Give “Boston’s Finest” a “B-” for effort. It’s an earnest unscripted series, approximating the tag-along feel of ABC News’ “24/7” franchise, which has included various hospitals as well as the NYPD. In this case, the series — produced and narrated by Donnie Wahlberg, currently playing a cop on “Blue Bloods” — not only follows various Boston cops but provides some insights into their family lives, all while trying to create a cinematic look and deliver a bit of an adrenaline rush. It’s not bad, but other than choosing a new location, this door has been kicked down a few times too often.

Mostly, the hour plays like a companion to “Southland,” TNT’s best (if not, alas, highest-rated) drama, reminding viewers of the toll the dangers and uncertainty of police work exacts not just on dedicated officers but their families as well. Even the opening borrows a technique from that scripted series, previewing a scene that will occur later in the hour.

Those featured are a fairly colorful and likable bunch — ranging from beat officers to the Gang Unit — and it’s clear the intent is to highlight their bravery and heroism. (In addition to Wahlberg, Seth Jarrett and Julie Insogna-Jarret serve as exec producers.)

TNT has taken some furtive steps into the unscripted world, in almost every case picking projects designed to dovetail with its existing drama lineup. By that measure, “Boston’s Finest” fits the mold; if only the mold weren’t quite so well worn.

This week I finally finished all 13 episodes of "House of Cards" -- the Neflix drama starring Kevin Spacey -- and much like Alan Sepinwall at Hitfix, I came away with my overall opinion largely unchanged from my original assessment of the first two. This is a solid show, but also one with some notable drawbacks, and the distribution pattern -- making all the episodes available at once -- somewhat obscured its dramatic merit, making the means of showcasing the program partially eclipse the content.

In short, I flipped through "Cards," but not completely over it.

My colleague, AJ Marechal, distilled finishing "Cards" into six stages of grief. For me, absorbing the entire season left behind a few separate lines of thought, about the distribution scheme (no spoilers there), the show itself (some SPOILERS) and the longer-term impact.

The distribution. While I understand Netflix's argument that its users are already well versed in the art of binge viewing, building that model around a new franchise appears overly ambitious. Moreover, powering through all 13 hours in a relatively short span felt less like a treat, in this case, than something of a chore -- a homework assignment, albeit without a fixed due date. 

Being a critic, admittedly, makes that a different process, but I'm still not sure the show itself benefited from such concentrated exposure. If anything, some of the character flaws -- particularly involving the reporter played by Kate Mara -- and lapses seem magnified by viewing one hour after another.

Is there an intermediate path? Bunches of three or four episodes, instead of the whole enchilada? It's certainly worth considering. But I tend to agree with Variety's Andy Wallenstein in the conclusion the benefits of the binge experience are outweighed by the drawbacks.

The series. Spacey is an exceptionally compelling actor, which almost by itself made the show worth the time (his Southern drawl notwithstanding). Robin Wright and Corey Stoll were also quite good. 

That said, almost everything pertaining to the journalist, played by Mara, is slightly off-key, including (SPOILERS AHEAD) the fact her editor would call her the "C" word without expecting consequences or immediately apologizing profusely, and especially her unconvincing affair with Spacey's character. Have we learned nothing since "Absence of Malice?" Clearly, women in the work force -- especially journalists -- can't be trusted not to throw their ethics out the window and hop on their backs when there's an attractive older man around. 

My biggest problem, though -- even more than Spacey's character breaking the fourth wall, which diminishes in later hours -- is the fact the show never develops a truly worthy adversary for him. Yes, his plot to achieve power is extraordinarily intricate, and he's utterly ruthless; yet one would think somebody else in D.C. would have the grit to challenge him, instead of being knocked over, all the way up to the Vice President, one hapless domino at a time.

The impact. If the Huffington Post's Howard Fineman is to be believed, "House of Cards" has already had an impact in Washington, to go with the attention and front-page coverage heaped upon whether the show qualifies as a business game-changer. Journalists, meanwhile, continue to debate its depiction of the profession, and even if they think it's lousy, there's that old adage about any publicity being good publicity.

All that's significant for Netflix as it braves original programming, which based on its hit-or-miss lineup of library offerings, the channel appears to need if it's going to build or even retain market share.

So is "Cards" a success? Netflix won't really say, following in the footsteps of the pay cable networks, which only like to discuss actual data when it suits them.

Weighing everything, the show appears to have yielded enough positives to justify the gamble. But as Vulture's Josef Adalian asked when the program premiered, will Netlfix actually have an appetite to keep commissioning shows of this ambition? Whether that happens will ultimately answer whether this "House" was built on more than smoke and mirrors.

It's hard to blame CBS News for trying to draft off all the attention focused on the Oscars this weekend, but the special "Vanity Fair's Hollywood" -- playing Saturday night, and produced under the aegis of the "48 Hours" team -- yields a very mixed goodie bag.

The opening and closing portion of the hour plays like some cloying electronic-press kit for Vanity Fair, touting how wonderful it is to attend the magazine's annual Oscar party -- an event "so exclusive even the stars are starstruck." Well, yippee for them.

Sandwiched in between, though, is one very good piece culled from the magazine, and two OK ones.

The only real reason to watch any part of the hour is a profile of Merv Adelson, the former Lorimar power broker who lost a fortune in the AOL-Time Warner deal and now lives in a very modest apartment. Including interviews with Adelson and pal George Schlatter, it's one of those segments that actually leaves you hungry for more.

The others, in descending order of interest, recap the impact and influence of "Pulp Fiction" (with John Travolta, pictured, among those participating); and profile Megan Ellison, the 27-year-old producer of "Zero Dark Thirty." The press-shy Ellison wouldn't be interviewed, and while writing around a subject is doable in magazine circles, it's more awkward in the language of television.

Mostly, the hour offers a pretty clear demonstration of the sort of banality broadcast news tends to churn out when covering Hollywood -- even with the imprimatur and assistance of Vanity Fair, which ostensibly endeavors to approach the town with a greater level of sophistication. And while one can see why the magazine benefits from what amounts to an extended infomercial for its brand, it's hard to understand what CBS News gains from the exercise other than the fleeting star power of having Halle Berry and Tom Hanks among those delivering testimonials.

Granted, it's nice to take a break from the mayhem on "48 Hours," but not much of an improvement if they're going to replace it with a glorified version of "OMG! Insider."

The annual glut of Black History Month-themed TV programming can risk trivializing the remembrances and the message, blurring this aspect of the nation's past with the kind of commercial values applied to very-special Valentine's Day episodes.

That said, a few productions stand out, and one would be Investigation Discovery's "March to Justice," a crisp one-hour documentary that recaps the civil-rights movement through the voting rights march from Selma to Montgomery, bringing participants in those events together with members of then-Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy's family, including his widow Ethel. (Incidentally, a recent HBO documentary devoted to her, "Ethel," is also recommended viewing.)

Rep. John Lewis -- a 21-year-old student when he spoke at the March on Washington, before Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech -- guides three generations of Kennedys on a bus ride tracing the path and circumstances surrounding that historic event. Others interviewed include former RFK assistant John Seigenthaler; and Ruby Bridges, whose role as a 6-year-old girl in the school-integration struggle inspired a famous Norman Rockwell painting, which has hung outside President Obama's office.

Produced by NBC News' Peacock Prods., it's the kind of classy project that certainly deserves a wider spotlight, but which seldom finds space on the major networks. (It's also a thematic detour for ID, which most of the time revels in serial killers and cheating and/or murderous spouses with unabashed glee.)

