a buffoonish cad of a narcissistic superhero ("I don't go to the gym. I'm just naturally like this") played with hilariously villainous cartoon relish by Firefly vet Nathan Fillion.

Everyone in this tortured triangle gets big numbers, from lyrical ballads to soaring (and usually very funny) anthems. Quite a lot of music, written by Whedon with his brother Jed, is crammed into this mini-movie, and if you're like me, you'll want to hear it again and again.

So how did we get lucky enough to get a new Whedon musical at this point in time? Let's just say it's one of the few positive things to come out of the writers' strike.

"I was really sick of not doing things. I'd been writing movies nobody was making. I got tired of that. And even though I had this series (Fox's Dollhouse) coming up, we were on strike—and well, I thought we were going to hold out a little bit longer—but it just felt right," Whedon says. Looking back on the Buffy musical episode, he says: "I never wanted to leave that musical place. I thought about doing this as a podcast just so I could write songs, like a radio show. And then when the strike happened, everything was about making online content. But everything was very overblown. Or underblown. It was either me and my video camera in my backyard or let's partner up and get millions of dollars. Neither of these things was gonna fit the paradigm that will make me a musical, so I finally decided to do it myself."

The idea, he says, "was to show that you can do this [original Internet content] on a very different scale than people are thinking about. I felt like we stretched our dollars just as far as they will go. It's a pretty extraordinary piece even at the price tag it would cost to normally produce it if you couldn't call in any favors." (He won't go on record to discuss the budget, which was much less than the usual hour of TV production, but jokes that it cost "twice as much as Once.")

"Also, we were able to just completely bypass the system—not in a sense of giving the finger to the majors, because we'll probably end up partnering for distribution with somebody if they're interested—and some of the reason this came out the way it did was because people who are employed by the big guys could afford to do this. And we got the Universal backlot for a song because of our relationships there, and people were very sweet. I mean, during the strike there was a certain amount of justifiable bile, but my relationships with the people who actually produce the things, I like to think of as very strong."

Many relationships, personal and professional, came into play in making Dr. Horrible. His brothers Jed and Zack helped him write it, along with Jed's fiance Maurissa Tancharoen. Jed appears as part of a recurring Evil League of Evil chorus and Tancharoen can be seen as one of Captain Hammer's fawning groupies. Whedon cohorts Marti Noxon and David Fury, who both did cameos in "Once More With Feeling," return as snarky newscasters. And then of course there's Fillion, a part of Whedon's repertory company since Buffy and Firefly. "I'd heard him sing, but I just knew that even if he couldn't, he could sell it. He's Nathan, and he was great."

As for casting Neil Patrick Harris, all it took was a phone call. "We all agreed there was really nobody else that should play Dr. Horrible. I didn't even get the sentence out before he said yes. And then I sort of got defensive (Whedon lapses into fanboy-speak): ‘No no no, it's really going to be good,' and Neil's like, ‘I said yes.' And I said, ‘No no no, I mean, but I mean the point is, is mean I mean' … I couldn't handle it."

The strike ended before filming started, so they postponed the shoot until a break in How I Met Your Mother production in March (wrapping around the same time as the Paley Fest's Buffy reunion which I moderated).

How did this affect Whedon's work on the Dollhouse pilot? "I told Fox going in that I'm making this, it's going to take six days of shooting, and during those six days you'll get bupkis. They're like it doesn't matter, you're still filming your pilot—that you haven't broken yet—in two months." He sighs. "It's been quite a time."

Which begs the question: Could there ever be a musical Dollhouse episode? "Well, Eliza (Dushku) has a lovely voice. But first I have to make a normal Dollhouse, which is hard enough." So how's it going? "There's still tweaks. Birth pangs. It's never simple, but it's going well."

As for Whedon's Internet future, while there has already been talk of Dr. Horrible sequels, for now Whedon is waiting to see how this experiment plays out. "Whether this has any impact on the Internet is unclear to me. It will be something that hasn't been done. And although some people came up with a plan on how to monetize this right away, our first priority was to put this out. We do it for the fans, we do it as an advertisement for itself and for just this culture, this idea of people who are doing something smaller scale but hopefully in such a way they can reach a lot of people. And maybe then it can make us an eleven-ty kadillion dollars. Or maybe it won't."

If there's any justice, Dr. Horrible will eventually make a bundle. Far from horrible, it's terrific.

At least now we know which shows don't have the proverbial snowball's chance in Hollywood of getting best-series nomination. Underdogs like Battlestar Galactica, Breaking Bad and The Shield (to name the top drama snubs from my own cheat sheet) and How I Met Your Mother, The New Adventures of Old Christine, The Big Bang Theory (three superior CBS comedies passed over for Two and a Half Men, again) as well as Desperate Housewives (whose creative comeback failed to sway the Emmy nominators) and the beyond-edgy Californication.

All were shut out when the TV Academy released its list of top-10 contenders for best drama and comedy series, which now submit themselves for inspection this weekend by a blue-ribbon panel whose rankings will help narrow the cut to roughly five in each category. The lists are heavy on hip cable fare: four in comedy, and fully half of the 10 drama contenders. Critics' darlings that have survived so far include Friday Night Lights, The Wire, Dexter, Mad Men, Damages, Pushing Daisies and (with a tip of the cap to my TCA brethren) Flight of the Conchords.

Helping clarify matters, Gold Derby has revealed most of the episode titles submitted for blue-panel review. For comedy: Curb Your Enthusiasm ("The Bat Mitzvah"), Entourage ("The Day F***ers"), Family Guy ("Padre de Famila"), Flight of the Conchords ("Sally Returns"), The Office (title to come), Pushing Daisies ("Pie-lette"), 30 Rock ("Cooter"), Two and a Half Men ("Rough Night in Hump Junction"), Ugly Betty ("Something Wicked This Way Comes"), Weeds ("Go"). For drama: Boston Legal ("The Court Supreme"), Damages (Pilot), Dexter ("The Dark Defender"), Friday Night Lights ("Leave No One Behind"), Grey's Anatomy ("Freedom, Parts 1 and 2"), House ("Frozen"), Lost ("The Constant"), Mad Men (Pilot, "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes"), The Tudors (#205), The Wire (Series finale, "30").

