July 2002 Archives

So NBC decided to turn over the hosting duties for September's Emmy Awards to the funny and talented Conan O'Brien instead of human Joke-O-Matic Jay Leno? Great -- but we won't be watching.

You say this year's Emmy ceremony doesn't figure to be as somber and ultimately irrelevant as last year's installment, delayed first by the terrorist attacks and then by the military action against the Taliban and maybe even because event organizers lost their deposit on the Shrine Auditorium? Everyone's entitled to live in hope, we suppose, but even if the awards show defies its basest instincts and stops just short of having all the nominees link hands and sing "We Are the World," we wouldn't be there to see it -- we'll be watching the Cartoon Network.

You think the list of nominees proves that this year's ceremony will be chock full of surprise winners and newcomers to the Emmy Awards victory parade? OK -- but try to hold back your disappointment when Frasier wins its 4,000th Emmy further ensuring the good-but-not-landmark show's place as the most honored show in history or when the casts of The West Wing and Sex in the City form a conga line up to the podium to receive their statues. As for us, we have some laundry to fold that evening.

When it comes to award shows, the Emmys are a double-dog drag, the wobbly caboose in the never-ending award show train. Less consequential than the Tonys, a show that honors the achievements of people who work in a nine-block stretch of midtown Manhattan. More square than the Grammys, which considers Jethro Tull a heavy metal band, the Three Tenors a pop group and Will Smith a greater rap artist than Public Enemy. Longer than the Oscars. More rigged than the American Music Awards. Stupider than the ESPYs. More... Well... nothing's stupider than the ESPYs. But you get our point.

In other words, there's absolutely no need to watch the Emmys, unless you're a big fan of spredetermined outcomes, passionless acceptance speeches and musical tributes to the cast of Fish. Hey, we like Fish as much as anyone, but as for the rest, we'll take a pass.

Unless... unless the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences gets on the stick this year and decides to liven up the Sept. 22 telecast. If someone affiliated with the Emmy Awards were to contact us with an explicit promise that any one of the following 20 things would happen during the course of the evening, we'd tune in with the remote in one hand and a bottle of pep pairs to keep us awake for the four-hour ceremony in the other.

1. Best Supporting Actor nominee Victor Garber eschews black-tie in favor of his Jesus costume from the original production of Godspell. "It still fits," he happily tells Joan Rivers.
2. Rob Lowe interrupts his opening number duet with Spongebob Squarepants to turn the camera and say, "No, really, can someone explain to me why I'm the only West Wing cast member not to get nominated?"
3. Ralph Nader's insurgent candidacy siphons off enough votes from favorite Kim Cattrall, allowing Cynthia Nixon to win Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy in an upset.

4. Best actresses in a drama nominees Jennifer Garner, Rachel Griffiths, Frances Conroy and Allison Janey spend the entire ceremony staring at Amy Brenneman and humming "One of these things is not like the others."
5. In a pre-show interview with E!'s Joan Rivers, Courtney Cox reveals that the sole reason she's the only "Friend" never to be nominated for an Emmy is that the Television Academy is afraid she'll bring her husband to the ceremony.
6. Winners of the technical awards categories take the more glamorous creative awards ceremony hostage. "We have the technology," Outstanding Single-Camera Picture Editing winner Mary Jo Markey says. "Fear us."
7. Whenever a West Wing cast member fails to win, Rob Lowe can be see on camera mouthing the words "Good."
8. After presenter William Peterson announces that Law & Order has won an award, a vicious melee breaks out between the producers of Special Victims Unit, Criminal Intent and the original Law & Order when all three try to claim the trophy.
9. Jennifer Aniston is recognized by the academy as Best Actress in a Comedy on the condition that a shirtless Brad Pitt accepts the award on her behalf.
10. Wolf Lake wins an Emmy for Best Theme Music, thus ensuring the series will forever be referred to as "The Emmy-Award Winning Wolf Lake" to fulfill a Biblical prophecy.
11. As the list of nominees Best Supporting Actor in a Drama are read off, the words "Dule Hill" prompt Rob Lowe to jump to his feet screaming, "How, God, how?"
12. All Drama award winners are required in their acceptance speeches to thank David Chase for producing the next Sopranos season when he's damn good and ready.
13. Debbie Allen's musical dance tribute to Dinotopia goes horribly wrong when Matt LeBlanc is crushed during the triumphant finale.
14. All Six Feet Under Emmy recipients pepper their acceptance speeches with unusually vile profanity.
15. The producers of Bachelorettes in Alaska, Big Brother and Elimidate Deluxe are all invited into a room to receive a "special" Emmy -- only one walks out.
16. Terrified presenters back away from a snarling Michael Chiklis as the balding, muscular actor accepts his Emmy in character. "You did right by me," Chiklis tells the academy. "Now, I'm going to do right by you."
17. "Ladies and gentlemen: the Emmy Award for Lifetime Achievement goes to Nikki Cox."
18. The camera cuts to Rob and Chad Lowe sobbing uncontrollably every time a winner is announced.
19. Rick Cleveland, formerly a West Wing writer and now a supervising producer Six Feet Under accepts the Emmy for Best Drama by thanking former boss Aaron Sorkin for "providing unbelievably easy competition."
20. Emmy organizers decide to save us all three hours of tedium by just giving HBO a few crates of trophies and sending everyone else home early.