Perhaps foremost, these grainy images of police turning fire hoses and dogs on peaceful demonstrators should never lose their power to dismay us, or allow us to forget how far segregation lingered into the 20th century. Lewis speaks of the courage to challenge the established order at the time as "necessary trouble." That it was, every bit as much as "March to Justice" is necessary history.

After “Gold Rush,” perhaps inevitably, comes “Silver Rush,” a three-part Discovery Channel effort the network has chosen to air in one night, on Feb. 24. So while women in particular are watching the Oscars, the channel apparently hopes to attract men interested in a different precious metal.

Good luck with that.

“Silver Rush” focuses on an attempt to raise sunken treasure from the ocean floor, using cutting-edge technology operated by an international crew. The result is a lot of imagery that looks culled right out of a James Cameron documentary or the opening sequence in “Titanic,” all set to extremely urgent music, lest anyone forget there’s a lot at stake.

The expense of this sort of fortune-seeking is repeatedly emphasized, setting up a scenario where the crew must come away with tons of silver or risk facing financial disaster. It’s all handled in a reasonably straightforward manner, but the opening hour, anyway, feels like so many of these other manly-men-trying-to-strike-it-rich programs it’s difficult to exact the hoped-for adrenaline a rush from the process.

So for those who are drawn to the “thrill of victory and/or agony of defeat” part of these exercises, here’s a suggestion: DVR the whole thing, and watch the first and last 10 minutes, skipping (or at least mostly excising) what’s in between. Because unless you plan to engineer your own deep-sea dive, all the rest is just worthless filler.

Oh, and if this works, can “Platinum Rush” be far behind?

Los Angeles Lakers owner Jerry Buss died at the end of an "All-Star Weekend" that was as much rock concert as sports, as much Thunderdome as basketball. It was, perhaps, a fitting coda to a standard-setting stint as owner that cemented the league's role as a Hollywood presence, and furthered the ties between sports and entertainment culture.

Under Buss, the Lakers became their own kind of Hollywood stars. Even the name for the team at its apex in the 1980s -- "Showtime" -- embodied that connection. Of course, Buss stumbled onto the perfect star to complete that hookup, Earvin "Magic" Johnson, whose magnetic personality and infectious style of play caught the town's attention, making the Lakers (with an assist from superfan Jack Nicholson) the ultimate "A-list" ticket among the showbiz elite.

It wasn't an accident that stars, agents and pop divas circled the court in the stratosphere-priced seats. As Johnson said at one point in the midst of the Showtime era, the vibe was such that the players wanted to be the movie stars, and the actors wanted to be the players.

Remarkably, with a lot of help from then-General Manager Jerry West and coaches like Pat Riley and Phil Jackson, Buss was able to reload after the '80s ran their course, winning more championships. Despite the hold the Dodgers have always had on Los Angeles, the Lakers became more closely associated with the town's stereotypical, Randy Newman-themed image than any other franchise ever has.

As it happened, the star system Buss advanced -- capitalizing on major-market TV revenues -- also perfectly mirrored a shift in Hollywood priorities, where the sky was the limit for highly paid superstars, while journeymen had to settle for considerably less.

Meanwhile, TV revenues have soared, to the point where even inept owners have a hard time not making money. As proof, look no further than the Lakers' staggering TV deal with Time Warner Cable, built around the assumption when it comes to sports and die-hard fans, the concept "Too much of a good thing" simply doesn't exist.

Notably, the Lakers are currently in the midst of a downward spiral, with Buss having already largely handed off stewardship of the team to his kids (principally his son Jim), whose attempts to rebuild the franchise -- using dad's formula, hoping to regain the magic with big-name stars -- have failed so far to pay off.

Then again, even the idea of passing the keys to the kingdom on to an heir who might not be fully up to the task is, by itself, another one of those great Hollywood traditions.

Submitted for your approval: As members of the Writers Guild of America gather this weekend to honor their best, that’s always a good time to remember Rod Serling, arguably the most influential TV writer the medium ever produced.

As the creator of “The Twilight Zone” – a series that resonates throughout pop culture to this day – Serling still casts an outsized shadow. And yet even he experienced considerable frustrations with TV’s limitations, as is documented in a new book by his daughter Anne Serling, “As I Knew Him: My Dad, Rod Serling,” which will be released by Citadel Press on April 30.

Filled with anecdotes and self-reflection, for students of television, the book is more of a speed-read than a must-read. Although Serling is an interesting personality, there’s far more than anyone needs reminiscing about personal moments and how he was as a man and father.

Nevertheless, several tidbits and facts stand out, beginning with the sheer explosion of creative genius Serling exhibited in a relatively brief span — from his mid- to late-30s, during the five seasons in which “Twilight Zone” aired.

The series yielded 156 episodes in that time; Serling wrote a staggering 92 of them.

Beyond cementing his reputation as a master of small morality tales, the series also made Serling publicly famous — perhaps as recognizable as any writer has ever been — albeit because he wound up introducing the show. Turns out the first choice, Orson Welles, wanted too much money.

Despite what “Twilight Zone” came to represent, Serling became disenchanted with TV, saying in a speech years later, “I can tell you that drama, at least in television, must walk tiptoe and in agony lest it offend some cereal buyer from a given state below the Mason-Dixon.” He also chafed at how the show was edited for syndication, excising key scenes to squeeze in more ads, until the episodes “looked like a long, protracted commercial separated by fragmentary moments of indistinct drama.”

Serling also experienced a lack of creative control over his next anthology, “Night Gallery,” which had its moments, while lacking the kind of consistency that makes “Twilight Zone” an unqualified classic.

A chain smoker, Serling was only 50 when he died in 1975. One can only imagine what his fertile imagination might have conjured had he lived and worked today, with the greater latitude the cable universe could have afforded him.

Yet for all his sci-fi prescience, his deft touch in concocting unexpected little twists, Serling was dead wrong when it came to analyzing the durability of his own work. Even though “The Twilight Zone” had already begun airing in reruns that will seemingly be with us until the monsters really do land on Maple Street, the writer maintained he had “spewed out everything I had to say, none of which has been particularly monumental, nothing that will stand the test of time.”

Despite "The Big Bang Theory's" preoccupation with science, it's become easy to take the show's higher math -- in the form of jaw-dropping ratings, both on CBS and in reruns on TBS and in syndication -- for granted.

Yet while the show was good from the get-go, this week's Valentine's Day episode -- which was made available in advance -- underscores just how deftly the producers have evolved the project, by expanding beyond the four-guys-and-one-girl equation to include a trio of fleshed-out female characters, as well as supporting players beyond that.

The introduction of Mayim Bialik and Melissa Rauch as series regulars has made the show that much richer, and the episode also finds Raj (Kunal Nayyar) taking refuge from being dateless on the holiday with Stuart (Kevin Sussman), the comic-book store proprietor.

Yet if the Stuart-Raj friendship and relationship between Howard (Simon Helberg) and Rauch's Bernadette have become consistent sources of laughs, the program has also stumbled into something oddly sweet and wonderful in the peculiar interaction between Sheldon (Jim Parsons) and Bialik's Amy, two scientific geniuses who are both painfully awkward in their interpersonal relationships. At times watching the show in recent weeks, I've found myself thinking of "David and Lisa," a heartbreaking 1962 movie about a romance between two youths in a mental institution.

Admittedly, Sheldon and Amy aren't that disturbed, but his reluctance to be touched and lack of empathy do make watching them feel around the fringes of what having a "girlfriend" means interesting, as well as funny. (There was also an unexpectedly touching moment in perhaps the season's funniest episode, where the guys head to a sci-fi convention in "Star Trek" costumes, only to have their car stolen.)