Among the headlines here: The Wire, so long neglected, is HBO's only drama contender, edging the sexier Big Love, Tell Me You Love Me and In Treatment. Family Guy breaks the animation jinx to be considered for best comedy—but really, is drama contender Boston Legal any less of a cartoon?—while also double-dipping by submitting its hour-long Star Wars parody in the animated category. First-year series are bringing fresh blood into the process: Daisies, Conchords, Damages and Mad Men.

So while this isn't a perfect list, it's one that manages to get our hopes up that the blue-ribbon judges will be as impressed as I was by the stunning pilots of Daisies, Damages and Mad Men, the dazzling "Constant" episode of Lost and the heartbreaking "Leave No One Behind" episode of Friday Night Lights. The drama category will probably be a real squeaker, given that shows with uneven seasons but strong Emmy track records submitted Emmy-bait stunts, like Boston Legal's Supreme Court spoof and House's Antarctic Super Bowl-night episode.

So how would I narrow the field if given the chance?

Comedy (in order of preference): Pushing Daisies, 30 Rock, The Office, Ugly Betty and Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Drama (in order of preference): Mad Men, Lost, The Wire, Friday Night Lights, Dexter and Damages. (Yes, I know that's six, but in case of near-ties, the categories can expand a bit. I could make an argument for almost all 10 of the drama contenders and several more that didn't make the cut.)

Now the wait begins for July 17, when all will be revealed and the real gnashing of teeth can begin.

First, some good news before the bad: July is less than a week away, and a month that once upon a time signified the absolute doldrums for TV fans now looms like an oasis of bountiful pleasures, with returning shows on the horizon including The Closer, Burn Notice, the Monk-Psych combo, and the piece de resistance of Mad Men's second season. (You’ll also want to add HBO’s gripping Generation Kill docudrama miniseries to your calendar.) Naturally, this is all on cable, but this is still especially good news after the dismal reality circus of June, capped by the current week’s onslaught of ridiculous time-wasters.

More than ever, I’ve been feeling trapped in a bizarro world, as if I’d bought a subscription to a season of “To Each Their Own” theater. I know there are people out there who get their jollies at watching elaborate and messy pratfalls accompanied by snarky commentary—the model being Spike’s MXC, which I found mildly amusing until at least the first commercial break, after which I grew quickly bored—and in a way, I almost admire the simple stupidity of ABC’s new slapstick obstacle-course contest Wipeout (which was a lot funnier when teased in clip form). With Wipeout, and the much more generically insipid show that follows, I Survived a Japanese Game Show, the titles couldn’t be much more clear about what you’re getting yourself into.

Wipeout scores at least a little higher on the guilty-pleasure meter, because it does nothing but cut to the chase: the chase being a muddy and wet playground of slippery slides, wobbly platforms and dizzying challenges all designed to send players of various abilities—many chosen for their apparent lack of stamina (the better for us to laugh at)—into the muck and drink as often as possible.

The “big balls” obstacle, in which even the best contestants run afoul of giant rubber balls that bounce them like pinballs into the water, is the standout attraction so far. “It never gets old,” says field correspondent Jill Wagner. She’s almost right, although Wipeout actually doesn’t get funnier the more you watch. In part because it’s overrun by the commentary of smug clowns like John Henson, whose comments go like this: “Jen told us she’s on the market? She’s already getting hit on,” as a contestant gets “sucker punched” into the mud. I think I’d enjoy Wipeout more if it just had a merry musical soundtrack and kept the stupid wisecracks to a minimum. Besides, by the end, the remaining players muster up enough enthusiasm in the pyrotechnic and visually impressive “Wipeout Zone” final round to convince you that an actual game is being played. With no contestant sob stories gumming up the works, Wipeout is at the very least a more simplistically entertaining piece of escapism than NBC’s tiresome American Gladiators remake, which already appears to have run out of steam this summer.

The less said the better about I Survived a Japanese Game Show, in which 10 all-too-typical “reality” types are recruited to go to Tokyo, where they’re thrust without warning onto the soundstage of a frantic Japanese game show that puts them through silly humiliating stunts, none of which have been particularly memorable so far. As the studio audience wildly shrieks and chants, I’m afraid this member of the at-home audience couldn’t help stifling yawns as we were taken backstage and at home (where a dour “mama-san” tries to keep them in line) and forced to try to care which of these narcissistic bozos was sent home first. Sayonara, show. I don’t think I could survive sitting through a second hour of that one.

As silly as ABC’s new reality shows are—and I wouldn’t be surprised if Wipeout at least gets a healthy tune-in—they’re almost instant classics compared to the junk NBC is offering up this week. Celebrity Family Feud, which also bowed Tuesday, is so inept it makes me sorry I ever said anything negative about CBS’s Million Dollar Password (which won me over the night that Betty White proved she’d lost none of her game-playing moxie). In the new and unimproved Feud, Al Roker plays cheerleader to a ghastly parade of has-beens and their entourages in an endless, charmless hour that depressed me no end. Survey says: Loser.

More dregs: The Baby Borrowers, starting tonight (Wednesday), is a reality “experiment” (code word for irresponsible exploitation) in which teen couples are given life lessons in responsibility by being saddled with infants to look after, while the real parents observe on monitors and occasionally intrude when they see their little darlings aren’t being fed or bathed properly by these clueless brats. What were these parents thinking? In future weeks, the couples will be given toddlers to look after, then pre-teens, then (preposterously) actual teenagers to be in charge of, and eventually the elderly to take care of. (Who’ll be watching over the teens then? Nursing-home volunteers?) This ugly, dull show of tantrums and bawling—and we’re not even talking about the babies here—feels like the longest installment of Dateline ever. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.

And now to end on a positive note, since that’s how I started: FX’s first Rescue Me “mini-sode,” in which a fasting Sean (Steven Pasquale) tried in vain to stick to his “cleanse” while his firehouse buddies gorged on Lou’s home-made donuts, provided more genuine entertainment in a mere five minutes than in the multiple hours of reality sludge I’d consumed over the last day or so. A scatological vignette that showed our heroes as obsessed with their bowel movements as they are with their steady intake of nicotine and caffeine and other “toxins,” this felt like it should have been a curtain-raiser for an actual episode. Instead, it reminds me how much we’re missing by FX virtually sitting out the summer this year. So much for ending on that positive note, I guess.

Isn’t July here yet?

