Bored to Death

HBO sent out three advance episodes of Bored to Death, and by the third one (also the best one) I felt confident that Schwartzman was exactly where he belongs--in Brooklyn, in a cafe, watching, and worrying.

Yes, Bored To Death may be a parody of noir, or maybe it's a dramedy that dips into detective novel tomfoolery, but most of all, it's a story that revels in the realm of those strange overgrown children who use artistic pursuits to justify their weak little whimpering selves.

HBO's Bored to Death sneaks up speedily, an eight-part comic enterprise that's soon transformed into flat-out inspired comedy.

Ted Danson recurs as a skewed version of himself on Curb, and on Bored to Death, he's a pot-addled cross between Seinfeld's Mr. Peterman and Donald Trump. What a pleasure to find some humor in a culture that makes that guy a hero.

Bored to Death is as idiosyncratic and delightful in its own way as “Curb Your Enthusiasm."

It is a bit like Martin Scorsese's "After Hours," filtered through the sensibility of a Whit Stillman and sprinkled with "Flight of the Conchords"--and yet it feels new, because it is so completely itself, consistently itself, a mix of romance, adventure and stoner comedy (there is a lot of pot about) that never abandons the world the rest of us can recognize.

Bored to Death is good, very good--but it's pilot isn't, so it wouldn't be terrible to miss it or see it late.

In the end, it all amounts to pretty much the same thing: a half hour with a self-sabotaging wit. A nice side effect is that both "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and Bored to Death make you feel better about yourself.

The series gets better with each episode, and the characters become funnier and more interesting when you come to know (or pity) them along the way.

We're totally hip to the fact that the real reason to watch remains Ted Danson's titanically louche magazine editor.

The pilot's a little slow. But a few episodes in, I found I wasn't bored a bit.

In other words, don’t hate it immediately just because it isn’t “Curb,” because if you love “Curb” you might eventually like Bored to Death.

If the imitation is pale, it's also competent. And Schwartzman's wistful but inept romanticism is hard to resist.

These political hiccups are unfortunate, but not deal-breakers. Bored to Death is undeniably smart, and so it could very well be laying the groundwork for all these wincing moments to be properly unpacked by an apt post-modern femme fatale (mom?).