Finally, the producers have managed to sustain the latest Leonard-Penny pairing without hitting any conspicuous snags -- no small feat, given the number of shows that have stumbled when it comes to hooking up two primary characters. (For a separate take on the show's romantic pairings, see this post by my colleague Jon Weisman.)

As for CBS, the network's sales department has to wake up all smiles every Friday, with "Big Bang" having proved formidable enough to not only beat back "American Idol" but keep "Two and a Half Men" ratings solid, even as the show has drifted creatively.

So analyzing all the available evidence, "Big Bang's" numbers aren't just a byproduct of people finding the series in syndication and hopping aboard, although that's clearly been a factor. More important is that in its sixth season, the program has grown progressively better and more well rounded. And you needn't be a math wiz to recognize why that winning formula is adding up.

There was more than a little irony in the shootout with accused murderer Christopher Dorner running straight into the State of the Union address, and preempting it on a number of Los Angeles TV stations, as well as the sadly declining newsradio outlet KNX-AM 1070.

Because while President Obama's call for a vote on gun-control legislation -- repeating "They deserve a vote," while the camera panned to victims of gun violence -- was clearly the most emotionally powerful element within the context of his broad legislative agenda, it increasingly looks to be among the least likely to produce much in the way of significant action.

Coverage of the gun issue has had somewhat more legs than I anticipated in the immediate aftermath of the shootings in Newtown, Conn., but the forces pushing back against legislative remedies have also had time to fortify their position, which has included blaming Hollywood and videogames, seeking to deflect responsibility. As usual, people in politics get in trouble for speaking the truth, and a lobbyist got in some hot water for suggesting all the gun lobby had to do was wait out the "Connecticut effect."

The media's role is actually much more complex than that, including how intoxicated it is with a story like the Dorner drama, which almost screams "Movie!" in its cinematic, Rambo-like aspects. Perhaps that's why several of the cable networks and local stations couldn't cut away from analyzing the State of the Union fast enough to get back to the latest updates regarding Dorner, even though the story at that point appeared to be going nowhere fast.

To be fair, of course, the media love violence and crime stories because they know their audience does. But it was still fascinating to see the battle for the soul of a network in flux, like CNN, played out so conspicuously. (The channel used the event to showcase new anchors Chris Cuomo and Jake Tapper, both recruited from ABC News.)

A word, too, about Sen. Marco Rubio, who delivered the Republican response to the president's address. Ignoring the specific content, the visuals -- which matter in these situations -- were awkward. Rubio is handsome, but he must have been too hot under the lights (he kept dabbing at his temples and lunged for a water bottle), and all the biography he included sounded more like a campaign speech than a response to the Democrats. And that used-car salesman smile at the end made Mrs. TV Critic laugh out loud.

Fortunately, my guess is not many people hung around for the full response. After all, with very little effort, the audience that did tune in to see the President could easily return to the manhunt for yet another lunatic with a gun.

By now most people who want to have probably seen the latest episode of "Girls," and if you haven't, read no further.

OK? Good. Because the fifth installment, guest starring Patrick Wilson, is one of those odd detours the show has begun taking, and reflects Lena Dunham's creation at both its best and worst.

In the episode, Dunham's character has an impromptu run-in with a neighbor of the shop where she's working, played by Wilson. He comes in to complain about someone dumping trash in his cans, and she goes to his place to confess.

In an impulsive moment, the two of them pounce on each other. He's 42 and separated; she's 24 and confused.

In a weird sort of way, WIlson almost seems to be the same character he portrayed in "LIttle Children" (a movie I really like) -- the suburban dreamboat who outwardly appears to have it all, yet who isn't happy. What's interesting about the episode is that seeing the world even temporarily through his eyes -- or at least his lavish belongings -- prompts Dunham's Hannah to begin questioning her life and what she wants out of it.

Admittedly, it's all a little too writerly and precious. People don't articulate "I want more" in quite the way Hannah tearfully does. That said, the confession does bring some depth to the show that has often been sorely lacking in its preoccupation with what's on the surface.

If only Dunham sustained that. But watching ahead to episodes six and seven, "Girls" takes off on other tangents. It's back to business as usual.

Perhaps that's why seeing the show and Dunham pick up awards and critical accolades, while generating exhaustive think pieces like Emily Nussbaum's analysis in the New Yorker, frequently feels like a painfully modern case of the Emperor's (or in this case, empress') new clothes. And the more people seem to hang on her every word looking for generational insights -- hell, the Dunham moment is such if you flipped away from "Girls" on Sunday you were likely to run across her at the Grammys -- the less she seemingly has to say.

As I stated in my review when the second season began, Dunham is frittering around the edges of something interesting, and she's obviously a talent who bears watching. That said, it's beginning to appear increasingly unlikely she'll ever reach that plateau in the context of "Girls."

"The Walking Dead" returns this Sunday, and everyone in the media wants a piece of the show. That's not uncommon with a major hit, and in the cable universe, hits don't get any more major than this.

The problem is when it comes to talking about "Walking," the first question everyone has to ask right now is, "What's going on with the changing showrunners?"

Frankly, one could give AMC a bit of a pass when the writer-producer who developed Robert Kirkman's comic, Frank Darabont, was surprisingly ousted after season one. But now that the guy who replaced him and kept the ship smoothly running, Glen Mazzara, is also leaving, it's starting to look like AMC is the one with a problem when it comes to "Dead" heads.

Even without knowing all the particulars, if nothing else AMC appears guilty of violating the simplest rule of showbiz -- namely, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Admittedly, most fans of the show are going to watch regardless. But thanks to social media producers possess a higher profile than they might have in the past, with a more direct line to the loyal core audience. And while Mazzara has consistently taken the high road in interviews, that hasn't stopped his friends in the creative community, like "Sons of Anarchy's" Kurt Sutter, from blasting away at AMC for their perceived lack of gratitude. (To be fair, it doesn't take a lot to push Sutter into blast-away mode, but in situations like this, he's a good friend to have.)

Moreover, "Walking Dead's" value goes beyond just ratings, having provided AMC valuable leverage in its protracted negotiations with Dish Networks over dropping the service.

For AMC, the coverage has cast a shadow over what should be a triumphant victory lap, and set the network up in contrast to FX, whose topper, John Landgraf, was recently the subject of a very flattering New York Times profile regarding how much latitude he gives to the network's talent.

As noted, it's hard to imagine many of the millions eagerly awaiting "Dead's" return will fret too much about who's running the writers' room. But in the industry, perceptions about friendliness toward the creative process do matter -- and if treating showrunners like "The Expendables" starts to look like a pattern, like a few zombies I can think of, it can come back to bite you.

To be fair, Bill Walton wasn't really trying to make a point about poor attendance. The former UCLA and NBA star was needling UCLA basketball coach Ben Howland during Thursday's nationally televised game against Washington, criticism the player-turned-analyst has leveled with some consistency during recent telecasts.

Still, there was something galling about Walton pointing out that the arena was half-empty, when one reason that was probably true -- especially near tip-off time -- was because the game started at 6 p.m. PT to accommodate ESPN's schedule.

As I wrote previously in a piece for Foxsports.com, the start times for sporting events are almost as secretive now as the College of Cardinals. When I received my UCLA season basketball tickets, many of  the games were "TBD," being so kind as to let me know the day, without any hint regarding the time. The situation in football is even worse.

The reason for that, obviously, is television, and the way sports leagues dance to the networks' tune -- especially a powerhouse like ESPN -- by letting them pick and choose which games they want, and when. As a consequence, several UCLA games this year played during the week have started at 9 p.m. -- a little late for some folks on a school night -- and others, like Washington, at 6.