Read Cheers & Jeers take on Celebrity Family Feud

Even if it weren’t Gay Pride month, with all of the parades and hoopla typically associated with the festivities this time of year, California’s recent same-sex marriage ruling has put gay issues back on the cultural front burner. This week, two especially notable cable programs take a very personal look at what it means to be gay in today’s society.

First up is FX’s 30 Days (airs Tuesdays at 10 pm/ET, following the Rescue Me “mini-sode”), with a compelling and emotionally grueling hour spotlighting same-sex parenting. Like a less exploitative Wife Swap, this episode of Morgan Spurlock’s walk-in-another-person’s-shoes reality show invites Katie, an outspoken Morman mom with two adopted sons—who was herself adopted—to leave her California family to spend a month in the Michigan farmhouse of Dennis and Tom, who are raising four adopted sons of their own. Her beliefs are challenged, but not exactly swayed, at watching two loving men raise four apparently well-adjusted children (one of the boys’ birth parents are even part of the extended family, we learn). The question here is whether Katie, who believes a mom-and-dad household is the only way, will see this household as an affront to so-called “family values” or as reinforcing the value of family.

“I feel absolutely welcome here,” says Katie initially, but she soon feels threatened whenever her beliefs are challenged, seemingly unaware that her own feelings that gays and lesbians shouldn’t be allowed to adopt are threatening to Dennis and Tom’s very way of life. Katie sees these men as good guys and great parents, and is even introduced first-hand to people who testify to the inadequacies of the current foster-care system, but she remains implacable. 30 days of exposure to the reality of the situation does a lot to humanize the opposition, but it really doesn’t change anything. Which makes for an unusually realistic, if sobering, object lesson in human dynamics—and a stark depiction of the obstacles gays face in making societal inroads if their basic rights are going to continue to be subjected to a popular vote.

Taking a much more anecdotal approach to what it means to be aware of being gay, Cinemax’s latest “Reel Life” documentary When I Knew (Wednesday at 7:30 pm/ET), based on the book by Robert Trachtenberg, is about people of all sorts describing “that moment when you realize that the world around you isn’t really designed for you.” With humor and no small amount of pain, a cross-section of men and women open up with disarming frankness about when they realized their “otherness,” whether it manifested itself in a crush on a friend of the same sex or, in one case, a fascination with the man on the Doan’s Pills box—or, in another, a boyhood fixation on Grizzly Adams (“I guess I’m into bears”). Some embraced their sexuality, others fought against it, and many (but certainly not all) faced rejection from friends and family as they came to grips with what they knew to be true about their sexual orientation. The variety of responses speaks to the diversity among the gay and lesbian population. Lesson: No two gay people or lives are alike, just like in the straight world.

I used to love it on those rare occasions when The X-Files would play it totally for laughs. So imagine my delight when I stumbled (still in catch-up mode) upon my first authentically guilty pleasure of the summer TV season: ABC Family’s goofy but fun The Middleman, a knowingly cheesy and relentlessly jokey sci-fi caper teaming a straight-arrow hero (Matt Keeslar from Sci Fi’s Dune remake) with a snarky bohemian slacker (Natalie Morales) who’s miraculously unfazed by the monsters and creatures in her midst. The show premiered Monday (regular time: 8 pm/ET), and the pilot episode—worth watching if only for an inspired send-up of the classic The Avengers credits—repeats Sunday at 10:30 pm/ET (following ABC Family’s showing of Disney’s Camp Rock).

It’s all very comic book—and they refer to comics a lot on this show—which is fitting, given the show’s basis in a series of graphic novels written by Lost vet and series creator/executive producer Javier Grillo-Marxuach. He sets a tone here that is equal parts Batman (’60s version) pop-action camp and rapid-fire Gilmore Girls banter. Taking even a moment of it seriously would be a mistake. And why would you want to?

The Middleman, played by Keeslar with a crisp and deadpan cool, is a mysterious agent for good, cleaning up exotic messes and tackling outrageous evils, all the while uttering corny phrases like “dag diggity” and re-Goshdarn-diculous.” This unnamed Gary Cooper clone recruits the incessantly ironic Wendy Watson (Morales) after her latest temp job is interrupted by a lab explosion that unleashes a tentacled blob which she fights off without blinking. When the Middleman arrives on the scene and compliments her grace under pressure, she counters, “Are you hitting on me?” From then on, they’re a team—although he wishes she wouldn’t curse (“Profanity cheapens the soul and weakens the mind”) while she laments his fondness for country music (“Cut out the twang, Gomer”).

Cheerfully absurd in its plotting—the pilot deals with genetically engineered super-genius primates, one of whom goes on a mob-killing spree, leaving banana peels behind as a signature—the show is laced with clever quips, pop-culture references and a willingness to stoop for a laugh, no matter if groans are involved. “Get your filthy paws offa me, you darn dirty ape,” Wendy says in the pilot’s action climax. Really. She says that.

I’m not saying The Middleman is likely to become an X-Files-level obsession, but as a summer diversion, it hits a certain silly sweet spot and goes down awfully easy.

Related:
• Matt Keeslar Q&A: Meet the Middleman

Next to TV, theater probably qualifies as my most consuming passion. Whereas I love TV for its ability to bring millions together for a shared experience on an expansive canvas that’s always fascinating to chart, I treasure the theatrical experience for its shared intimacy, the knowledge that what an audience of dozens or hundreds is witnessing live will never happen exactly the same way again. (The fact that in classic Broadway tradition, these performers and crews do it eight times a week never fails to astonish me.)

This helps explain why the Tonys is potentially my favorite awards show any given year, a celebration of commercial theater that gives the national audience a rare glimpse into the shows that has the stage world buzzing. I say “potentially” because in recent years, the Tonys (despite moving into the cavernous Radio City Music Hall) has become a diminished franchise, taking what was once an all-out musical spectacular that made room for elaborate tributes and specialty numbers and turning it into a perfunctory salute to the current year’s nominated shows that becomes a race to get off the air by 11 pm/ET.