Additional contributions to this article by: Philip Michaels, Lisa Schmeiser.

I've often thought that anyone who aspired to a life in the performing arts should be made to sit through Waiting for Guffman, if only to learn that few things are more deserving of pillory than someone whose lack of talent is exceeded only by the delusion that they have any. I figure a forced viewing of this film would do one of two things: it would compel a would-be performer to take stock of their goals vis a vis their actual talents, or it would warn innocent bystanders that another talentless hack would be shamelessly mugging for attention for the next twenty-odd years. Either way, the results would do more good than harm.

But after reading an article in the August 2, 2002, issue of Entertainment Weekly, I'm now convinced that it is not enough to show Guffman to the would-be crooners, hoofers and actors of tomorrow: we must also show it to the reality-show alumni of yesterday and the contestants of today. The article, which should have been titled "Reality Show Participants Whose Watch Reads 14:59," but was not, explored two rather repellent side-effects of reality shows: people who confused random selection to appear in a reality show with a divine sign that they were meant to entertain, and people who somehow think that being on a reality show is akin to winning a lottery ticket.

In the former group, we have Big Brother contestants like George "Chicken Man" Boswell and Bunky "It's Not Okay to Cry" Miller insisting that their tenure on the grim CBS summer filler was merely a preview for greater things to come. We also have Survivor alumni talking vaguely about doing something, anything that other, real actors have done, and Real World alumni admitting that the reason they chase after more, more, more exposure is because their lives are too insignificant to compare to the thrill of standing in front of a spotlight, any spotlight.

In the latter group, we have would-be reality show contestants who freely admit that they're hoping national exposure on a television show will somehow set them apart from the mundane crowd. Says one: "I don't want to live a normal life and go to work every day." She continues by revealing that she would have liked to have been a "rock star" (her words) but she has no talent, so she'll settle for being a VJ instead.

This one statement sums up precisely what is so odious about reality shows and the people who willingly participate in them. First, reality shows have completely oversold the idea the idea that anyone can be on television, because even the most ordinary and talentless person is entertaining. Second, the people who participate in these things are nurturing the impression that because they were chosen for these Skinner-style pageants of idiocy, they are somehow unique and therefore deserving of attention.

What this gives us is a group of people who, reared on People magazine, all mistakenly believe that everyone is special, but some people -- i.e. them -- are special enough to be inflicted on the national consciousness long after the reality show they're on has moved on to more exotic locations and better-looking people. They are wrong.

Reality show contestants -- and the crowds nipping at their heels -- all seem to have forgotten that there is a difference between celebrity and notoriety. At its base, celebrity is still tied into the idea that the person being showered with gift baskets, attention and softball profiles in InStyle has, in fact, evidenced some talent at some point in their life. Celebrity is in no way proportional to the talent in question -- if it were, we'd be much more familiar with Joan Armatrading than Brittany Spears, or Jeremy Piven over Ted Danson -- but it is typically rooted in recognizing that which is indeed special. Notoriety, on the other hand, is what happens to people who live in O.J.'s guest house, marry 90-year-old men, or have their penis cut off by their irate wife. You will note that the only talent required for noteriety is that of happening into the right situation at the right time.

