The pilot's accumulation of cute - oh, for the straightforward simplicity of bowling alley lawyer "Ed" - feels overbearing long before Kelley's courtroom summation turns societal sermon.

[Neil Patrick Harris was] hampered here by a format that might work better on daytime TV than at night, and better in the U.K. than here, and by gimmicks that seem more in step with the Velveeta spirit of "America's Got Talent," and by a show that's almost willfully aggravating, he may have met his match with Best Time Ever.

A frustrating film that leaves the questions--pretty much all of them--unanswered.

Crawford and Wayans display little rapport. That leaves racing cars, speeding bullets and wannabe wit to prop up an essentially superfluous show.

A grim, macabre march through a terrible crime, deploying a bad twist--the voice of the deceased.

Some amusing lines, but otherwise a disappointing misfire.

The pilot has some funny moments, but after that, Kirstie starts to flatline.

There's cheese (i.e., all Syfy flicks) and then there's cheese--Velveeta vs. Brie. But guess what? Ghost Shark is both! How victims die, which body parts are left and where, the perfectly predictable dialogue and straight-faced performances, even a historical nod to Roanoke--we're just not worthy of this much smartly executed satisfaction.

Sure, The Cougar is idiotic--these shows always are. That's a large part of their appeal. But casting fouled up here.

Talky, tired, tame Crisis is a misfire.

Orange" is a slog, where minutes seem to stretch into hours, hours into days ... and the drip, drip, drip of prison time becomes its own reality.

Amusing and harmless, but even Andy Cohen can’t raise the dead.

This feels more like a rushed afterthought by Fox instead of a fully developed premise that could carry a pair of seasoned actors to their retirement, or at least to a big payday.

Satire administered with a Wiffle ball bat. A dull thud, where there should be a sting.

It's pretty stock stuff. [23 March 2000]

Unsupervised is a cheerier, less nihilistic "Beavis and Butt-head Lite," and not remotely as funny or trenchant.

It's an attempt to do a 1970s comedy like "Barney Miller" - but without the laughs. [22 March 2000]

A paint-by-the-numbers biopic with the dramatic vitality of a tree stump.

A wan, weary network-sitcom-by-committee--oh, and Matt LeBlanc, too.

The hope is fleeting, the twist a tease, and the show--you must finally, reluctantly and quite accurately conclude--is basically just a bore.

The dialogue's preposterous, the plot ludicrous, and the premise as fresh as a wrung-out old mop.

With material this thin, the actors can only do a competent job of mimicry. Mimicry is about all you'll get.

Defying Gravity is a glorious, glimmering glop of foolishness--a spitball magnet of the first order that elicits jeers when it wants tears and catcalls when striving for philosophical heft.

Reboots can work ("Hawaii Five-0"), but they haven't got a prayer if they lavishly, ludicrously, embrace all the hooey and hokum of the original. Welcome to the new Angels.

It is so numbingly derivative--effectively a dull mash-up of "House" and "Private Practice"--that you quickly forget it's also numbingly silly. But then, maybe that's the whole idea.

Liz & Dick is not a complete disaster, nor entirely is Lohan.

The party's over, the hangover's begun, and the final summer looks like it's gonna be a long and wet one.

Magic City--on paper, not on screen--remains a compelling idea in search of great execution.