This year’s broadcast, the best in a long while, was still rushed at the end, but primarily because the show was stuffed with the sound of music (an apt Rodgers & Hammerstein reference, given the success of the dazzling new South Pacific revival). It opened with a 10th-year anniversary homage to the still-popular The Lion King (the spectacular “Circle of Life” number never gets old), and ended with a nod to Rent, which is closing later this year, as the current and original casts each got a chance to perform. Throughout the show, Whoopi Goldberg proved a game and chipper host, appearing on stage as the crab in The Little Mermaid and aloft as Mary Poppins (“Yeah, I can watch the kids, but I won’t be cleaning your house.”) and inserting herself in taped segments into the casts of enduring shows like Spring Awakening, The Phantom of the Opera and Spamalot.

The show broke tradition this year by allowing new musicals not nominated for the top best-musical prize to show their stuff, in part because several (Mermaid, Young Frankenstein) had marquee value lacking in lesser-known front-runners like the jubilant In the Heights (the ultimate winner) and the funky Passing Strange. Cry-Baby, based on John Waters’ movie—and how funny was he as he wondered “if there are actual prisoners watching the Tony Awards tonight”—scored with its best number, a jailhouse tap extravaganza with inmates strapping license plates to their feet. The wacky surprise contender Xanadu (introduced by Lily Tomlin) strutted its campy stuff toward the end of the show, but only hinted at its mad genius.

The musical revivals were well represented, with Patti LuPone belting the Gypsy first-act closer “Something’s Coming Up Roses” to the rafters (the crowd’s standing ovation revealing why her performance is already theater legend), a stirring medley from South Pacific and a cheesy look at the TV-spawned Grease mutation. The only time I thought the Tonys dropped the ball was in not letting the number from the dazzling Sunday in the Park With George revival be the centerpiece of a larger Stephen Sondheim montage, considering that he had just been given a lifetime achievement award. (Mandy Patinkin read Sondheim’s witty acceptance speech to the audience). That’s the sort of grand gesture the Tonys would have produced back in its glory days.

Still, a better-than-average show, not that the ratings are likely to reflect it, given the strong sports competition with Tiger Woods at the U.S. Open and the toughly fought NBA Finals. (At least the Tonys didn’t have to face a pop-culture milestone like the finale of The Sopranos this year.)

Where else are you going to see acceptance speeches so eloquent, clever and gracious that you’re tempted to applaud from your seat? Highlights: In the Heights’ composer-star Lin-Manuel Miranda rapping his thanks, including a shout-out to Sondheim (parsing a Sunday lyric): “Look, Mr. Sondheim, I made a hat where there never was a hat, and it’s a Latin hat at that.” Pulitzer-winning playwright Tracy Letts accepting his Tony for the savagely funny August: Osage County by noting (in a nod to his former acting career): “I guarantee you that this moment beats the hell out of auditioning for JAG.” (Did he know what network this was on?) Patti LuPone, winning her first Tony in nearly 30 years (not since Evita), screaming at the orchestra that was trying to urge her offstage, “Shut up—it’s been 29 years!”

BTW, I’m planning to be in the audience Tuesday night to welcome back Gypsy winners LuPone, Boyd Gaines and Laura Benanti from their Sunday night triumph. That should be the sort of electrifying evening you can’t even find on TV, especially this time of year.

I’ve finally come back down to Earth—or more precisely, to the world of TV (after a few weeks abroad and way out of the loop)—and am thrilled to find the planet, for all of its problems, in better shape than the explorers of Battlestar Galactica did upon the conclusion of their long and arduous journey. A powerfully downbeat, and thus hardly out-of-character, wrap for the first half of the final season of one of TV’s all-time-greatest science-fiction dramas.

Because of my long absence, I had the rare experience of devouring Lost’s first-rate season finale (capping a wow of a comeback season) and the final awesome handful of Battlestar episodes within a 36-hour time span. My head is still reeling.

What strikes me about both of these shows is how, for all of the mind-blowing fantasy and murky geeky mythology and eternally unanswered (possibly unanswerable) questions, they are essentially grounded in such rich character and intense emotion. The passionate investment in these shows is unmatched by anything else I experience in my current TV diet.

Just to recap a few significant moments: Desmond’s rapturous reunion with his “constant” Penny upon the Lost castaways’ stage-managed rescue; Sawyer whispering into Kate’s ear before he selflessly jumps off the copter; Sun watching helplessly as her beloved Jin is swallowed up by the freighter explosion, presumed (for now) dead; the look on spectral Claire’s face as she dream-warns Kate not to take her son back to the island; Locke in the coffin (whoa); and that’s just Lost. On BSG, every single moment involving President Roslyn and her devoted Admiral Adama was Emmy magic (not that the voters are likely to notice). The epiphanies each experienced after Laura vanished aboard the constantly leaping baseship, culminating in the destruction of the resurrection hub and the outing of the four secret Cylons (and the resulting sense of betrayal among the stunned humans), provided all kinds of stirring drama. I’ll never forget that image of Bill Adama floating vigil in space, alone but for the book that binds him with Laura, as the rest of the fleet jumps away. “I can’t live without her,” he tells his son and interim president Apollo/Lee. When she returns to his arms, their simply stated reunion—“Love you.” “About time.”—couldn’t have been more rewarding.

Edward James Olmos and Mary McDonnell really brought their A-game to these episodes. Adama’s grief and self-disgust upon learning that his sidekick Tigh was a Cylon, leading (rather abruptly) with him cradled and weeping in his son’s arms, was masterfully played. So was McDonnell’s riveting ambivalence and cool inscrutability as she observes her own death during the baseship’s many jolting jumps, witnesses Baltar’s confession about his collusion with the Cylons (leading her to nearly let him die as he bleeds from his wounds, until her visions reconnect her with her humanity) and plays hardball with the newly vulnerable, but still implacable, Cylons. (Kudos as well to Lucy Lawless for her fierce work as the resurrected queen Cylon bitch Deanna.) Only with Adama does she let her guard and hair down. They’re a marvel to watch.

So where are we left until 2009? With Lost’s mystery island mysteriously vanished, moved into an alternate location or dimension by the all-knowing Ben, and the Oceanic Six on a mission to somehow return (with Locke’s body in tow); and on Battlestar Galactica, the humans and Cylons united in a fragile alliance as they survey the blasted radioactive landscape of the mythical planet they thought would be their salvation.

What (and where) on Earth, indeed. I wish I had access to a wormhole, or one of Lost’s time-space devices, so I could jump six or more months into the future to see what happens next on these marvelous shows. The suspense is killing me. Makes me glad to be back in front of the tube.