The very act of being cast on a reality show is that of being in the right place at the right time. It's akin to buying a winning lottery ticket from the AM/PM -- you went in, took your chances on a contest, and ended up being the lucky recipient of the laws of probability. The lottery myth -- luck, combined with an opportunity open to anyone who's sufficiently motivated -- is one to which many people subscribe these days, in part because there's something comfortably egalitarian about it. Luck relies neither on hard work (which is too ordinary and ubiquitous to be appealing) nor on talent (which is too randomly granted to people, and thus raises uncomfortable questions of life's innate fairness) -- rather, it's merely the result of probability plus opportunity.

Opportunity is no great talent unto itself: in fact, the most opportunistic things in this world -- rats, infections, and mercenary soldiers of fortune -- are the ones that we try hardest to avoid. To that category I would add "reality show participants past, present and future," as they are the Hollywood equivalent of a swarm of rats. They saw an opportunity, they came running, and the only justification they have for their presence is their existence, nothing more.

Fortunately, even television requires more. Even more fortunately, Hollywood is filled with people who have worked too hard and done too many things in the service of their career to cheerfully hand over a plum job to some deluded rube from flyover country. The odds of some producer who made his bones on Murder, She Wrote being bowled over by someone's tenure on Big Brother? Tiny. People who have worked hard to get where they are tend to take a dim view of the lottery mentality.

What that aspiring reality show contestant missed in her fantastic leap from Survivor 5 to MTV VJ was the simple truth that the reason those jobs are so desirable is that they're hard to get, and the reason they're hard to get is that a lot of very talented, very motivated people want them. Fundamentally, show business is an elitist business -- as it should be. We who consume entertainment deserve better than to have our time monopolized by hacks, and it's a small comfort to know that even on resolutely mediocre shows like Judging Amy or Providence, the people who make the shows are all working like crazy. They're competing for our attention. Reality show contestants aren't competing for our attention, because they don't think they should have to. After all, didn't they already win the lottery?

The thing about lotteries, however, is that probability is ultimately the most egalitarian thing of all -- selecting at random, within a limited range of conditions. The irony of being a reality show contestant is that it would probably have been easier to have pursued fame and fortune the old-fashioned way. But just as a lottery is really little more than a tax for the math-stupid, so are reality shows little more than a tax for the lazy. Fortunately, for us, we can sit at home, smug in our elitist insistence on being entertained by the hard-working and gifted, and click the remote duty-free.

On November 5, Disney will release the full runs of Sports Night, Once and Again, and Felicity on DVD.

Felicity isn't all that surprising. I never watched the show myself, but I'm told that it had a wide-ranging fanbase who liked the show for many reasons, including the characterization, romantic troubles, and Keri Russel's kicky hairdo. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth when Felicity finally went off to college, or graduated from college, or got married, or whatever happened in the finale. I wouldn't be surprised if people rended their garments and flung themselves off buildings when they realized they were facing a world without Felicity. So the DVD release is just a logical cash-in by Disney, who are known for their cashing-in ability.

However, the other two shows together lasted a total of five seasons. Disney's stooge-network ABC put a bullet in Once and Again's brain just three months ago, and now they've turned around and decided to reward the small (but very, very vocal) audience with a DVD?

The Sports Night situation is even stranger. It lasted two seasons, and its last new episode was broadcast two years ago. Aaron Sorkin has moved on to the somewhat-more-successful The West Wing and seems to be trying to put the whole experience behind him, if you don't count the occasional recycled dialogue and plots. Comedy Central showed Sports Night reruns with impressive zeal for a few months, but eventually decided that foul-mouthed puppets were the way to go. And yet, as though an answer to a prayer (or online petition), Sports Night fans with $80 can have all the episodes for their very own.

This is part of a general trend toward rereleasing TV shows on DVD. Not only current shows like Buffy and The Sopranos are getting the treatment; following in the steps of M*A*S*H and Star Trek: The Next Generation, old classics are about to get the digital treatment. No, old classics. On August 6, The Jeffersons and Sanford and Son step out of Nick at Nite and into your DVD player.

Naturally, I view this as a very positive development. Some of my favorite shows were cancelled before their time. In fact, pretty much all of my favorite shows met criminally early demises. And now it looks like the networks are going to start throwing us niche fans the occasional bone. Who's to say where it will all end? The A-Team seems possible. How about Max Headroom? Or Misfits of Science? Heck, I bet there'd be a market for a Square Pegs DVD. That thing would sell like hotcakes.

