Horror in Roanoke Evokes Memories of an Old Friend – Tragically

One of the first things I did Thursday morning (8/27/15), after the shock and disbelief and rage and outrage had fallen into place, was to call my dear friend Robin Hardin in Detroit.

I wanted to make sure "Robby-Rob," as I love to call her, was doing all right emotionally. My concern was prompted by of one of those weird, six-degrees-of-separation experiences that you never expect will stretch out to involve you personally – until it does.

Alison Parker and Adam Ward, killed on live TV. (CBS News)

You see, the senseless, nauseating murders of WDBJ-TV reporter Alison Parker and photojournalist Adam Ward and the wounding of their interview subject Vicki Gardner this week during a live TV segment in Roanoke, Va., sent America's media mob scrambling for the archives. As it turns out, the last time a working U.S. journalist was gunned down in this country was back in 2007. The victim was the editor-in-chief of the Oakland Post in Oakland, Calif., a man named Chauncey Bailey.

He was a friend of mine.

And Robin Hardin is his ex-wife.

In the torrent of reportage over the deaths of Parker and Ward, the name of Chauncey Bailey was almost certain to be dropped frequently and mindlessly by the national media. He's a human footnote, a casual point of reference. It's got to be hard enough to carry around an undercurrent of grief over the murder of an ex-spouse, an incessant pain eight years this month and counting, without having to hear his name thrown in your face every time you turn on a newscast. Some people might rejoice over the memory of an ex's demise. Robin Hardin is not one of those people.

Chauncey Bailey was a fighter – and one heck of a journalist.

Like Parker and Ward, Bailey was shot down outdoors and in broad August daylight, with the ruthlessness of Walter Palmer going after Cecil the Lion. Like Parker and Ward, Bailey was simply doing his job as a journalist at the time, investigating the finances of an Oakland business called Your Black Muslim Bakery when he was assassinated on 14th Street by a masked gunman. (Eventually, in 2011, two men were convicted and sentenced to life in prison for their role in the murder.) Unlike anyone I've ever known or worked with, however, Chauncey Bailey was uniquely, absolutely one of a kind.

He and I were contemporaries at The Detroit News in the 1980s and '90s. Away from the office Chauncey was warm, conversational, surprisingly funny. With a keyboard or notepad under his control, however, he could be as abrasive as a Brillo pad. He was aggressive, articulate and fearless, never afraid to ask the toughest question regardless of the consequences. I admired that quality a great deal.

There's a reason I gravitated toward feature writing. Some people shy away from that "going-for-the-jugular" question, fearing vicious retaliation or the bruising of feelings; Chauncey seemed to live for the moment – not so much, I sensed, to be deliberately confrontational or piss people off, but because he had a story to unearth. The truth must be told, and truth was one thing from which Chauncey Bailey never shied away.

In one legendary newsroom incident, a young News reporter named Darrell Dawsey had convinced editors to let him write a neo-hip-hop, urban oriented column called "Buckwhylin';" Chauncey thought it was demeaning, and told him so. Words were exchanged. Fists flew. At some point an industrial-sized wastebasket was used as a weapon. There they were, two brawny black men slugging it out in the middle of a newsroom that was almost entirely white. It must have looked like a prize fight. Even I felt the fallout from that encounter.

Robin Hardin, kissing her ex-husband farewell. (SF Chronicle)

Chauncey and Robin went their separate ways long ago, divided by time and distance. Yet the two remained good friends, a rarity for a long-divorced couple. I wouldn't say Robin continued to carry a torch for him, but she spoke of him often and warmly in conversation. To my knowledge she has had few if any serious relationships since. Because I knew them both well, Robin and I often recounted stories from their happier times.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, I am living proof that a man can have a close female friend who is a friend only. I have known Robin – who now, ironically, works for a television station – for going on 30 years, and we never have had a romantic interlude. Not that the thought hadn't crossed my mind, you understand: Robin Hardin is a tall, stunning, exceptionally intelligent and delightful woman. A man would have to be a fool. But God places people in your life in the role they need to play, and in Robin's life I was cast in the part of good friend. I'll never forget the look of shock and disbelief on the face of my girlfriend, Karen (who later would become my wife), when I explained our relationship the first time she met Robin, who had orchestrated a pre-dawn, three-state road trip to surprise Karen on a holiday weekend. "Well, that's a relief!" Karen exhaled. Robin was my "best person" at our wedding.

And now, with no significant movement on gun control since her beloved Chauncey was shot down in the street, two more families have to deal with soul-shattering anguish. This time, the deranged, cowardly scumbag not only snuck up to shoot his unsuspecting victims in the back, but also took time to videotape his actions so he could post the deed on social media.

Several calls to Robin's home went unanswered, which is not unusual. She is a private person, given to occasional periods of reclusiveness, and almost never cleans out her voicemail to accept new messages. I was slightly more worried than usual, however. And then, Friday morning, my phone rang. Robby-Rob.