Now, if you're living in a town with population of 40,000, that's less of an issue. But if you can afford the steep freight for UCLA basketball tickets, you probably have a day job, and getting anywhere in Los Angeles by 6 p.m. is not always that easy.

While I wouldn't expect Walton -- who, again, had a clear objective in citing the lousy turnout -- to put such matters in context, it is irritating to realize paying fans for sporting events are essentially hostages to TV's schedule, as opposed to being able to plan a Saturday, God forbid, more than eight days in advance.

Quoting from my earlier column:

The real issue, though, boils down to not knowing when a game you’re planning to attend is going to start. Beyond sports, in fact, it’s hard to think of another form of entertainment where you’re asked to block out an entire day when purchasing tickets.

Oh, you want to see the new comedy “Dinner for Schmucks”? Sure, it’ll be this weekend, just plan on being available for the noon, 3, 6 or 9 p.m. showings.

Not that griping about it will change anything. But for somebody on ESPN to bitch about a late-arriving or small crowd for what amounts to a Thursday matinee? Now that takes some real balls.

Fox has gotten into a rather interesting (and some would say annoying) habit of trying to change series in midstream -- renewing them, but then engineering pretty dramatic shifts, usually in an effort to make them more female-friendly.

It didn't work, for example, with "Human Target," as I've previously lamented, or with "Breaking In," the Christian Slater vehicle.

Undaunted, Fox has once again tinkered with a marginally rated show, "Touch," starring Kiefer Sutherland. While I had problems with the show's debut last season, the new run, which begins Feb. 8, takes the show in a markedly different direction -- much closer to a "24"-like serialized thrill ride than the up-with-people, we're-all-connected episodes of the maiden flight.

The show has also added Maria Bello (never a bad thing) as a series regular, playing a woman whose daughter -- like Sutherland's mute son -- has a strange next-evolution gift, allowing him to connect numbers in unexpected, near-mystical ways. There's also an investigative website staffed by a former Los Angeles Times reporter to offer the pair assistance, as they try to tackle a shadowy corporation that appears to be attempting to harness and exploit the kids.

The new version (which kicks off with a two-hour episode) hews much closer to territory series creator Tim Kring mined with "Heroes," with some of the strengths in terms of what amounts to the kid's super-power, and more of the weaknesses.

Fox has lowered expectations by bringing the show back scheduled on Friday nights, but once again, other than wanting to stay in business with the high-profile talent involved, it's hard to discern why the new-look "Touch" should be expected to fare any better in terms of the numbers that really matter than the old one. (It's been reported Bello won't return for a third season, but based on the likelihood of that happening, such a scenario could very well be moot.)

In "24," Sutherland's character was known for slapping around prisoners, but the only tortured thing here is the network's logic -- and the assumption it's possible to keep getting second bites at the apple. Because despite Fox's apparent faith in its ability to "fix" shows, reaping any benefits from this sort of tinkering requires an awfully delicate touch.

Even for an event as media-saturated as the Super Bowl, this year’s game offered unusually meaty, cinematic storylines.

The brothers Harbaugh, Jim and John, going head to head, obviously; but also Baltimore, back in the football spotlight decades after the Colts abandoned the city most people in TV think of as “The Wire”-ville; and even the guy from “The Blind Side,” completing his storybook, movie-embellished journey.

They still had to play the game, though, and that was when the XLVIIth edition of TV’s sports-and-advertising orgy got weird, with an extended blackout that exposed the CBS Sports crew's shortcomings as they vamped to fill time and unsettled the whole evening. Fortunately for all concerned -- except perhaps the folks on "Elementary," which didn't kick off its post-Super Bowl episode until after 11 p.m. ET -- the San Francisco 49ers roared back, keeping the outcome in doubt until the final moments.

As for the advertising part -- which is all casual fans seem to care about -- as usual, Budweiser cast the biggest shadow, and laid one of the bigger eggs while producing perhaps the most touching spot of the day. Sure, those Black Crown bottles are kind of cool-looking, but I'm still not sure Budweiser is the name anyone thinks of when looking for an upscale brew. An extension of the Bud Light "Superstition" campaign (with Stevie Wonder) fared considerably better, but it was a Budweiser ad featuring a horse breeder reunited with a Clydesdale that put a sizable lump in your throat.

For Variety's purposes, much of the focus is invariably on the movie ads, even if it's often difficult for them to stand out, since there's only so much one can do with a cut-down trailer; and the host network, in this case CBS, which aside from saying "We're No. 1" over and over again, promoted the hell out of its shows, and aired a "2 Broke Girls" "spectacular" that managed to be almost as annoying as the show often is. On the flip side, there was a fun football-themed spot for "The Big Bang Theory," and the chance to remind people "Rules of Engagement" is back, assuming anyone noticed it was gone.

In terms of the movies, here are some knee-jerk reactions, in the order shown:

"Oz the Great and Powerful" (Disney): Certainly conveyed an epic scope that made it look like more than a kid's movie, which should be a hurdle the title has to overcome. Plus, it's out in early March, which means the spot is a little closer to release than some of the spring and summer movies. (Actually, I was waiting for the ad to say "We promise - Not 'John Carter,'" but you can't have everything.)

"Fast & Furious 6" (Universal): While I have no desire to see it, they blow shit up real nice.

"Star Trek: Into Darkness" (Paramount): The idea of threatening a future Earth caught my attention, but I wish the spot had been a little less hectic. Sometimes a little less can be more. Not that "Trek" fans won't be giddy, but the goal is to win over some folks who don't have an Enterprise replica in the spare bedroom.

"Iron Man 3" (Disney/Marvel): The best movie spot of the day, hands down. Focused on one jaw-dropping moment, and actually got me excited about seeing the movie, which is impressive, since I still haven't forgotten how much I disliked the first sequel.

In terms of the best spots, aside from the Clydesdale commercial, those with an emotional hook tended to play best, including a Jeep ad for returning soldiers and their families; and a Dodge Ram tribute to the heartland using a Paul Harvey reading. Big slapstick frequently rates well in surveys, but the only ones that really tickled me was the "Got Milk?" ad featuring the Rock ignoring all kinds of threats while going to get milk for the kids; and a Mercedes spot, in which the Devil (played by Willem Dafoe - a good bit of casting) offers a guy the car and all that goes with it, before the fellow realizes he can afford the ride on his own.

Other spots that stood out include Audi (the kid gets courage from dad's car), Cars.com (the adorable wolf puppy and its protective mom), the second Doritos ad (where dad and his friends play dress-up with the young daughter), Calvin Klein (beautiful male bodies to look at, if perhaps not the best image to present while people are scarfing down thousands of junky calories), Samsung (a bit with Seth Rogen and Paul Rudd would have been funnier if it hadn't dragged on so long), Kia's "Where do babies come from?" bit, and a Coca-Cola spot that mixed all sorts of movie genres in a big desert chase scene.

As for those advertisers who would have been just as wise sitting out this year's game and saving their $133,000-per-second investments, here's a partial roster: GoDaddy twice (first yuck, then yawn), M&Ms, Hyundai, the first Doriitos, Pepsi Next, Oreo (a fight in a library to show off stunts), Toyota (looks great, but nothing to do with cars), Volkswagen (sorry, that one just annoyed me), and Axe Apollo (ditto).

And the absolute worst spot of the day: Mio Fit, a sports drink, featuring Tracy Morgan. Not that I would have consumed it before, but trust me, I never will now.