The sudden and shocking death on Friday at 58 of Tim Russert, NBC’s Washington bureau chief and since 1991 the famously tenacious moderator of Sunday morning’s iconic Meet the Press, leaves a tremendous void in TV’s political landscape during one of the most historic presidential contests ever. Few figures have loomed as large during political seasons in the modern TV era as Russert, with his brash and infectious enthusiasm for politics, his dogged interrogation techniques and, as NBC anchor Brian Williams noted affectionately (from Afghanistan, where he’s on assignment), his “aggressively unfancy” manner.

TV Guide once selected Russert’s use of a white eraser board on 2000’s historic and inconclusive presidential election night, brandishing the words “Florida Florida Florida” in a low-tech display of uncanny foresight, as one of the “100 Most Memorable TV Moments” in TV history. Time Magazine recently named him one of the 100 most influential people in the world.

Tom Brokaw, remembering his friend and longtime partner on MSNBC Friday afternoon, was visibly and understandably moved as he told viewers, “We cannot believe that he’s gone, that we’ve lost his voice, and that this country has lost this premiere political journalist and analyst—a man who had such passion for politics, in part because he believed that politics really are the DNA of this country, they define who we are at any given time.”

In the most fabled journalistic tradition, Russert died with his metaphorical boots on, at work, collapsing in the Washington bureau as he was recording voice-overs for this Sunday’s edition of Meet the Press. He was nearly ubiquitous on NBC’s news channels, happy to devour and analyze every detail of every breaking political story from morning to night. He was renowned for his extensive preparation and research for each Meet the Press encounter. Williams, noting that Russert’s dedication to the job and to his family meant he eschewed most of Washington, D.C.’s busy social life, said, “People knew not to ask this guy out on Saturday nights.”

Unpretentious and unrestrained in his zeal for democracy, an Irish bulldog who dug for the truth in every candid interview, Russert was one of those broadcasters who so loved what he did that it was impossible not to succumb to the force of his personality. The rest of this year’s race to the White House just won’t feel the same without him.

Use our Online Video Guide to remember Russert's fine work.

More on Russert:
• Brokaw to Tribute Russert on June 15 Meet the Press
• TV Guide's Last Interview with Tim Russert
• Meet the Press' Tim Russert Dead at 58

How much do I love Miranda Bailey? Now and forever my favorite Grey’s Anatomy character, she (and by she, I mean Chandra Wilson) gave me a great new catchphrase in Thursday night’s Grey’s finale. Next time someone asks me what I’m looking at or what I’m thinking about, I might just say, “The bigger picture.” Her approach seemed to inspire just about everyone in the show to get out of their funks, and by the end of the busy two hours, there were quite a few happy (or at least happier than usual) endings.

Mer and Der were back together again, at last, having finally saved someone in their clinical trial: “We can be extraordinary together instead of ordinary apart,” said a “whole and healed” Meredith. McDreamy grins again, and all is right with the world. How corny and over-the-top-McSwoony was Meredith’s candlelit hilltop landing strip marking out Derek’s blueprint on Dream House Acres. And also how appropriate to the tone of TV’s finest medical romantic comedy.

Meanwhile, a newly re-assertive George got the Chief to give him a second crack at the test (which he had failed by a mere point). Cristina also spoke up, at last, regaining her mojo (thanks, sparkle pager), telling Hahn to shut up during surgery and discovering the joys of teaching. Speaking of Hahn (who got a deserved dressing-down by the Chief), Callie kissed her and meant it. I think. (Sloan gave her the push, but not before some hot sex spiced with dirty Hahn innuendo.) The Chief went back to Adele, telling everyone within earshot he’s not really such a bad guy, and I believe him. Good for them. Alex finally woke up and sent the dreary Rebecca to a nut house, revealing he had been his mother’s caretaker and ultimately crying on Izzie’s shoulder (some mighty fine work by Justin Chambers in that moment). Izzie got the keys to the clinic, courtesy of Bailey, who finally realized, “I can’t do everything and still have everything.” Home she goes with her bambino, and hopefully, eventually, to a reconciled husband.

And can I just say: That Star Wars/Han Solo soliloquy Bailey recited to Concrete Boy was one for the ages. Wouldn’t she be a hit at Comic Con?

All in all, Grey’s was a terrific way to close out the season, a night later than usual, thanks to the strike. (Yes, I know the two-hour Lost is yet to come, but I’ll be away by then, having made plans long before I knew ABC was going to extend the show’s run PAST MEMORIAL DAY! Stupid strike.)

Thursday’s other big finale: Ugly Betty. Thank God for Hilda and the hunky (if not exactly unattached) coach. I needed something to go right for someone in that frantic hour, besides the resplendently villainous Wilhelmina, that is. Although if Betty is on her way to Rome, as she oughta be (I’m all about the travel these days), I guess I can get past such unfortunate twists as Daniel’s surprise fils, Alexis tiresomely suspending Daniel (again?), and Henry’s inexplicably impulsive surprise proposal to Betty, which makes no narrative sense. Like Tucson is in Betty’s future. Arrivederci, Hank. Funny bits: Everyone ducking when Naomi Campbell pulled out her cell phone at the softball game, Justin calling the sweat-free coach “Lizard Man,” Betty as a dodge-ball “human shield” back in high school. (Which provided a blink-and-you’d-miss-it-preview of Lindsay Lohan’s guest role for next season.)

And now, catching up with a few other finales that got lost in the season-ending madness of Dancing With the Stars and American Idol:

Law & Order. Fine end to a terrific rebuilding season. Nice job of taking the usual ripped-off-from-the-headlines gimmick (in this case, a murder involving a high-class prostitution ring that counts the state’s governor—think Spitzer—as a regular client) and using it to ensnare Jack McCoy in an ethical and political dilemma. By episode’s end, as the governor gets away with his naughty malfeasance (unlike real life) by paying off the defendant and even the feds, self-righteous Jack now has a mortal and well-connected enemy as he faces a big hurdle to his re-election campaign for the top DA spot. As Cutter bluntly put it: “I’m glad I’m not the one getting my n--s squeezed.”

Reaper. The little show that could. Could get renewed (for midseason), and could keep getting better, as it did throughout these finale weeks. So is Sam actually “the heir to the Devil’s domain,” as demon Tony and others seem to believe, or is there something else his supernatural “dad” (who survived being buried alive) is keeping from him? Personally, I think we’ll eventually learn that Sam has something closer to angel blood in him, but I’m a little rusty on my theology. Favorite part of the episode: Sock’s unnatural high upon being kissed by a soul-sucking succubus. Of course he couldn’t help trying to pimp her to Benji. What a goofy jerk.