"WHUZZUP?" I exclaimed jubilantly. We both laughed about 20 seconds before another word was spoken.

"It's been a rough week," she said, as I anticipated. "It's one thing if your relative or friend dies of an illness, or is killed in an accident. But to have someone who is killed like this, just shot and killed, that makes you part of a special club."

A club nobody should ever have to join.

'The Last Man on Earth:' The Last Show You'd Want to Watch

 

Will Forte is Phil Miller, Awash in a 10-year-old's Paradise. (FOX/Justin Althaus)

Think of all the money they saved on casting.

The very definition of the one-note gag, The Last Man on Earth, premieres Sunday (March 1, 2015) at 9 p.m. EST on FOX with a one-hour introductory episode, which is at least 41 minutes too long.

The promos proclaim this comedy is "unlike anything you've seen on television," and that is true. The question is whether that's a good thing.

It's different. It's outrageous. What it's not, as far as I could tell, is funny. I occasionally thought to myself, "Well, that's excessive" or "That's meant for shock value," but I never thought, "Hey, that's hysterical!" I strained to work up a pleasant smile.

The premise – do I even need to explain the premise? – is the title. Will Forte is Phil Miller, a fortysomething ex-temp worker (read: slacker) who appears to be the lone survivor of a devastating virus in 2020 that wiped out the rest of America's 320 million citizens. (Question to God, please: If you were to kill everyone in the United States, why would you spare Will Forte?)

He steals – well, guess it wouldn't exactly be stealing, would it? – a tour bus and criss-crosses the country looking for another survivor, emitting the longest scream of desperation ever heard on TV after he comes up empty. He spray-paints the message "Alive in Tucson" wherever he can, because that's where he's elected to settle.

He's taken souvenirs from his travels to spruce up the mansion he's chosen as his new digs. Babe Ruth autographs. Priceless works of art. Dorothy's ruby slippers. He takes cues from the Tom Hanks movie Cast Away. He talks to God, and admits having the run of the country does have its benefits. "These are Hugh Hefner's actual pajamas," he boasts to the Almighty. "Yeah. I washed them."

Mostly, though, Phil fights boredom by engaging in the kind of childish acts of destruction that would make Jackass fans green with envy. Not to mention, he now has free access to all the alcohol he can drink, and takes full advantage at every opportunity. He flashes back to his last birthday, a joyous party surrounded by loved ones, then contrasts it to this year's celebration: a single candle in a Twinkie – washed down with a bottle of $10,000 wine.

If you had free access to all booze, would you become a human margarita? (FOX)

So socially awkward is Phil that he has difficulty working up the courage to introduce himself to a shapely dress-store mannequin. (No, really.) After vowing to himself that he can keep it together despite the crushing loneliness, by the 16-minute mark of the pilot he's ready to commit suicide by driving an off-road vehicle into a huge boulder he's taken the time to adorn with a red-and-white bull's-eye. Time is one of the many things Phil has plenty of. "I've been through a lot lately, and just realized that having other people around is really what makes life worth living," he acknowledges.

Where do you go from here? This show is sad, occasionally contemplative, maybe even pitiful, all of which flies in the face of classifying it as a sitcom. You won't be tempted to join Phil in ending it all, but I find it impossible to believe you won't want to end Last Man on Earth by jumping off to another channel. There is a development about halfway through the hour that changes the dynamic significantly, but I believe you'll find it more annoying than encouraging.

Since he's really all you've got here, liking this show inherently means liking Forte. My feeling: meh. Did anyone ever really think those MacGruber sketches on Saturday Night Live were funny?

It's hard to fathom that the same people who gave us Empire also could give us this. Different silos for drama and comedy development, no doubt?

Entertainment Weekly tells us nearly 100 new series have been greenlghted for airing already in 2015. If any more of them are as brainless and unwatchable as Last Man on Earth, networks, please, scrap the process and start over.

My rating (1-10 scale): 1 click.

FOX is 'Empire' Building, a Potential Contemporary Classic

Terrence Howard: Luscious as Lucious in 'Empire' (Chuck Hodes/FOX)

OK, ladies, your attention please! FOX is prepared to offer you the opportunity to gaze week after week at Terrence Howard, he of the velvety café au lait skin and sparkling green eyes, draped in some of the most dashing men's attire currently displayed on network television.

Your vote on Empire? Greatest new show on TV? Gotcha. All right, next review!

But seriously folks, as Lucious Lyon, the suave yet sinister mogul of a music and entertainment megacorp (think Jay-Z, but good lookin'), Howard is the focal point – and, ironically, the eye candy – of Empire, the hip-hop rendition of Dallas premiering at 9:01 p.m. EST Tuesday (Jan. 7, 2015) on FOX.

Lucious knows the president by his first name and waxes eloquent on the role of the Internet in killing his music industry. However, make no mistake: it's Taraji P. Henson, his fellow Oscar-nominated actor, in the role of ex-wife Cookie Lyon that gives this show its hustle and flow.