Of course, I suspect a lot of people who work at CBS Sports and the Superdome could use a considerably stiffer drink right now. On the plus side, they're in the right town for it -- assuming the lights stay on.

CBS has to be breathing a huge sigh of relief. It's Super Bowl party was starting to look like a huge dud. Baltimore took a 28-6 lead on the first play of the second half. Then the lights went out -- literally -- triggering a 35-minute delay.

Fortunately, the 49ers came roaring back out of the break. Nothing keeps viewers tuned in and engaged like a close game, even if the use of this enormous platform to showcase the first-year series "Elementary" has been dealt a serious blow, inasmuch as it won't begin probably until after 11 p.m. ET. Viewers will gradually start clapping off their sets.

Still, if the delay showed anything, it's how ill-equipped sportscasters often are when it comes to dealing with anything that isn't about the game. Forced to vamp to kill time, all the CBS studio crew could do was replay the first half highlights, and debate who might benefit from the stoppage. They might as well have replayed Beyonce's halftime show, which at least had a bit of spark and sizzle to it. (Incidentally, I honestly didn't know there were that many back-up dancers in all of America. We should start exporting them.)

Like I said, the good news -- especially for CBS -- is we're back to this being a football game. Because when it briefly became a news story, the network's football gang showed just how out of their depth they are.

Much has been done in recent years regarding the modern barons of Silicon Valley, from "The Social Network" to the TNT movie "Pirates of Silicon Valley" to the upcoming movie "Jobs," which screened at Sundance, to a possible HBO series from Mike Judge.

Considerably less attention, however, has been focused on the early days of the tech boom. PBS' "American Experience" seeks to address that gap with "Silicon Valley," a 90-minute documentary premiering Feb. 5 that explores the roots of the digital explosion, from the "Mad Men" era through the Moon landing and into the early 1970s. It's interesting stuff if, as assembled, a little wonky and flat in places.

The most fascinating part of the doc, frankly, is marveling at how quickly we got from there -- when transistors were introduced and computers the size of a room -- to here, with one the size of a credit card in practically everyone's pocket.

As "Silicon Valley" makes clear, we owe much of that evolution to Robert Noyce, the genius who designed the integrated circuit -- which played a pivotal role in the U.S.'s Apollo space program -- and went on to form Intel, where the invention of the microprocessor paved the way for the digital age. Much of the story unfolds through Noyce, described as "a physicist with a brilliant mind and the affability of a born salesman."

There's also plenty of corporate jockeying and egos -- particularly within Fairchild Semiconductor, where the explosion of brain-power under Noyce wound up spinning off a hundred different companies. Each key player experienced what's described as a "killing dad" moment, as every major innovation undercut a previous employer or colleague.

Beyond the tech talk, which can become a little numbing unless you're really into that sort of thing, there's the big business and venture capitalism surrounding all the technology, and some general color about how everyone hung out at the same bar with "a lot of hanky-panky going on," as one Valley-ite recalls. Fortunately, "Mad Men" has already taught us people still liked sex in the age of skinny ties and white shirts.

"Silicon Valley" essentially culminates with the formation of Intel in 1971, making it ripe for a documentary sequel, as well as its own dramatic retelling. For anyone looking for a little perspective on how the Northern California tech enclave came to earn its reputation, it's worth tuning in. Although if you wait a day or two, I'm sure you'll be able to find the whole thing -- or at least the best parts of it -- available on your iPad.

Take that, dad.

Variety has already reviewed Alex Gibney's documentary "Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God," chronicling years of child molestation that went ignored or was swept under the rug by the Catholic Church.

Still, the debut of the 107-minute film Feb. 4 on HBO -- coming on the heels of revelations regarding the Archdiocese in Los Angeles and the punitive steps taken against former Archbishop Roger Mahony -- could hardly be more powerful or timely.

Gibney, who uses a pedophile Milwaukee priest who preyed on boys at a school for the deaf as his foundation for the story, has essentially done for the church what he did for Enron in "Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room." My only quibble would be in the early going when he uses recreations with a slasher-movie feel to help convey the dread the boys (now old men) faced at the hands of Father Lawrence Murphy, who was allowed to continue his activities virtually unchecked until his death.

While I understand Gibney's intent, with all the available video and the raw power of the first-person testimonials to illustrate his story, it feels unnecessary -- and heavy-handed. (It is also unusual for HBO, which, admirably, generally avoids such techniques.)

Beyond that footnote, though, "Mea Maxima Culpa" meticulously chronicles how the church sought to sidestep law enforcement and "treat" such priests through prayer and reassignment, seemingly more concerned about the perpetrators than their victims. In that respect, the church's deficient sense appears to have been a kind of institutional blindness, one that went all the way to the current pope, Benedict XVI, who prior to his elevation took charge of investigating these cases. (For further context, I'd recommend Frank Bruni's recent column about the church in the New York Times.)

As my colleague Justin Chang stated, Gibney has woven "a uniquely devastating account of priestly pedophilia into an excoriating indictment of the entire Vatican power structure." That it is -- which is perhaps why I felt compelled to lend one more voice to the chorus, urging people to watch a project that, despite its flaws, deserves to be seen -- and heard.

The one-hour series finale of "30 Rock" -- which airs Thursday -- contains one of those great inside, self-referential jokes for which the show is known, with a network executive pointing to the word "quality" on a list of "TV No-Nos."

No doubt, "30 Rock" can derive some consolation in having survived long enough to craft an exit plan, despite bearing the dreaded "quality" label. The show signs off with Tina Fey having established a movie career, Emmys in its portfolio and on its own creative terms, despite never having qualified as a "hit" ratings-wise.

Still, the circumstances surrounding the show's birth were always more interesting to me than the show -- highlighted an anomaly that says programs about TV generally don't generate widespread interest, representing a "niche," which happens to be another one of the words on the "No-No" list.

As I noted when "30 Rock" hit its 100th episode a couple of years ago, the decision to launch two backstage series about TV shows on the same network in the same season, "30 Rock" and Aaron Sorkin's "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," seemed seriously misguided at the time. And because Sorkin's show had the superior pilot (before pretty quickly losing its way), I gave that a slight edge in terms of survival prospects. Shows you what I knew.

Still, just as Sorkin discovered with "SportsNight" and more recently "The Newsroom" (or HBO learned with "The Larry Sanders Show," and later "The Comeback"), there are only so many people who yearn to see a series that pulls back the curtain on TV's arcane internal machinery.

What's changed, mostly, is the fact we have become much more of a niche world, allowing something like Showtime's "Episodes" to be embraced by enough people (and perhaps more significantly, enough award voters) to sustain it with a tiny pay-cable audience, or HBO's "Entourage" to live on in movie form. That was a luxury "30 Rock" didn't enjoy on NBC.

As for the final episode, without spoiling anything, the last hour reflects what I wrote two years ago: The series "isn't the great show that NBC's comedic standard-bearer 'The Office' has become, only truly approaching greatness when Baldwin's onscreen -- the very model of a modern network weasel."

The finale earns points for ambition and nostalgia. There are the obligatory celebrity cameos, some very clever lines, a nifty callback to the pilot, and a kicker that exhibits a real love for television a lot of the audience probably won't understand it. But the whole thing is a little too precious and yes, weird -- frittering away too much time on the supporting players (another quibble of mine) before getting to the really good stuff.

By any measure, "30 Rock" beat the odds, avoiding the fate that befell, say, "Arrested Development." (Oh wait, that's coming back too? Seriously, doesn't anything stay dead these days?)