The crazy thing is that it's hard to write a punchline here. I certainly wouldn't bet against a Square Pegs DVD. If Sports Night and Once and Again can get new lives after cancellation, there are no limits. And I, for one, can't wait. Heck, maybe someone will finally get around to giving a DVD release to It's Your Move.

One of my favorite memories of Major League Baseball's All-Star Game, non-competition division, occurred three years ago in Boston. Baseball, with the able assistance of its corporate sponsors, was in the process of assembling its All-Century team -- a collection of the greatest players of the past 100 years. To mark the occasion, the league feted many of the All-Century team finalists by having them appear on the field in a pre-game ceremony -- well, the living ones anyhow; Cy Young, Ty Cobb and Rogers Hornsby were otherwise occupied that evening.

It was a nice moment, and not just for baseball geeks like myself. The ceremony was understated, so far as these things go, and the emotions were genuine -- even the ones baseball officials didn't plan for. When newly minted Yankee Roger Clemens was introduced to the Fenway Park crowd, for example, jilted Red Sox fans booed the dead-eyed lummox as if he were an ax murderer.

But the highlight of the evening -- what made this particular moment memorable even three years after the fact -- came at the end when Red Sox great Ted Williams was ushered out onto the field. The crowd exploded, as you might imagine they would for a 17-time All-Star, .344 career hitter, two-time MVP and veteran of two wars. The All-Stars who selected to play that year's game at Fenway Park, too. All too often sweepingly derided by a certain class of lazy sportswriter as self-involved, chemically enhanced greedheads who have little to no appreciation for baseball's past, the players surrounded Williams, talking to him, listening to him, genuinely demonstrating their appreciation for all his accomplishments. It was one of those rare, unscripted moments that stick with you, a lump-in-the-throat event where those of us less secure in our emotions have to pretend like we have something in our eye or that a cloud of pollen has just wafted into the room.

I bring this up because I caught another baseball All-Star Game the other night -- this year's motto: if you like our tie ballgames, you'll love our upcoming work stoppage -- with another pregame ceremony invoking the sport's past. And as spontaneous and heartfelt and wonderful as the Williams moment was in 1999, last Tuesday's pregame festivities were forced and hackneyed and generally awful.

The Tuesday pregame ceremony paid tribute to... well... a credit card ad campaign. But the ad campaign itself focuses on Major League Baseball's 30 most memorable moments. There's a list and everything, and you're supposed to go to MasterCard and vote on the top 5 -- and presumably run up lots of credit card charges and pay usurious interest rates and keep the folks at MBNA fat and happy in these, our troubled economic times.

That last bit isn't part of the promotional material, by the way.

MasterCard's list is a curious mix of moments that seem to be the byproduct of the worst kind of committee work, in which more recent memories take precedence over older ones (only 13 memorable moments occurred before 1970?) and the desire to portray baseball as an igniter of societal and international change leads to just some head-scratching selections (Ichiro Suzuki's rookie season over The Merkle Boner, The Homer in the Gloamin', Reggie Jackson's home run off the light tower at Tiger Stadium?). Babe Ruth, certainly baseball's most memorable player only makes the list twice -- and only one of those entries involves his on-field exploits. Still, that's twice more than Stan Musial, Ernie Banks, Honus Wagner and Bob Feller, who are all MIA.

Baffling choices didn't make Tuesday's pregame ceremony an over-emotive mess, though; bloated execution did. It's like a baseball official watched a tape of the 1999 All-Star Game, turned to his cohorts and said, "You know what, fellas? We're about to toss another postseason into the crapcan thanks to our ongoing, blisteringly stupid labor strife. We've spent the last few years doing our level best to alienate fans from Montreal to Minneapolis. And half of our players could be hopped up on everything from steroids to moose tranquilizers to cough syrup. We need something like that Ted Williams moment from the 1999 All-Star Game to make everyone feel good about the game again. Only this time, let's script every minute detail to make sure we don't miss a moment of spontaneity and joy."