Cookie is the straw that stirs the drink, the engine that drives the vehicle, the hip that moves the hop. She's just been released from prison for good behavior after serving 17 years on drug possession charges, it was her drug money that financed Lucious' Empire Entertainment conglomerate, and she's back "to get what's mine" – just as Lucious is attempting to take his company public. She is brutally honest, and honestly brutal.

Protect the children.

If this Empire collapses, it will be only because of the weight of its expectations. I mean, look at its name! FOX has mounted a tremendous assault of promotion and hype for this series. It has been handed a desirable, compatible time slot behind the return of American Idol. Joe Buck talked more last Sunday about its premiere than about how the Detroit Lions were getting screwed in the NFL playoff game. And whether you believe the hype or not, at least you can understand the reason why.

He's Lyon, but She's One Tough Cookie. (FOX)

Empire is the creation of super-hot Lee Daniels, basking in the glow of his celebrated work on the films Lee Daniels' The Butler and Precious. Daniels is executive producer, directed the pilot and co-wrote it with his screenwriting partner Danny Strong. He was taking no chances of having his vision altered. So much juice has he that he persuaded his Precious star Gabourey Sidibe to take a brief, sassy guest role as Lucious' secretary. (And one can't help notice that Lyon's henchman, Bunky, who could have used any comparison to voice his discontent, complains that Lucious "treats me like the butler.")

The cast is simply extraordinary. When Malik Yoba, who plays Empire's chairman of the board, is listed fifth among the opening credits, you know you're dealing with some serious star power here. No less a personage than rapper-producer Timbaland, a mini music mogul in his own right, composed the original music for Empire, and much of it is pretty sweet. One wonders, however, if the music doesn't sometimes overwhelm or sidetrack the storyline.

And what a storyline. For reasons that become clear late in the hour, Lucious feels its time to hand down his kingdom to one of his three sons. "What is this, we King Lear now?" asks one. Well, yeah, kinda, if the king could have freestyled. Lucious insists "it's time for one of you Negroes to man up" and claim the throne.

There's the eldest son, Andre (Trai Byers), the polished Ivy League grad who is most qualified to take over the business but lacks the superstar-artist image Lucious wants for his company's CEO. There's middle son Jamal (Jussie Smollett), an immensely talented singer-songwriter whose sexual orientation has caused him to be ostracized by his homophobic father. (It has been suggested that this dynamic is patterned after Daniels' own relationship with his police officer father and undoubtedly will generate dialogue about being black and gay in America in weeks to come.) And there's Hakeem (Bryshere Gray), the golden child, a hip-hop superstar in training whose pampered upbringing and wild excesses may derail his career.

Lyon cubs Hakeem (Bryshere Gray) and Jamal (Jussie Smollett) compete. (Chuck Hodes/FOX)

Whoever finally assumes control of the dynasty will have to navigate a tangled web of intrigue and subplots – as will we viewers. Sibling rivalry! Terminal illness! Drug money! Blackmail! Child abuse! Interracial marriage! Men kissing men! Murder! And this is in the first hour! Daniels will have no problem finding plotlines to pursue, but it's a lot to take in and choppy in some places; hopefully the audience can hang on for the wild ride.

A predominantly African American primetime soap opera. Tyler Perry is making it work with The Haves and the Have Nots. 50 Cent, who is almost never at a loss for something to say, is slamming Empire because its marketing images look similar to the ones for his Starz series Power? Negro, please. When a series features a strong male and female lead, it sorta makes sense to picture them together. And while comedies or dramas infused with music haven't made an impact since – well, since Glee (conversely, anybody here remember Smash?), ABC is showing signs of a breakthrough with its delightful Monty Pythonesque romp Galavant, so perhaps the timing is right for Empire to (back)beat the odds.

Here's what we know: FOX is projecting this as its biggest can't-miss hit in years, ordering 13 episodes in an era where usually eight is enough and banking on the show's big names and Daniels' proven storytelling skills to take the day. Win or lose, at least we're guaranteed a few months of great music...and staring at Howard.

On the Big Glowing Box 1-10 remote: eight (8) clicks.

Say It Ain't So, Cos. Say SOMETHING!

I waited a while to write this until the media feeding frenzy and "Me, too! Me, too!" piling on blew over.

Boy, did it ever.

Black Friday? Forget that. This has been Black Week in America. And if he hasn't already, Bill Cosby should hit his creaky knees and thank God for the blessings of timing and the 24-hour news cycle. "America's Dad" may be the only man in the country to benefit from the senseless destruction and idiocy of Ferguson, since it literally blasted him off the front pages.

Not for long, though, I'm guessing. When you've got women taking numbers to stand in line so they can hurl rape allegations at you, there's an excellent chance you'll regain the title of Public Celebrity Enemy No. 1 sooner than later. I walked through the grocery store the other day: Cosby is on this week's cover of People, Us...and the National Enquirer. Nobody wants to be that popular.