It's just that watching the last hour, all I kept thinking was, "Not bad. But left to its own devices, I wonder what a seventh-season finale of 'Studio 60' would have looked like?"

Forget for a moment the three guys positioned opposite each other by the Warner Bros. "bake-off" to replace Barry Meyer, and consider the competition's biggest loser: Time Warner CEO Jeffrey Bewkes.

The inevitable day when Bewkes had to designate a successor to Meyer has finally arrived, and it's Kevin Tsujihara, the head of the home-entertainment unit, edging out TV group topper Bruce Rosenblum and film chief Jeff Robinov.

Whatever the merits of the decision, the logic and process governing how it was made seems to have been inadvertently designed to inflict maximum damage on the stability of the studio, and to make Bewkes look indecisive.

Not only did the very public, protracted scenario turn the candidates into politicians as well as executives, but it virtually ensured heightened tension in its aftermath. It also fueled speculation within the industry and among journalists (see the Los Angeles Times piece in November), while Warner Bros. officials could do little more than privately spin and fume.

Why? Because by essentially saying he couldn't make up his mind -- that the three members of the "office of the president" he formed were either too close in abilities or too unproven for one to stand apart and take the reins -- Bewkes made it a given the also-rans would be perceived as being in play to leave.

Might that have happened had he clearly designated an heir at the outset? Sure, but the drawn-out absence of a choice turned the studio into its own version of a reality competition show, as people became preoccupied by who would outlast whom.

Is Tsujihara the right guy? Frankly, probably any of the three would be fine, but in this context, it hardly matters. If Bewkes wanted to look like he was being deliberate and thoughtful, he outsmarted himself. And instead of stabilizing matters, announcing a winner of the "bake-off" has only managed to turn up the heat in the Warner Bros. kitchen.

Warner Bros. and DC Comics opted to maximize the mileage from "Batman: The Dark Knight Returns" -- their adaptation of Frank Miller's groundbreaking graphic novel -- by splitting it into two parts, each running around 76 minutes. The first came out in September, but as readers of the novel know, the best stuff came in the second half.

Enter "TDKR Part 2," which hits stores this week, and doesn't disappoint on any level. This is, quite simply, the best animated superhero movie since DC and Marvel began churning out these PG-13-rated titles, aiming at the fanboy market as well as older kids and teens.

Featuring Peter Weller as the voice of Batman, Michael Emerson as the Joker (brilliant casting, that) and Mark Valley as Superman, the second half finds the middle-aged Batman once again facing off against the Joker, while the forces of a corrupt society and administration dispatch their champion, Superman, to stop the vigilante. The result isn't quite as bracing as the original book was when released in the 1980s -- charting a path for the character that culminated in Christopher Nolan's trilogy -- but it's pretty damn close.

Even in today's Golden Age of live-action comic-book movies, this sort of fidelity to the source material wouldn't be possible in any medium. (Zack Snyder tried, for the most part, with "Watchmen," which simply didn't translate very well beyond the midnight-show contingent, although he fared much better with his adaptation of MIller's "300.")

Warner Bros. deserves considerable credit for giving its animation team the latitude to do these projects with such a steadfast focus on the end user -- and specifically, those who don't need to be explicitly told references to "Oliver" and "Hal" mean Green Arrow and Green Lantern, respectively.

Then again, given the Warner-DC connection, it's sort of the ultimate in synergy, including a very appropriate vocal cameo by Conan O'Brien (employed by TBS, another part of the Time Warner empire) as a talkshow host with the very bad idea of having the Joker on as a guest.

However the studio justifies it, keep 'em coming (and kudos to director Jay Oliva and writer Bob Goodman, who handled the adaptation). Because in terms of superheroes and the often-perilous leap from page to screen, "Part 2" is second to none.

The History channel (or as I call it, the Occasionally Historical Channel) just sent out the first five episodes from "Vikings," its new dramatic series, which will premiere in March.

While I haven't watched them yet, the title and packaging got me thinking about "The Vikings," the 1958 movie starring Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis, which, to my surprise, a lot of people around my office had never seen.

If you haven't, it's worth checking out, as much for its failings as its merits, or the fact Douglas and Curtis were reunited a few years later in the classic "Spartacus," where they also engage in a memorable sword fight.

The movie is hugely soapy and crazily violent, with both of the key characters experiencing major injuries (an eye, a hand) before it's all over; Ernest Borgnine fabulously chews through scenery as the Viking leader; and Janet Leigh (looking about as good as she ever did, which is saying something) plays the woman both of the leads want. But it's a ton of fun, an old matinee-style lark like they don't really make anymore; and it has a sensational score by Mario Nascimbene, which I've been humming since the damn DVD arrived.

While I'm not sure whether it's authorized, the whole movie appears to be available on YouTube, but you can find the introductory segment -- where Douglas' character and other Vikings memorably dance on the oars of their boat -- here. (As a footnote, I had a chance to interview the director, Richard Fleischer, more than 25 years later when he directed "Conan the Destroyer," and he patiently endured a lot of questions about his earlier movies that, as I recall, never made it into the actual story.)

As I was surfing for clips from the film, I noticed someone online joked that it seemed like "The Vikings" was on every Saturday when he was a kid, which is sort of my memory too.

It's a happy memory, mostly. But I'm hoping that sharing it will at the very least get the damn theme out of my head.

Katie Couric's big "get" with Manti Te'o aired Thursday, and just to get the obvious out of the way, yes, it actually really honest and truly happened, and no, he can't see Russia from his house.

As for sorting out truth from reality, that will have to wait for another day.

That's not to say Couric didn't ask many of the questions everyone wanted to hear on "Katie," her syndicated show. But she left out a couple of very important ones, and failed to disclose the fact she and the Notre Dame football star at the center of the girlfriend-doesn't-exist controversy share the same publicist, which seems like a small thing, but nevertheless counts as a significant oversight.

Given how much of Te'o's story strains credibility, Couric was dead on when she asked, "Didn't you think that was a little weird?" and, later, in regard to his Heisman Trophy hopes and all the attention coming his way, "This story was working for you." She also asked if Te'o had concocted a fake girlfriend to hide being gay (he insisted he isn't), which, given the stay-in-the-closet mentality of team sports, has been raised in various quarters.

So where did Couric slip up? By not going after the institutions in all this which are the most interesting -- starting with Notre Dame. What did Te'o tell his coaches and school officials, and when did they know it? What did they counsel him to do? Was the school worried about being embarrassed, especially after (presumably) helping promote his sob story?

Moreover, what about the news outlets who bought it all hook, line and sinker? Couric aired a taped piece to open the show, but that made virtually no mention of how gullible sports journalists had been in perpetuating the lie, whoever was behind it.

Granted, this was daytime TV, not ABC News (or even ESPN), but if Te'o really is just a college kid who got duped and scared -- destined to become a punch line for as long as the story lasts -- what about the university? College football is a huge business, and the school was pursuing a national championship. Did they worry about raining on their parade, before Alabama got around to raining on it for them?

While some of her journalistic chops were on display, Couric tailored the interview to the venue. Yes, she got everyone to cry, but beyond what did you know, it was more about, "How did you feel?"

Couric had her shot at one of broadcast journalism's premiere chairs when she anchored "The CBS Evening News," but she's playing a different game now. And from that perspective, while her interview advanced the Te'o story, it also underscored how TV journalism has been thrown for a loss.

I've watched the second season of "American Horror Story," subtitled "Asylum," with considerable interest. Not because I've enjoyed it, but because I keep looking for clues regarding what others appear to be seeing in (or reading into) it.