How I Met Your Mother. Capping a terrific comeback season as Barney and Ted make up, Barney makes significant doe eyes at Robin, and Ted makes a significant proposal to Stella. Funny bits I’m still laughing about: Robin describing Springsteen as “the American Bryan Adams,” and Marshall suffering with head lice at his job interview.

And to recap (I covered some of this in more length in earlier Dispatches this week):

The wrenching House finale, featuring the death of Amber and a powerhouse performance by Robert Sean Leonard, was hands-down the episode of the week.

But poor Bones. There’s just no excuse for the clumsy way they wrote Zack out of that show, revealing him as the confused lackey of a puzzlingly anonymous serial killer.

Desperate Housewives flash-forward? I’m for it. The Katherine back story left me cold and was preposterous even by this show’s standards, although Dana Delany can do no wrong and I hope she stays on Wisteria Lane to the end.

Loved seeing two brats get their comeuppance this week: Housewives’ bad seed Kayla hoodwinked by Lynette and sent off to make her grandparents’ lives miserable, and Gossip Girl’s malicious Georgina sandbagged by Blair and Dan, sent off to reform boot camp by her scary parents. As Gossip Girl herself eloquently put it: “Bitches don’t just happen, they’re made—by parents even more wicked than their offspring.”

How I’ll miss that snarky voice, and so many of my favorite shows, this summer. But summer TV beckons, and when I get back in the saddle mid-June, let’s catch up with the best and the worst of the off-season.

XOXO

There were no losers Wednesday night. Not even the viewers, and I can’t remember the last time I said that about an American Idol finale. Sure, it was too long, and it’s inexcusable not to be able to wrap the show by 10 pm/ET. Greedy, greedy Fox. As always, the finale had plenty of egregious moments: the run-for-the-mute-button return of the ear-grating Mikalah Gordon (who still looks like she’s trying out for a remake of The Nanny), and that obnoxious plug for Mike Myers’ new movie that went on so long even Ryan Seacrest looked fed up, although he got an awkward magic carpet ride out of it—and could someone rethink those cheesy group numbers (including the ghastly costumes)? Amanda looked about as happy and comfortable on that stage as Monica Seles did on the Dancing With the Stars dance floor the night before. Ouch and ick.

But overall, the Idol finale did an admirable job of pairing fledgling music stars with surprise music superstars. It felt at times like a mini-rebirth of the long dormant music-variety show. Syesha came off especially well: dueting with Seal and later getting a solo during a Donna Summer medley alongside the wobbly disco diva herself, who lent Syesha her own glittery mike to give us a little "Last Dance" action. (Memories …) And how about David Cook jamming with ZZ Top! Brooke White strumming alongside Graham Nash. David Archuleta harmonizing with One Republic. It was like they were all winners.

Speaking of winners, Carrie Underwood looked fabulous, Jordin Sparks (who?) did not, but so what. They sounded fine. The producers threw in a little something for everyone. For the kids, the Jonas Brothers. For the grown-ups, a wizened George Michael. For a laugh, a vintage Gladys Knight clip with the Pips made funny by Ben Stiller, Jack Black and Robert Downey, Jr. (Was I the only thought who thought Downey had vanished into the wings to slip into his Iron Man costume?) Even the best-of-the-worst montage was less painfully drawn out than usual, and the production number (with USC marching band and cheerleaders) built around cheerful Renaldo’s “I Am Your Brother” ditty was good-natured, never as mean-spirited as the exploitation years ago of William Hung.

Back to the also-rans. Jason Castro got to sing his greatest and only hit, “Hallelujah.” Michael Johns and Carly Smithson got a duet to show us what a different sort of finale night might have looked and sounded like. (He especially was shown the door too soon.)

And oh yeah, they finally got around to the point of the show. David Cook won. Maybe I’m projecting, but little Archie almost looked relieved. Both were gracious, and why not. Shortly before the vote was revealed, Simon backtracked from last night’s coronation of Archuleta to declare he was OK with either one winning. And so am I. This probably wasn’t the best and definitely wasn’t the worst season of American Idol, but at the very least, both Davids (and possibly a few of the other runners-up) have the prospect of decent careers ahead of them. And to think it will all start over again in around seven months. I think we could all use the break.

The battle of the Davids is, to me, the most interesting and polarizing American Idol faceoff since the classic Clay-vs-Ruben finale of season 2. As was the case then, the fandom for both appears to be passionate and deep, and whoever’s rooting for one is very likely rooting against the other.

The differences between both singers’ styles are obvious, but so are the similarities in what people tend to criticize in each. In short, those who find David Archuleta’s crooning to be boringly sweet and cloying and too much the same are balanced out by those who find David Cook’s angst-flavored rock to be boringly mannered and too much the same. To each their own, but who will win?

Most Idol-ators no doubt had their minds made up before they watched Tuesday’s show, but in terms of pure showmanship, calculated or not, David Archuleta won the night. Maybe not by the “knockout” that Simon declared, milking that regrettable boxing metaphor at least one time too many, but by a comfortable margin. I accept the argument that David Cook deserves credit for trying a new song for his closing number, but there’s a long show-biz tradition of using the “encore” slot to please the crowd, not yourself. In this case, familiarity would not have bred contempt.

But it’s also quite possible that by having the judges, especially Simon, lavish so much praise on Young David, it could be seen as an attempt to spur the fans of Older David to dial like maniacs to christen their favorite. In any case, it promises to be a memorable end to a spotty season.

(A few nitpicks about Tuesday night's show. Did anyone else notice they misspelled Andrew Lloyd Webber’s—not Weber—name? So sloppy. And did Randy actually declare this “the duel of 2007?” Retire, Dawg, or at least get some new material before next season.)

It’s with relief that I turn briefly to Dancing With the Stars, which has the luxury of never taking itself too seriously, even when recounting the various injuries suffered by its cast this season. (Like Idol, it played the Rocky theme at one point, but thankfully didn’t overdo the cheesy boxing metaphor.) I played back most of the finale in fast-forward mode, but had to pause to marvel at guest talent Usher’s showmanship (especially in the second number) and to gawk at Monica Seles gamely taking the dance floor again, reminding us how bad it can get. Seriously, she may be the most lead-footed and awkward contestant in this show’s history. She makes breathing look hard.