Suddenly, everybody has a Bill Cosby story. Here are a few of mine.

Out of respect, a photo Cosby approved.

There is absolutely no doubt in my head that my sense of humor, whatever it may be, was completely formed, shaped and polished by William Henry Cosby Jr. – or more specifically, by the string of 10 classic, tear-inducing comedy albums he recorded between 1963 and 1969, a span roughly corresponding to my junior high and high school years.

Here was a young, inventive comedian the same color as I, which, believe me, was not an everyday occurrence in the '60s. And, unlike Redd Foxx (who was the only other African American comic I knew of at the time), you didn't have to wait until your parents were gone to pull his albums out of their hiding place. Cosby always worked "clean," never stooped to vulgarity or innuendo, never took advantage of his comedic birthright to use his race for easy punchlines.

Why Is There Air? Wonderfulness. "I Started Out as a Child." It felt like they were coming out every other month. I would race to the record store in the little town next to the little town where I grew up, snatch up the latest LP on the date of its release, then dash home breathlessly to begin absorbing every groove. By the tenth hearing or so I had every routine committed to memory.

Meanwhile, in the other small town, my friend, Chris DeBlaey, was going through the exact same ritual. We were Cos-obsessed. Chris and I attended the same small (of course) Methodist church, and by Sunday our mental guns were loaded. You know how kids are in church to begin with...and we came armed with material.

We would sit next to each other in the service, alternating lines of Cosby's monologues, trying our utmost to break each other up. I vividly remember one Sunday night worship where our persistent snickers and stifled snorts escalated to such a volume that our pastor, Ron Smeenge, actually halted the service in mid-sermon.

"YOU TWO!" he bellowed, sounding like the voice of God Himself.  "Just what exactly is so funny?"

I wanted to shout out, "Noah!" or "What's a cubit?" using an example I figured he would understand. Instead, Chris and looked down at the floor, feigning remorse, then cut knowing glances at each other, our eyes dancing with mischief.

I learned comedic timing from Bill Cosby's albums. I studied the art of the pause, how to deliver the punch line, how bending a word or simply choosing one word over another could make a joke funnier. And since I ultimately spent a portion of my life working as a professional standup comic, I would say I tried to put those lessons to good use.

The Cosby image the media shows today, now that he is Satan.

But there's more. Maybe you have to be a young boy in his formative years with a media fixation and an identity crisis to understand how thrilling it was to have a black man starring in a dramatic television series. Bill Cosby broke TV's color barrier in 1968 with I Spy: before Sheldon Leonard made the daring decision to cast him as Alexander Scott, blacks were allowed to make America laugh but never permitted to make us think. And it was significant to me that Scott was the smart one, the thinking man's character, and Robert Culp was the athlete. That's a contrast that rarely happens even today.

*          *          *

Fast forward to the mid-80s. I'm the entertainment writer for The Detroit News and the long-gone Premier Center in suburban Sterling Heights is booking an impressive lineup of national acts. Two legends of the industry, Bill Cosby and Sammy Davis Jr., are touring together for the first time. I am, as you might expect, giddy with anticipation. But first, some background.

Several weeks earlier, Eddie Murphy made his first standup appearance in Detroit at the Masonic Temple. I was reviewing the show, sitting in a back row, and was very familiar with Murphy's outrageously blue comedic style. I was in the minority. The audience that night was largely white, people who knew Murphy only from his small body of work on Saturday Night Live. They expected to see live versions of his Buckwheat and Mr. Robinson characters; some even brought their children! I could see disaster on the horizon, and unfortunately I was right. The first time Murphy dropped an F-bomb you literally could hear jaws dropping.

Ultimately Eddie had to cut his performance short and was booed offstage. Someone actually threw a shoe at him as he stalked to the wings. He stopped, picked up the shoe and threw it back at the crowd! Besides writing my local review, I was a stringer for People magazine and wrote a blurb that appeared nationally on the magazine's back page.

Back to the Premier Center. Davis and Cosby put on a sparkling performance, and when it was over a VIP reception was thrown for them backstage. Elizabeth Roach, the venue's publicist and a good friend, asked, "Would you like to go back and meet Mr. Cosby?" I had a deadline to meet, but – are you kidding? Heck yeah, I'll go!

We were milling around backstage, waiting for an opening, and at the appropriate moment Roach walked me up to Cosby and introduced us. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes, apparently putting two and two together. "Are you the one who wrote that piece in People magazine?" he asked.

"Y-y-yes," I stammered.

"Come here."

Cosby took me by the arm, walked me over to a small table near the back of the room and proceeded to give me a 20-minute master class on his theories of comedy and why blue humor is its own worst enemy. Was I mesmerized? What do you think? In the midst of a throng of people who merely wanted to shake his hand, I was sitting face-to-face with my comedy idol who was giving me an animated lecture on Comedy 101. He was warm and passionate, the Ph.D. side of his nature clearly gushing forth. I was euphoric, living a highlight-reel life moment, one which I shall never forget.

