The Assets just can’t get untracked, lumbering through its first two hours without any sense of purpose, style or urgency.

So far this is a dour, sour affair replete with uninviting characters. That’s generally not a good recipe for return visits.

This latest aliens-meet-earthlings sitcom is just too dopily executed for any long-term stay on this planet.

It’s a grindingly bad half-hour with some even worse finishing touches.

Marco Polo might best be utilized as a sedative or sleeping pill. All those dark to pitch black exteriors and interiors seem guaranteed to prompt an onset of heavy eyelids if not a complete conk-out. And if that doesn’t get you, the ponderous pace almost certainly will.

It all ends in thoroughly predictable fashion--and without any zip or pop.

This thing appears to be going nowhere fast. And it’s already taking way too long to get there.

Is it all a hoot to watch? Definitely, but probably not intentionally so.

Sometimes they’re [TV networks are] still smart enough to know when they have a stinker.

Body of Proof for the most part plays dead within the realm of plausible crime-solving, interesting characters and assumptions that Delany's once-promising career would do more than wither on this vine.

The resultant explosions look cheap and the cliche-pocked script keeps self-destructing--“We’re running out of time, Mac”--before the bad guys are neutralized. MacGyver deploys a few household items to make all of this happen, but not all that inventively or interestingly. Till’s acting remains a work in progress, if that.

Witches of East End is just not worth a viewer’s toils and troubles.

Flesh and Bone is to the art of the dance what the laughable Showgirls was to the Las Vegas flesh market. Except that the art of the dance in Flesh and Bone also includes stripping to help make ends meet. What emerges is a thorough mess on a grandiose scale.

It leads off the network's Thursday prime-time schedule, with the action originating in Miami and the scripts apparently bought from Godawful, Inc.

Its first half-hour comes and goes without providing any further reason to hang out with these guys.

Jack technically is a Gen Xer. But he might as well be the Quaker Oats man in the eyes of millennials getting the same broad brush treatment. It’s a wonder they can even feed themselves in a comedy that force-feeds its concept and swallows McHale whole in the process.

Suspect Behavior is in every way a grind, with even the usually very capable Whitaker looking lost at sea with his halting, stumbling, keep-pausing-for-effect portrayal of crime team head Sam "Coop" Cooper.

Vice Principals can be coarsely amusing in fits and spurts. But when it’s bad, it’s horrid.

Episodes are one hour each, requiring ample manufactured "drama" to keep this thing percolating.

This is a show without any nutritive value, innate appeal or sense of purpose. It slogs through its muck until the buzzer sounds.

Mind Games just doesn’t work on any level.

Everything in Chelsea seems painfully forced.

It’s all cut and spliced to the point where any real “jeopardy” involved is anyone’s guess. The weekly competitions on Survivor are far more convincingly presented.

Darkly shot and dimly plotted, the premiere episode never comes close to firming its grip. It instead plods and meanders, inviting viewers to invest elsewhere rather than buy into this poorly put-together jumble of something or other.

The Purge comes to television at exactly the wrong time. Not that there’s really a right time. The fact that it’s also clumsily made and rife with mediocre performances seems almost beside the point in the context of how pointless this thing is in the first place.

The whole thing comes off as uncomfortably clownish and insulting to viewers of any color, let alone African-Americans who have every right to cringe at such off-putting, clownish portrayals in times when FX’s immeasurably superior Atlanta has charted such bold new territory.

Stalker at best is an unsavory blend of violent crime, voyeurism and by-the-book preachments just in case you aren’t getting its “messages.”

Drescher still looks good a dozen years removed from the last season of The Nanny. But the lines coming from her mouth are too obvious for words.

Life Sentence has an off-putting preciousness to it while grinding through one “crisis” after another. It doesn’t earn any sympathies because its principal characters don’t merit much more than one big “Oh, shaddup!” With the exception, perhaps, of poor Wes.

Roseanne's Nuts is her way of taking a dump in your living room.

Sullivan & Son is utterly artless in its efforts to be an equal opportunity offender.

Dads is just a senseless pounding of sensibilities, a beat-down without any saving graces.

Life's A Tripp in reality is nothing more than another Lifetime stumble.

Nothing about this latest re-do offers any hope for its future.

Virtually every joke lands with a resounding thud.

All of this unfolds with complete and utter predictability amid a “Take my wife, please” collection of broad, flat, dated jokes delivered with a sledge hammer’s touch by Kevin and his coarse, chub-a-lub pals.

Preposterous, ridiculously earnest, poorly scripted and laughably acted, this is the series that Anthony Edwards chose to re-enter prime-time after a long tenure as one of ER's main men. He should've stayed in bed.

Less funny than a compound fracture, this is a show that looks irreparably broken.

Those looking for depth will find none. Liz & Dick triumphs, however, as an amusement park for fans of the deeply dreadful.

The first episode is just too relentlessly clunky and stupid.

In the annals of all-time worst game shows, this one takes its rightful place alongside ABC's Conveyor Belt of Love, which soiled prime-time back in January 2010.

A prohibitive favorite for worst new TV show of the year didn’t take long to assume that position.

Unfocused, unfunny and all together unbearable, Perfect Couples at least affords NBC a chance to hit rock bottom before the new owners begin their massive cleanup effort.

Their all-that activities become redundant and tiresome at WARP speed, raising the overall question of whether watching Ja’mie: Private School Girl on a continuous loop would be worse than eternal burning in hell.

A ridiculous and desperate effort to generate some buzz about its carrier, the wee little WE tv network.

The duly dreadful sixth movie in this preposterous franchise.

Brain-dead male teens without any social skills or purpose in their lives might find this a highly entertaining diversion from their violent video games.

Plodding and stupefying when it's not being laughable and poorly acted, this is entertainment fit for an alternative to water-boarding.

This is a messy disposable diaper of a comedy series whose star plays himself without any idea of how to act or write the part.

The star of this ill-conceived show, which also features former congressional policy advisor Matt Stoller as a very uncomfy foil, completely fails to get untracked from halting start to grinding finish.