As for the coronation: Kristi Yamaguchi, why not. I thought Jason Taylor outshone her on their very final dances—reprising their favorite routines for “encores” in time-honored tradition—but she was always the front-runner this season, consistently polished and versatile if not the most charismatic dancer, and it’s way past time for a female celeb to win again. Cristian de la Fuente and Jason couldn’t have been more gracious runners-up, hoisting Kristi on their shoulders for her victory lap. Nothing wrong with a show leaving you with a smile on your face, especially with so many scripted series taking the opposite tack this season.

As the season rushes to a close, so do the fates of many characters in one wrenching season finale after another. This is the time of year when terrible things tend to happen to terrific characters, and that was certainly the case on Fox’s Monday night shows.

Starting with the best: House. Kristi Yamaguchi wasn’t the only one clocking a perfect score last night—yes, I played back Dancing With the Stars to come down off my emotional House high. House scored a “10!” (mimic Bruno’s fist pump) with this gripping two-part finale, which shockingly and movingly pulled the plug on the character of Amber, whom we will no longer refer to as Cutthroat You-Know-What. She stole Wilson’s heart, and ultimately ours, and Anne Dudek was magnificent throughout. When it was made clear that nothing could save her from the multiple traumas triggered by that bus crash that fractured House’s memories, painful goodbyes were in order for a truly memorable character. (This tragedy even prompted 13 to finally test herself for Huntington’s. The result: positive.)

Robert Sean Leonard, an often overlooked asset in the House ensemble, stepped up with his most powerful work to date: expressing anger and aggression as he argued for extreme methods (protective hypothermia) to preserve Amber’s organs so an accurate diagnosis could be made; rage and grief as he reluctantly faced the reality of her impending death; and finally, aching tenderness as he cradled Amber in his arms as he watched her slip away. When he got back home to find a note for him (with an uncharacteristic heart drawn on it) under her pillow … well, love means never having to say you’re sorry for going on a crying jag.

Hugh Laurie was also in exceptional form, allowing some cracks in House’s emotional armor as he realized the implications of this tragedy on his bro-mance with Wilson. (Ironically, a bus accident helped bring Barney and Ted back together on Monday’s How I Met Your Mother finale. Geez, there was a lot of good TV on last night.) House even shed a tear before his seizure during the brain probe. And thankfully, he even got to bring the funny momentarily, playing bathroom-stall footsie (very Larry Craig) with 13 to shake her out of her funk. All in all, an exceptional way to end a very uneven transitional season.

I wish I had as positive a reaction to the Bones finale, which got off to a good start with a fun if obvious fake-out surrounding Booth’s mock funeral, and Bones’ outrage to have been kept out of the loop. Sweets made the call on that one, and for much of the episode, seemed the most likely suspect as Gormogon’s in-house apprentice. Alas, that wasn’t the case, and that dishonor fell on Zack, the mild-mannered brainiac—delicately and winningly played by Eric Millegan—who apparently could be wooed by logic to service some anonymous cannibalistic serial killer (possibly my least favorite arc on any show this season, and certainly the least satisfyingly resolved).

There was little logic in the telling of this particular story, and the sacrifice of this engaging character (who is being moved to a psych ward, where I suppose he can be enlisted on a guest-star basis in the future—sort of a milquetoast Hannibal Lecter consultant?) seems to me just another cheap sweeps season-ending stunt. Still, kudos to the rest of the cast for keeping it as real as possible as they grieved for their fallen-from-grace comrade. They’re why I wouldn’t give up on Bones just yet.

This was far from the show’s finest hour, but few shows seem able to avoid succumbing to end-of-season sweeps-itis, and it wasn’t nearly as laughable as junk like the incoherent CSI: Miami cliffhanger, which ended with a priceless shot of a fallen Horatio framed by his broken sunglasses. Talk about characters I wouldn’t shed a tear over.

As the season rushes to a close, you win some, you lose some. Take Steve Carell, who got a bonus in Thursday’s finale of The Office (one of the rare hour-long episodes that didn’t wear out its welcome) with the arrival of Amy Ryan as new HR chief Holly. I’ll miss Toby, but for as long as she stays, she’s terrific.

Two nights later, however, Carell presided over a miserably and all-too-typically unfunny season finale of Saturday Night Live—sparked only by two cameos by John McCain, spoofing his age (“the oldness it takes to protect America, to honor her, love her and tell her about what cute things the cat did”) and then during Weekend Update, satirically urging the Democrats: “Do not under any circumstances pick a candidate too soon.” When SNL sticks to politics, it’s generally pretty sharp. Otherwise, the eyes glaze, and not just because it’s past midnight. (Did enjoy Ricky Gervais’ droll bit, lording it over the American Office by showing us the rarely seen Japanese "original.")

But back to The Office. Some great bits as Michael prepares to send off his nemesis Toby (the terrifically hangdog Paul Lieberstein, who co-wrote the episode) with as little dignity as possible. Michael’s out-of-whack hatred of this timid schlub has been a reliably funny running gag for years, but it was upstaged this week by the priceless joke of watching Holly instantly fall for the prank when told that Kevin (the hilarious Brian Baumgartner) is “slow.” When Kevin offered Holly some of his M&Ms, you saw him through her eyes. And what we know to be a case of sadly arrested eternal adolescence (a gruesome variation on the Peter Pan syndrome) instead looked like Dunder Mifflin had given equal opportunity to the developmentally challenged. Kevin meanwhile confuses her cheerfully pity-laced empathy as a come-on. Michael, naturally, is instantly smitten—make that inappropriately stimulated (another funny scene)—by someone who plays along with his Yoda impersonation and other bad jokes. Too bad Jan is back in the picture, preggers from a sperm bank (“I need to make this one count”), causing Michael to step back from Holly because “I’m going to be kind of a daddy”—much like Jim stalling his long-anticipated proposal to Pam during the fireworks display when Andy steals his thunder by impulsively popping the question to a none-too-enthused Angela (“I SAID OK!”). Final reveal: Angela is boffing Dwight after hours. And Ryan is arrested for fraud. Serves the cokehead right for making Jim’s life miserable.