*          *          *

As we'd prefer to remember him: Cosby Show papa Cliff Huxtable.

The last time I talked to Cosby was about three years ago, for an advance feature in HOUR Detroit magazine prior to one of his Detroit appearances. Again, he gave more than expected: a scheduled 15-minute interview turned into a 45-minute conversation, and this time he was dropping the F-bombs, trying to give me an object lesson about how blue humor was the lazy way to a cheap laugh. Mostly, though we talked about the African American community in general and Detroit in particular. 

For my money, most of his recurring themes about society today make complete sense. Young black men should pull up their pants and stop acting like inmates-in-waiting. Education is the key to escaping the downward spiral of poverty and drugs. All politicians, white and especially black, need to do more to bolster the African American community. But because of his age (77) and occupation (funny man), Cosby has been summarily dismissed by Black America as a grouchy curmudgeon talking down at us from his mountain of money. We didn't want to hear the message, so we objected to the messenger.

Now, I've said all that to say this: these last few weeks have ripped holes in my heart. Cosby has been my hero, role model and comedy icon for decades, as he has been for millions of others. (C'mon, don't be ashamed to admit it now.) I haven't even mentioned how he almost singlehandedly saved NBC in the 1980s with his most successful Cosby Show (he had several in his career), or what Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids meant to children of my generation and beyond. 

Hearing this litany of assertions is like finding out that Captain America was a Communist spy, or Judge Judy abuses her grandkids. Did he do all these horrible things he's being accused of? I don't know for certain, and neither do you. If it was only Janice Dickinson making the charges, we might not be so quick to rush to judgment; she hasn't had a purely lucid thought since the '90s. But a steady stream of women, at 16 and counting I believe, have come forward with essentially the same story.

I think a big part of it is that deep down, we want Cosby to be Cliff Huxtable, the dad we all wished we had, which is kind of like expecting Jim Parsons to be Sheldon Cooper. (Some days, I'll bet Jim Parsons wishes he was Sheldon Cooper). This just in, people: television is not reality. The truth is, nobody is all good or all bad; the backlash is so ferocious because our naivete has been shattered.

I went back and watched the video of the Hannibal Burress standup routine that rekindled all this. It was direct. It was cutting. But what struck me was that it wasn't funny, which made me question his motives for doing the bit in the first place. Did he just want to denigrate a living legend in order to elevate himself? I think it's fair to say "black man" and "rape" in the same sentence almost never brings an audience to tears. (Of laughter, anyway.) It just seemed like an odd forum for so vicious a contention.

Let me say without hesitation that rape is a horrific, odious, unforgivable offense. If America was just, there would be no statute of limitations for the crime, as is the case with murder, especially because women sometimes require many years to gather the courage to come forward and name their attacker. But there is a statute, and for these accusers it has long since expired. Why, oh why did it take so many years for all of his victims to step out of the shadows? Was Cosby's control and intimidation over them that complete? Did he and the lords of Hollywood do that good a job of keeping his sins away from the public eye, keeping them swept under the rug?

So instead the nation has turned on him like a pack of wolves. It's too late to prosecute, so they persecute. The media is opting to use the most grizzled, stubbly, unflattering photos it can find. New projects and concerts have been abruptly cancelled, Cosby Show reruns have been yanked. Meanwhile, I still can watch Two and a Half Men in syndication every night, and Charlie Sheen's myriad transgressions are a matter of public record. Heck, he boasts about many of them. Seventh Heaven is back on the air although series star Stephen Collins has admitted to molesting children. What are we to make of that?

In Cosby's case, he has been tried, convicted and sentenced in the Court of Public Opinion even though no charges have been filed against him. Now he has resigned as a trustee from his beloved Temple University, a board position he has held more than 30 years, not wishing to be a distraction to his alma mater.

Did he do it? I don't know. Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and at one point Cosby was among the most powerful men in Hollywood.

Bill Cosby has had a remarkable, multifacted career, one almost anyone would be proud to claim. Now he's a septuagenarian and rich as Midas. Does he care that his reputation and legacy have been tarnished for all time? Only he knows. I know that his only son, Ennis, was brutally murdered on an LA freeway some years ago. so it's not as though he's blithely floated through his success without having some holes ripped in his heart, too.

I just wish my hero would come forward and deny it all in the most powerful terms possible. Say something. Anything. Right now the silence hurts more than any F-bomb used for a cheap laugh. It's deafening. Nobody's laughing.

'Mulaney' Is More Lamey, Because It's So Obviously 'Jerry-Rigged'

Imitation is the sincerest form of television. Long before recycling became our national guilt trip, TV network nabobs were obsessed with going green (as in profits) by digging through piles of old series that had been even marginally successful, dusting them off and bringing them back before us with a new coat of paint and a fresh set of faces.