Yes, there's a terrific cast, a cool look, a lot of homages to old movies. You even got to see a revisionist take on "The Children's Hour," where the lesbian character in the 1960s, here played by Sarah Paulson, isn't such a victim.

Strip away the window dressing and the accolades, though -- including a mystifying spot on the American Film Institute's 10 top TV shows of the year -- and the series is empty and nihilistic, characterized mostly by its incoherence. And the finale premiering Jan. 23 is no exception, despite its efforts (no spoilers here) to call back to earlier episodes and tie up some (emphasis on "some") of the loose ends.

More than anything, "AHS" reminds me of the later seasons of series creator Ryan Murphy's "Nip/Tuck," a series that started with enormous promise and pleasures and eventually descended into unpleasantness and shock value, sex and violence for its own sake. Only in this case, Murphy (and co-creator Brad Falchuk) simply skipped the satisfying part.

Frankly, I'm not surprised something like the Golden Globes -- which is always drawn to movie stars and shiny objects, especially on TV -- recognized the series, or that talent like Jessica Lange savored being served up such over-the-top material. What I can't fathom is why so many bought into the lazy use of historical figures -- not to mention the Devil, Nazis, space aliens and the Catholic Church -- as an excuse to indulge in titillation primarily for its own sake.

Amid the mish-mash, "AHS" often felt unnecessarily provocative, a bit like putting a battery on its shoulder and daring the Parents Television Council to just try and knock it off.

Not to support the PTC -- this is made and scheduled for adults -- and the show was successful enough by FX's standards. That said, the producers didn't lie when they titled its season finale "Madness Ends." And while I don't expect sunbeams and roses from any future editions, would a bit more narrative coherence be too much to ask?

In my contribution to Variety's special report on media and violence, I discuss two unwitting elements movies and news introduce to the problem: Creating the perception of a scary world, which makes more people feel like they need a gun for protection; and "Dirty Harry" syndrome, where, as the NRA so eloquently put it, all it takes to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun -- even if said "good guy" is just an ordinary citizen.

The blog Talkingpointsmemo, however, has an additional facet that is worth noting -- what a reader refers to as the "'Red Dawn' Fantasy," citing the 1980s era (and since remade) movie in which a group of plucky Americans defend themselves from foreign invaders.

Quoting from the site: If you ask those who insist they must own one or more assault rifles and semi-automatic pistols with high capacity magazines, the answer you’ll hear over and over again is: I want to be ready to defend America against the Commies, the terrorists, the immigrant invaders, the United Nations, and yes, even the government of the United States of America. That’s the Red Dawn fantasy.

As someone who once had a guy in Valdosta, Georgia, tell me how he needed his guns to fight off the government or terrorists, I think they're on to something there. (Valdosta -- with a population of 56,000 -- seems like a less likely target than Los Angeles, but I sensed pretty soon trying to reason with him wasn't going to make either of us any happier.)

Of course, to hear the most ardent 2nd Amendment advocates tell it, the need for guns right now includes the ability to overthrow a U.S. dictatorship, which is certainly ambitious, given that even AK-47s are no match for tanks, missiles and nukes, which is a point "The Daily Show" also made in its brilliant coverage of the issue since returning from its holiday break.

The point is there is all sorts of mythology and romance surrounding gun ownership, much of it stoked -- in some ways subconsciously -- by the very media the NRA has targeted as a cause of violence in society that merits more attention than guns.

As I stated the first time around, the media are a factor. It's just not in the way many people like to think.

Now here's a thought: Did Lance Armstrong really want the biggest possible audience to see his confessional, "Yes, I doped" interview?

The Oprah Winfrey Network was not surprisingly eager to tout the 3.2 million people who watched Winfrey's interview with Armstrong on Thursday night, per Nielsen estimates, which rose to 4.3 million if you included a rebroadcast that immediately followed.

Per OWN's press release: "Thursday’s interview (9 p.m.) was the second highest network telecast to date garnering 3.2 million total viewers, posting strong triple-digit growth across the key demos versus year ago numbers (+855% W25-54, +931% total viewers). The second airing (10:30 p.m.) earned an additional 1.1 million viewers. OWN’s top telecast is “Oprah’s Next Chapter” featuring Whitney Houston’s family (March 11, 2012; 3.5 million viewers)."

Yet beyond the question of whether Winfrey was as tough on Armstrong as a more traditional journalist might have been (for what it's worth, I thought she was fine), what would the audience have been if Armstrong had sat down with "60 Minutes" or "20/20?" Hard to say, but my guess is -- even with the distraction of Notre Dame's Manti Te'o sucking up some of the sports-scandal oxygen -- that the tune-in would have been four or five times that high.

Now, it's possible Armstrong wanted to get his confession out in a venue where he would appear to answer all the questions while somewhat muffling the breadth of the coverage. Admittedly, there was no way this wouldn't be big news -- just witness all the other news outlets drafting off the OWN telecast, running their own interviews with other figures in the case -- but it almost certainly didn't attract as many eyeballs as it would have on a larger network. And I suspec the number for Friday's part two will be significantly lower.

So ... did Lance Armstrong dope his own TV interview? If so, man, this dude is sneaky even when he's coming clean.

After deciding Nicki Minaj is simply not going to grow on me as an "American Idol" judge, I spent Thursday night flipping from one interview to another. Here, then, is what a night of too much TV yielded:

If the missing ingredient in the Oprah Winfrey Network during its infancy was the lady herself, it's clear that's no longer going to be the problem. And the short-term boost -- whatever it is -- from her "worldwide exclusive" with Lance Armstrong was a testimonial to the power of the Oprah name, landing an interview that forced people in my office to ask, if only for a day, "Just where exactly does one find OWN, anyway?"

As for the interview itself, Winfrey asked all the pertinent questions, and Armstrong -- albeit with some hemming and hawing -- answered them. He lied. He threatened people who were telling the truth about him. I'm glad that's behind us, because cycling is not a sport I really give a rat's ass about.

What the hell they're going to do to stretch the conversation through a second night is anybody's guess, but if you're OWN, why not? Heck, slice it up into 30-minute segments and turn it into your highest-rated series.

Fortunately, Armstrong wasn't the only person unburdening himself on Thursday night. Elsewhere, on NBC's "Rock Center," director Paul Haggis spoke about severing his ties to the Church of Scientology, during a segment -- tied primarily to Lawrence Wright's new book “Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief" -- that accounted for half the hour.

The piece was fine, for the most part, though I was puzzled by the mention of Tom Cruise's involvement with the Church without any acknowledgement of having reached out to the actor for comment regarding some of the more alarming allegations against Scientology. At the very least, the program could have excerpted his 2007 interview with Matt Lauer, which, after all, did air on NBC.

Finally, I took refuge from the other blather by watching "The Daily Show," which opened with a terrific piece on the hysteria triggered by the Obama administration's relatively modest gun-control proposals.

Still, host Jon Stewart had "Girls" star Lena Dunham on, which -- after her Golden Globe win -- felt like fortuitous timing. And while Stewart began by broaching the idea the HBO program and mid-20-something star's success might have triggered a backlash, both he and Dunham treated the topic in a fairly shallow way, when it could have actually been kind of interesting.

Stewart can be a solid interviewer, but only when he's really engaged by the guest. In this case, he didn't push anything worth talking about, and on her own, Dunham didn't have anything much to say.

All told, it was a lot of TV. And unlike Armstrong, I got through the entire ordeal without doping.

It sounded good, at least from a promotional standpoint: A pick-from-alternative endings episode of "Hawaii Five-0," CBS' cop reboot.

