Almost every episode trades on our familiarity with the type--the heavy sidekick, the dumb, bullying jock, the knockout who wonders if she should be with the heavy sidekick instead of the dumb, bullying jock--but that familiarity too often comes perilously close to breeding contempt.

There’s plenty of action, but it comes across as muddled and at least so far is failing to serve the intrigue.

[There's] a lot of dying and when that's added to the death or deaths of the week--this is a one-note procedural after all--the morbidity starts to mount on a series that's already weighed down by clumsy mythology and storytelling.

Meanwhile, there’s Bosworth, throwing glacial glares and selling her soul to impress her father and compete with upstart Connor, giving a beautifully restrained, imminently watchable performance that conveys depths with very little. Too bad there’s not more of her and less of everything else.

Finding the proper balance for dramedy isn't easy and Girlfriends’ Guide fails miserably at that task.

An overly jokey screenplay that lacks the sharpness of Allen’s best work. And the problem is also Allen, who has largely stopped acting in his own movies. As Sidney, he can be lovably doddering and still delivers the occasional quip with style. But more often, he’s the least compelling character on screen.

Despite a handful of great performances, this small-screen drama is a forgettable, overly publicized splash in the pan unworthy of the woman it earnestly but clumsily attempts to honor.

The result is a clunky hour of bad one-liners and exposition.... The narrative tightens up in Episode 2, at least, as the series settles into a Monster-of-the-Week format. That allows Duchovny and Anderson to play to their respective strengths, but it also feels like the show is marking time.

The attempt to ground the show in reality feels unnecessary and not fun, because nothing here is all that unbelievable.

Both Johnson and Valleta recognize the script for what it needs--a quirked eyebrow here, a glower held a bit longer than usual there--and tip the story in their favor as the down-and-dirty version of Frank and Claire Underwood. Crawford and Rittenhouse are so busy trawling for sympathy that they barely register.

Unfortunately the end result is a cast of supporting characters that fall flat without the proper development, and a lead that never quite opens up to the audience.

The bits of writing with real teeth are crowded out by a generally broader and more winking comedy style and pacing that seems to be anticipating more laughter than the material could reasonably expect.

The show’s other players gently orbit Jeong’s bright star and are sometimes scorched by his flares of humor in an otherwise formulaic sitcom with its canned laughter and bright, uniformly lit set.

For every charming and genuinely funny moment--and there is a fair amount--there is a lazy sitcom trope that stunts Mr. Robinson and depletes it of its promise.

Watching the first hour of Hand of God, the performances are solid but the shocking moments fail to connect dramatically.

The surrealness almost disguises the repetitive plot of returning home as a manchild. But as a series, Baskets is more bleak than amusing.

The machine behind this effort needs to invest in even its smallest moving parts whose misfires can snatch a savvy “CSI” viewer right out of the Cyber realm; weak performances from bit players, leaps in logic or just plain by-the-numbers writing à la “This is where we introduce the character by providing some expository dialogue that the lead character will dismiss with ‘You always say that’ in words or actions.”

Comfort food television is a necessary and worthwhile product, but MacGyver is so bland it’s not even fun for a Friday night in.

Though it has some slick car chases, The Player lacks the wit, ingenuity and originality to inspire curiosity about what’s going to happen next.

Unfortunately, by the end of the first hour, viewers may find themselves looking for a pulse rather than committing to future installments, let alone pondering the state of female medical practitioners in the industry and their work-home life balance.

The show is satirizing smug, middle-class white folks who resent any threat to their status quo, but the only viewpoints presented on Bordertown are those of smug, middle-class white folks and smug, middle-class liberals who resent the white folks’ resentment.

Everything about this comedy felt canned, artificial and forced. The dialogue was awkward enough that the actors didn't look comfortable delivering their lines, the audience wasn't always sure when and how to react, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could take it.

While there may be some hidden truths in the intended comedy, the scenes often come across as judgemental and ill-conceived.

While [John Malkovich] does indeed dig into the pirate role with relish, it's not enough to save the show.

Harden’s unfortunate typecasting is the least of the ailments afflicting Code Black. When blood isn’t flying everywhere and the doctors aren’t rushing from one disaster to the next, derivative characters bombard the screen with familiar tropes.

Chemistry wasn’t the problem with either version of the pilot. Indeed both actresses are fine in the role, as is LeBlanc; it’s the show itself that could use some work.

Separately, the Short family members are worthy of a glimpse and can garner a chuckle. Together, they’re abrasive and unlikable.

It’s like the writers are just throwing ideas on a wall to see what sticks. Nothing about this pilot feels finely tuned or carefully constructed. It’s a shame, actually, given the great chemistry between Perabo and Sunjata in the first place.