Mulaney's sitcom just doesn't stand up. (Ray Mickshaw/FOX)

It's a gimmick that's as old as the situation comedy format. (I rest my case.) But when a new show blatantly attempts to imitate a series that, almost by consensus, was the greatest TV comedy ever conceived, shouldn't it be held up for a special type of contempt?

It's impossible to completely like or appreciate Mulaney, premiering Sunday (Oct. 5) at 9:30 p.m. EST on FOX, because it's such a painfully obvious and pale imitation of Seinfeld – from the standup routines that used to mark Jerry Seinfeld's early episodes to the lame parodies of each member of the '90s show's Fantastic Four cast.

Am I the only one who sees this shameless miscarriage of comedy? Apparently not. In Mulaney's second episode, the protagonist's girlfriend, an alleged comedian groupie, ends their relationship and labels him a "Seinfeld ripoff" as she stalks away. Mulaney acknowledges it! In his own script! What the heck are we to make of this?

I suppose if you're going to rip off anyone, steal from the best. But why? Comedian John Mulaney, the show's namesake, seems a likeable enough fellow, impossibly thin and boyishly good looking. (Suggestion: Stay away from the skinny ties, John; they make you look even thinner, like a living hologram.) He's the golden child of Lorne Michaels, an executive producer on Mulaney, who hails him as "one of the most brilliant" people he's ever had in his Saturday Night Live stable after Mulaney won an Emmy Award for writing on SNL.

He could easily stand (up) on his own merits, create a concept uniquely his own. If this is meant to be an homage, it's too homogenized. I swear, even the refrigerator in Mulaney's funky urban apartment looks eerily familiar!

Seriously, look at that fridge! (Ray Mickshaw/FOX)

Mulaney is a struggling, up-and-coming young comic who lands a job writing jokes for a once-big comedian named Lou Cannon, who has been reduced to hosting a daytime game show called You Guessed It. (And, you guessed it, the show's name is used repeatedly as a shallow punchline.) Cannon is played, surprisingly, by Martin Short, which in and of itself is no reason to think less of him. But he's obviously there merely for name value: Short's trademark schtick, all ego and bluster, does nothing to improve the series.

At home, unlike Jerry, Mulaney has a roommate. Her name is Jane (fellow SNL alum Nasim Pedrad), and she introduces herself to us in the pilot by screeching, "I AM NOT CRAZY!" Oh, boy. She is the borderline-psycho, angry, totally unlikable Elaine. Seaton Smith, whose limited TV credits include one of my favorite shows, Homicide Hunter: Lt. Joe Kenda, is Mulaney's best buddy, a preening fellow comedian named Motif.

Smith is African American and, unlike Seinfield, it's nice to see people of color acknowledged on this show as living in a major metropolitan city. (In one episode Motif reveals he has never seen an episode of Friends, which, if you think about it, makes perfect sense.) He has the height, build and fright-wig hairstyle to represent the caramel Kramer; I don't know if Motif is intended to be a second-rate standup, but you'll wish he was as funny as he thinks he is. And the first time he bugged out his eyes to make a point, like a big-boy Buckwheat, he lost me for the foreseeable future.

Most interesting, however, is the Mulaney body double for George Costanza. Andre (Zack Pearlman) is a round, red-headed, bushy-bearded drug dealer whose every arrival at the apartment door is met with disdain by all inside, particularly Jane. He's even more socially awkward and enraged than George, who wasn't always welcomed with open arms, either. Maybe if he had come bearing drugs.... 

Mulaney is the bizarro-world Seinfeld (in keeping with Jerry's love of all things Superman), where every character is recognizable but disturbingly, uncomfortably strange. In this remake, the part of Newman will be played by Elliott Gould – yes, Elliott Gould – as Oscar, John's contentedly gay neighbor who pops in to offer advice and New York anecdotes. It's sad to see Gould's talent wasted like this; wonder if he was low on cash.

The cast of 'Mulaney' (Joe Viles/FOX)

Nothing is all bad, and there were a few moments in the episodes I saw that brought a chuckle to my lips. But I only remember laughing out loud once, when Motif gave a name to the aforementioned woman who dotes on comedians. As I recall, Seinfeld took a little time to truly translate his comedic style to the sitcom format, but Mulaney has miles to go: his pacing, his posture, his flat affect make his every line of dialogue sound like he's still trying to work a crowd at the club. It's even more glaring because his actual standup routine is inserted into every episode.

There's clearly a lot of money invested in this series. I'd be happy just to have the T-shirt concession from one large crowd scene involving a cancer walk, and Cannon's game-show set, for the relatively few seconds we see it, is eye-popping. They got Ice-T to do the show's opening voiceover. FOX thinks enough of its potential to schedule Mulaney at the end of the network's monstrously successful Sunday "Animation Domination" block, following Family Guy. But I suspect that Peter Griffin will make John Mulaney appear even more one-dimensional than he is by comparison – and nowhere near as funny.