The execution, alas, exposed the stunt for exactly what it was -- a gimmick, without anything to back up the idea.

The set-up gave viewers the chance to pick from one of three murderers online or via Twitter. The network would then show who was selected in the Eastern and Pacific time zones, with the other two versions available online. (The East and West each came up with different killers, and in terms of plausibility, give the edge to the East.)

Watching both, though, underscored that this was much ado about nothing -- a two-minute sequence, shot using different guest actors. Moreover, because the network had to start polling viewers about halfway through the show, there was no logical basis for choosing, no evidence to puzzle over whodunnit; it was just a stunt to see how many people could be driven to participate, and mark if the concept yielded any sort of ratings boost.

Frankly, the alternate endings idea has been around awhile. Indeed, "The Big Bang Theory" producer Chuck Lorre pitched a pilot more than a decade ago called "Nathan's Choice," which would have shot two endings (hence the title character's "choice"), showing one when the episode first aired, and the second when it repeated. The show didn't get picked up.

Social media has matured quite a bit since then, but if Monday's episode was any indication, true real-time interactivity of this sort still has a long way to go. And anyone who thinks this represents some kind of breakthrough has clearly been sitting out in the Hawaiian sun too long.

So book all three of 'em, Dan-o. But this empty exercise wasn't exactly one for the books.

Frankly, I should be the target audience for something called "Pioneers of Television," the third installment in PBS' ongoing documentary franchise about the medium. But I found myself growing slightly exasperated with the project's paper-thin approach, despite the well-chosen clips and nostalgic moments.

Coming on the heels of previous versions in 2008 and 2011, the new four-chapter run begins with "Funny Ladies" on Jan. 15, followed on successive Tuesdays by "Primetime Soaps," "Superheroes" and "Miniseries." This time, Ryan Seacrest serves as narrator, which is perhaps a tip-off to the project's vanilla-flavored tone.

The first installment is easily the least satisfying, largely because the broad umbrella offers a bit too much latitude, and the producers seem determined to include a variety of talent, eating up time that could have been allocated to longer segments devoted to true titans such as Lucille Ball and Mary Tyler Moore.

The others, by contrast, are more tightly focused, especially the soaps, which zeroes in on "Dallas," "Dynasty," "Knots Landing" and "Falcon Crest," and benefits from an interview with Larry Hagman, who died in November.

Still, the title "Pioneers," as handled in this context, is something of a misnomer, since practically no producers, writers or executives -- many of whom are happily still with us -- are included in the process. In its pursuit of star quality, the program thus excludes truly pioneering figures like "Roots" and "The Thorn Birds" producer David L. Wolper from its miniseries section, relying solely on interviews with the stars. Not to diminish actors, but when one thinks of TV's true pioneers, they're hardly the only group that deserves to be heard from or recognized.

For all that, the extended coverage of "Roots" is quite strong, particularly if you haven't seen the miniseries in awhile. By contrast, the "Superheroes" hour touches on the problem of type-casting that plagued many of the stars -- most notably "Superman's" George Reeves -- but then rather shyly tiptoes away from it.

Taken for what it is and on its terms, "Pioneers" is a breezy enough stroll down memory lane. Still, it's a shame a franchise paying tribute to TV bold risk-takers of the past -- in the less-stressful confines of PBS -- chooses, in its execution, to wind up pretty timidly going nowhere.

For the umpteenth time in the last however-many years, CBS Entertainment Prez Nina Tassler will appear this weekend at the TV Critics Assn. tour and be asked about media violence and the number of dramas the network airs that begin with a murder or chalk outline.

It's not hard to anticipate the answer. Both Fox's Kevin Reilly and ABC's Paul Lee said some variation of the same thing -- that their hearts go out to the shooting victims in Connecticut, that they are always very mindful of violence when making programming decisions, and that they welcomed a wider conversation on the issue.

Still, CBS is in a slightly unique position, if only because so many of its programs (roughly 12 of its 22 primetime hours) have crime as a backdrop.

So if you're Tassler, how do you respond? From a PR perspective, just the way her counterparts did. Yet if caught in Wonder Woman's truth-telling lasso, the answer would go something like this:

Question: Ms. Tassler, in light of recent events, have you changed your development plans at all for the coming season? And do you feel any extra responsibility because of the amount of crime you have on your schedule?

Tassler: We obviously feel we need to be responsible in the way we present things, and we're confident that we are. We have a standards and practices dept. that vets all of these shows, and our audience is clearly comfortable with them.

Q: But are you comfortable with the sheer amount of crime shows that you air? And doesn't it say something that your lineup is so heavily reliant on such programs?

NT: Well, we ... OK, the truth? We'd love to do something other than crime procedurals. But that's what our audience wants from us, so I suggest you take this up with your readers. Every time we try something outside of our and their comfort zone -- did you watch "Swingtown," which was pretty damn good, or "Viva Laughlin?" Well, nobody else did either -- they can't be bothered. Frankly, I think we deserve some credit for even trying. Heck, it's tempting to kick off "Mike & Molly" with a murder each week.

And before you say "What about the kids?," let me remind you the median age of our audience is around 55. So for the most part, no kids are watching any of these shows, unless they happen to be visiting their grandparents.

Americans love crime and justice, and the cathartic feeling good guys are hunting down bad guys. Just ask the NRA. So we keep giving it to them, which is exactly what you would do if the shoe was on the other foot, Ms. Smarty Pants.

Oh, and if you're still publishing next year when I get this damn lasso off of me, I'll be back to the customary, all-American practice of artfully dancing around the question.

It's certainly a throwback to Fox's thumb-in-the-eye past: ABC announces a celebrity diving series, so Fox rushes on a knockoff special, "Stars in Danger: The High Dive," to try making a splash (heh heh) first.

Other than the scheduling, though, the resulting two-hour program (not made available prior to its Jan. 9 airing) was pretty standard fare, featuring celebs of such limited appeal one suspects several of them would have taken the plunge to extend their 15 minutes of fame even if they weren't assured there was water in the pool -- although given his past, let's not give Fox reality guru Mike Darnell any ideas.

On top of that (and I suppose this is a spoiler if it's still in your DVR menu), "Jersey Shore's" Jenni "Jwoww" Farley didn't dive at all, having sustained an injury (uh huh) during the training.

Admittedly, diving is one of those sports that carries a higher degree of difficulty than ballroom dancing, and the Olympic tie-in should possess a touch of male appeal "Dancing With the Stars" lacks, if the skimpy suits aren't enough incentive. (At least there's a good chance Brent Musburger will tune in.)

Frankly, the show's one opportunity to strike a chord has to do with a basic thought I've always had while watching the Olympics -- namely, how does someone coax himself to not just leap off a platform for the first time, but spin and flip and somersault. Of course, the title was something of a cheat, since nobody braved the 10-meter platform, confining their heroics to the 5-meter one and 3-meter springboard.

Still, I'd take my hats off to the contestants, were it not for host Kyle Martino and teeth-gnashingly-annoying interviewer Becky Baeling positively drooling all over them. Look, "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" sisters Kim and Kyle Richards basically just fell into the pool. There's no reason to try pretending they're Greg Louganis. (Martino also referred to it as "do or dive" time, and someone at Bunim/Murray Prods. should lose their WGA card over that line.)

Lord knows what the ratings will be, but I suspect Fox hasn't done much to preempt ABC's series. Although my favorite part happened near the outset, when the "stars" dramatically tossed off their robes, then strode across a little shelf that almost made it look like they were walking on water.

Now, if the producers of either show could get someone who can actually walk on water to participate, they might have a genuine attraction on their hands.