Another show had a more permanent finale over the weekend. CBS’ cult fave Moonlight wisely faded to black with its romantic heroes, Mick and Beth (Alex O’Loughlin and Sophia Myles), in a clinch, not in some sort of mortal or immortal peril. A cliffhanger would have been the wrong way to go, even if the show had been renewed. “I can’t close the door on Beth,” Mick voice-overed, after Beth tearfully shuts the door on him and their star-crossed vamp-human romance. He rekindles the flame by declaring his love and, more important, remembering what she was wearing the day they met. Moonlight was just starting to deal with interesting notions of undying love among vamps: a vampire couple, together for 150 years, decides to go down in flames together rather than let one be sacrificed alone to “vampire justice” (administered in part by a ferocious Claudia Black of Farscape). We learned about the concept of “freshies,” human “donors” who freely offer their blood to vampire mates. (Josef naturally has one.) Beth was still struggling with feeling left out of all the vampire underworld intrigue, and Mick was still torn between his loyalty to his vampire buds and to his protective yearning for Beth. (“You want me to drink your blood?” he asked her after she catches him and Josef red-mouthed, sucking on Josef’s “freshie.”) There was lots of untapped potential on this show. CBS blew it with this one.

And finally, add my voice to the cheers applauding Desperate Housewives for its climactic five-year fast-forward, a calculated attempt to restart and rejuvenate a show as it heads into its fifth season, a point at which many shows begin to show their age. (Housewives already was being written off at least a year ago, before Dana Delany and a twister came along to bring some spark to the neighborhood again.) Much like Lost reinvigorating itself with its flash-forward approach this season, Housewives now gets to reinvent itself instead of just creeping along, yoked to a continuation of many of the same stories and conflicts many of us have already had our fill of.

Speaking of which: Susan with Gale Harold instead of Mike? Great twist. If they can’t act like adults even when it comes to naming their baby, it’s kind of like what Tom said to Bob and Lee about commitment: “Is that person in bed next to you worth the trouble?” At this stage in Mike and Susan’s lives, not so much. I don’t know what the show has in store for them, or even at this point if Mike’s a part of the show’s future, but the thought of spending the next few years with the couple in their current state is reason enough to get behind this leap into the future.

It’s a bold move, all right, but not as revolutionary as it sounds. The characters will still presumably be much the same, for better or worse, but like picking up a new volume of a book series that jumps ahead in time, we get to renew our acquaintance with a whole new set of secrets, skeletons and flashbacks—all in service to what TV should be about after all: juicy storytelling. The gimmick won’t mean much, though, if there isn’t a strong narrative hook (something like Mary Alice’s suicide) to get next season started. The writers, as should always be the case, have their work cut out for them.

(Matt Mitovich weighs in on the twist here.)

So now we know what’s coming back (Eli Stone, yay!) and what isn’t (Moonlight, boo!). And after glimpsing clips and snippets of the new stuff on most of the networks—sorry, NBC, I would have preferred to “experience” a taste of your new line-up instead of a carnival of empty hype—we’re even feeling a bit of buzz (welcome back, J.J. Abrams!) about the new season to come.

Looking back at a hectic week of TV, off and on screen, some reflections:

The Big Five networks are introducing a mere 16 new series collectively this fall: down significantly from the 20-something of a year ago and roughly half of what we used to see back when the networks were still serious about comedies. One upside: a lot less chaos and confusion, and the networks can focus their promotion on behalf of a handful of shows that might actually break out. Another upside: Fewer new shows means fewer freshman shows got canceled. Shows like Chuck, Life, Pushing Daisies, Dirty Sexy Money, Gossip Girl, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Samantha Who?, Eli Stone—all of which can be relaunched in the fall with as much fanfare as we used to see for brand-new shows.

The downside: With fewer new titles to sell and tease, there may be an overall lack of excitement when September rolls around. (Though not in my corner. I can’t wait for my sophomore faves to return, especially those cut short by the writers’ strike.)

So what stood out? J.J. Abrams’ Fringe on Fox, naturally. Looks slick and scary, and reminiscent of Lost, it begins with an airborne catastrophe (though ending far less happily). My main concern at this point, about this and Joss Whedon’s midseason Dollhouse, is that if the high-concept premise is too complicated to convey easily, it may have trouble breaking out beyond cult status. And with House as a mighty lead-in, Fringe may look like it’s not pulling its weight. But expectations are that it will open big (with a splashy two-hour premiere the week before Labor Day). I can’t wait.

And while we didn’t see a frame of it, the CW’s resurrection of 90210 is the other guaranteed buzz magnet of the fall. Does it even matter if it’s any good, or if anyone watches? Probably not. It will still be all you’ll hear a certain segment of the media talking about, at least until the overrated The Hills returns for a new season.

The comedy that got the biggest belly laughs during any network’s screening was CBS’s Worst Week, with slapstick antics very reminiscent of Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents mode. Likable newcomer Kyle Bornheimer could be the next Ray Romano, coming from nowhere to play a likable but hapless schlub who keeps digging a bigger hole for himself the more he tries to impress his newly pregnant girlfriend’s parents (including Kurtwood Smith, master of the fearful slow burn). The clips were hilarious, and as usual, the biggest question is: Will they be able to keep it up each week?

CBS’s new procedurals-with-a-twist were harder to gauge from short cut-downs, but both are blessed with charismatic leading men giving what appear to be big star performances: Simon Baker in The Mentalist and Rufus Sewell in Eleventh Hour. (Fun trivia fact: Sewell is nominated for a Tony this year against Patrick Stewart, who starred in the original British miniseries version.)

Head-scratching trend: High-concept shows with questionably limited premises. CBS’s The Ex List is about a woman who’s given a year (by her psychic) to find her soulmate from a long list of past relationships. Why just a year? And what happens next year? ABC’s Life on Mars remake tells a story about a detective caught in a ’70s time warp, a mystery that was resolved after two short seasons in the British version. For Mars to flourish in the American market, it’s going to have to spin its wheels for a much longer time. But how? And one of my favorite drama clips of the week, for CBS’s wild midseason murder mystery Harper’s Island, seemed more like a trailer for an elaborate Agatha Christie miniseries, as guests at a wedding party on a secluded island are bumped off, at least one a week (I think). Looked fantastically fun and exciting, in the spirit of those