I vividly remember many years ago chatting with Jerry Seinfeld at a TV convention the summer before Seinfeld was to debut on NBC. I noted that even at that time his show had broken new ground: historically, prime-time television frowned on allowing Jewish comedians to use their own names for their characters for fear of alienating sections of the country. "You're right," he agreed. "Years ago, I would have had to be 'Jerry O'Brian.'"

In that and many other ways, Seinfeld was and is a trailblazing, culture-changing, generation-defining broadcast landmark. To come behind it 16 years later with this cheap knockoff is embarrassing, if not insulting.

On the Big Glowing Box 1-10 remote, Mulaney –  2 clicks.

'GOTHAM:' It's Big, It's Bold, It's Brutal – But Is It Batman?

The cast of 'Gotham' (FOX)

Does America need another comic book superhero origin series?

No, of course not. But why should that spoil all the fun?

I had the same question in 2001, but then Smallville ran for 10 seasons chronicling the beginnings of a pre-adult Clark Kent. The Flash will dash onto The WB next month, surely telling a slightly different tale than TV's first incarnation of Barry Allen nearly a quarter-century ago. (Anybody here remember John Wesley Shipp?)

Oh, we do so adore our pulp fictional mythologies. How else to explain why, of the bazillion or more new shows being introduced this month, none has received anywhere close to the hype, attention or anticipation of Gotham, the latest retelling of the Batman saga premiering at 8 p.m. EST Monday (9.22.14) on FOX. The network is even running commercials profiling the main characters leading up the show's debut.

I guess my problem is, I'm a purist. I vividly remember the Tuesdays of my youth, when my buddy Goog and I would beg one of our parents to drive us to Hostetter's News Agency in Grand Haven, Mich., so we could snatch up new issues of our favorite comics the moment they hit the racks. We'd buy a pile of 'em, too, since they were only 15 cents each (yes, I'm that old), then race home to scrutinize and savor every brightly-colored panel. Super memories.

But that's so last century. Nowadays, between graphic novels, comic cons and box office blockbusters, the genesis of our most legendary costumed heroes has been continually revised and embellished to appeal to a new generation of jaded, sophisticated fans.

Yes, every Batman devotee knows Bruce Wayne's crimefighting future was sealed as a child when his wealthy parents were murdered in front of him by an unknown assailant. But in Gotham, that fact seems to be little more than the jumping-off point to launch a multitude of other background sagas.

For example, we witness the first workdays of Det. James Gordon, the cop who will be commissioner. This satisfies our Ben McKenzie jones, since his young heroic mug has been conspicuously absent from our living rooms since the demise of Southland. Obviously McKenzie plays the role closer to Gary Oldman from 2005 than Neil Hamilton from the '60s, but believe it or not he's even stiffer and more goody-goody than he was as LAPD cop crusader Ben Sherman. From the first episode, I have serious doubts he can carry this series as a central character week after week.

Ben McKenzie and Donal Logue of 'Gotham' (FOX)

His straight-arrow, just-out-of-the-military rookie is partnered with grizzled, street-weary veteran Harvey Bullock (Donal Logue), who knows all the rules and bends most of them. They fight a violent and ruthless criminal element in Gotham City, led in the pilot by new character Fish Mooney, a bat-wielding nightclub owner played by Jada Pinkett Smith. (What? Is she slumming?) Smith told Entertainment Weekly that she drew her inspiration from Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, but she looks more like she's channeling Diahann Carroll trying to do Eartha Kitt's Catwoman.

Mooney's right-hand man is the sniveling Oswald Cobblepot (the fascinating Robin Lord Taylor), who bristles at the nickname "Penguin" but more than fits the bill. Yes, Cobblepot is the supervillain-in-training; the Gotham game plan is to introduce one of Batman's signature enemies each season and chart his or her development into the baddies we love to hate...assuming the show lasts that long.

I mean, let's face it: Bruce Wayne (David Mazouz) is only 11 years old here, his lifelong trust relationship with Alfred (Sean Pertwee), the man who was the family servant, beginning the night his parents died. Unless Gotham lasts at least a decade or they write some weird fast-forward episode, there's no chance we'll ever see Master Wayne don the cowl and cape to become the Darknight Detective.

It's also slightly unsettling that Gotham City has no time or era. Sometimes it seems an exact replica of Bob Kane's original vision of the 1940s, then a scene occurs that could have happened last week. That usually doesn't bother me, but here the switching back and forth distracted my focus. Like I said, I'm a purist. I just don't share everyone's frothing enthusiasm for this latest variation of the Batman mythos. I expected, and wanted to like this show much more than I did. It didn't blow me away.

Gotham either will be an enormous hit or a monumental bomb. No in between. Pairing it with the creepy Sleepy Hollow, FOX is out to make Mondays the darkest night of the week. A dark night...but not the Dark Knight.

On a scale of 1-10: Gotham – 6.5

'Gang Related,' as in a Distant Relation to a Quality Crime Series

First of all, it is totally and completely unfair to compare Gang Related, the conflicted-cop crime saga arriving at 9 p.m. EST Thursday (May 22, 2014) on FOX, to The Wire, even though both series look at the street drug scene from both sides now (dealers and DEAers) and Ramon Rodriguez is in both shows. The Wire was, by acclamation and near-unanimous vote, one of the finest television series ever made, and Gang Related is...well, not.

This is FOX. It is not HBO. Is that the difference? I don't know. But when it comes to programming, it seems that if it's not animated or doesn't feature unknown kids singing, FOX has a real struggle recognizing the gold from the mold in selecting its prime time shows. (I'm still not totally over them dumping Human Target, Touch and The Chicago Code waaaay too soon.) Maybe that's a reason the network has brought back 24 to live another day: They're celebrating one of the rare occasions when they actually got it right.

RZA and Ramon Rodriguez give it their best shot. (FOX/Justin Stephens)

Even the name of this series can't escape tough comparisons. There was, you may vaguely remember, a 1997 motion picture called Gang Related that was noteworthy as the last film starring the late and hallowed rapper Tupac Shakur. But whatever brilliance Tupac displayed was dulled through being paired with Jim Belushi, and in looking back it's hard to tell which Gang Related is worse. Maybe it's a pick'em.

The requisite rapper in this version is RZA of Wu-Tang Clan, who plays the partner of Rodriguez's character, hotshot LAPD officer Ryan Lopez, in Los Angeles' elite, multi-agency Gang Task Force (GTF). But he implored producers to change his character, Cassius Green, from an LA native to a transplanted New Yorker to stay truer to his own roots. While he has one memorable moment shaking down a prospective suspect (literally), either RZA didn't want to act that hard or plans to claim plausible deniability when it all goes south.

Ryan was taken in as a 10-year-old orphan by one of his neighborhood's most feared and respected figures, Los Angelicos gang kingpin Javier Acosta (Cliff Curtis). Acosta trains his foundling in the ways of street life, encourages him to enter the military, then asks him to enroll in the Police Academy. No dummy he, Acosta raised his own personal mole to infiltrate the LAPD and keep him apprised of all its major cocaine raids and gang intel.

Not even Terry O'Quinn can save this. (Sam Jaffe/FOX)

And Ryan does his job very well – so well that he becomes the golden child of his other father figure, GTF leader Sam Chapel (Terry O'Quinn), who's estranged from his actual child Jessica (Shantel VanSanten), the assistant district attorney. Ryan didn't figure on falling in love with his job and his Task Force partners. So which band of brothers really has his heart and allegiance: la familia, or his thin-blue-line family?

Yes, of course you've seen this storyline before, and done better, but likely not with such heavily Hispanic overtones. In fact, on its plus side, Gang Related may be the brownest drama in prime-time history, reflecting our new American reality. The roll call of actors is filled with such surnames as Rodriguez, Hernandez, Gallegos, Rivera, Moncada, Cruz and Gomez. As gang boss Acosta (played by Curtis, a New Zealand native) menacingly reminds a torture victim, "amigo, brown is the new black."

That on-screen demographic includes Ryan's two half-brothers: Carlos Acosta (Rey Gallegos), a vicious, bloodhappy psychopath, and Daniel (Jay Hernandez), Ryan's best friend since childhood, now a lawyer determined to help la familia go straight. I really liked Curtis's work as the gang godfather, strong, stoic and equal measures compassionate and cutthroat, and O'Quinn has been the Good Acting Seal of Approval for any role he embodies since long before Lost. But O'Quinn doesn't get enough to do here, and the considerable talents of both men are so engulfed by clichéd and predictable dialogue that neither can save this series.

Can viewers root for a central character who's a crooked cop? Especially one who, while otherwise handsome, looks like he got his face caught in a Cuisinart by the second episode? (That's Mistake No. 1.) Can they get past the death of a potentially likeable and charismatic character before Thursday's pilot hour is half over? (I don't think that requires a spoiler alert if I don't tell you who it is; and by the way, that's Mistake No. 2, of many.)

The action scenes are well choreographed but perfunctory, the blood-and-guts scenes grisly but expected (although you will see a stun gun used in an exciting new way). I don't believe anything related to Gang Related will allow the show to last through all 12 of its ordered episodes.

The cast of 'Gang Related.' (FOX/Justin Stephens)

There's a lot on the line here, a lot of quality behind the scenes. The great Brian Grazer is one of the executive producers, and Chris Morgan, the man behind Fast & Furious 6, is the series creator. (You know, I never put any stock in promos that boast, "From the man/team that gave you the blockbuster hit Such-and-Such:" anybody can lay a bomb now and then.) But sadly, all the talent doesn't translate to the screen.

And as history has shown us, FOX has a quicker axe than Lizzie Borden.

On the Big Glowing Box 1-10 channel selector, Gang Related – 4 clicks.