So what you got was narration provided by Ray Liotta, invited to the event presumably because he once appeared in movie about baseball (It good have been worse -- Freddie Prinze Jr., Tony Danza and Charlie Sheen have all appeared in baseball movies recently, and it's a pretty safe bet all three would have been available if asked). You had coma-inducing amounts of purple prose, as Liotta prattled on about baseball weaving its way inexorably through the green fields and amber waves of grain of our imagination as the glory of baseball intersects with indomitable spirit of -- and I'll quote verbatim here -- "our American nation" (as opposed to, say, our Prussian nation or our Prosaic nation or the KISS Army nation). And you had actors dressed like 1930s newspaper reporters running around on the field and people dressed in red, white and blue garb and children -- oh God, the children -- once again proving the scientific axiom that the emotional impact of an event is inversely proportional to the number of children involved.

That's not to say there weren't a few nice moments. I'm a big Henry Aaron fan, so it was nice to see the former Brave and Brewer bask in the prolonged applause of the Milwaukee faithful. Any ceremony that brings Willie Mays, Cal Ripken, Carlton Fisk and Jackie Robinson's grandson to the same ballfield can't be entirely bad. But even potential wonderful moments were rendered hollow by cosmically stupid gestures. The organizers, in their wisdom, opted to have Cal Ripken, baseball's iron man, walk on to the field, surrounded by squealing, jumping children. Same thing with Barry Bonds -- the current holder of the single-season home run record, unless it's been broken while I'm writing this sentence, was encircled by children, one of whom kept screaming loudly and robotically, "You're the best, Barry Bonds!" until the words ceased to have any meaning.

What you wound up with, then, was a giant, sprawling -- and, ultimately, empty -- ceremony that ran so long, it pushed the start of the game itself past 9 p.m. Eastern time, thus ensuring that the current generation of children east of the Mississippi will have little idea who Barry Bonds, let alone why they should scream about how great he is. Thanks in part to the epic-length pregame ceremony, an East Coast viewer would have had to stay up to just before 1 a.m. to see the game through to its conclusion -- kind of a wasted effort since the game did not actually conclude with a winner. And as in past years, Fox's exhaustive coverage of the pregame festivities did not include time for broadcasting the Canadian national anthem; the network cut away to commercial, returning just in time for pop-recording sensation Anastacia to butcher the words to "The Star Spangled Banner."

Hey, Canada, thanks for helping out on that War on Terror and all. We'd love to broadcast your anthem, but we've got product to move and girls club promos to air. Maybe next year. But don't count on it.

Fox didn't do last Tuesday's pregame festivities any favors when, as the hordes of Up With People rejects cleared the field, it cut away to footage of the 1999 All-Star Game featuring the Ted Williams Moment. Perhaps Fox was trying to draw a parallel between the two events -- two All Star games, two moving pregame ceremonies, both on Fox. But all it did was underscore how pedestrian the "30 Greatest Moments Tribute" was, how hollow and jury-rigged the sentiments attached to it were, and how children are best seen and not heard -- and when it comes to pregame ceremonies before major sporting events, neither being seen nor heard is probably for the best.

Most of all, what the juxtaposition of the wonderful, heartfelt Ted Williams All-Star Game tribute and the crummy, maudlin MasterCard-inspired All-Star travesty accomplished was to underscore the power of television. It's a powerful medium, television -- instantaneously, it can beam us images that move us, that captivate us, that inspire our imaginations. And it can do all this to millions of people at once, allowing us to share a collective moment in a way that earlier generations could not even begin to comprehend. In this way, television helps capture great memories, the kind of moments we recall with fondness years later.

And just as easily, television can ruin them.

My first thought, upon watching USA's new drama series The Dead Zone, was in the form of a question.

I didn't wonder what the show's connection with the '80s movie starring Christopher Walken was, or if the absence of Stephen King's name from the title indicated that the famed horror author had disowned this version of the characters he created in book form.

I didn't ponder the mysteries of why this series, originally ordered by UPN as a midseason replacement for this past TV season -- and lauded by critics who saw the pilot last summer as one of the more promising series coming down the pike -- got summarily dumped by executives at the troubled network (what, Special Unit 2 was more promising?).

I wasn't curious about how the series was going to be able to stick with its premise, about a quiet schoolteacher who recovers from a seven-year coma to discover that his girlfriend has married another man (who is raising the son he never knew he had), his mother has died, and -- worst of all -- he's been cursed/blessed with psychic visions that only manifest themselves when he touches people or objects. Usually shows like The Dead Zone end up falling into the old Fugitive or Incredible Hulk model of sad-sack characters wandering from town to town, solving crimes and helping others while never really helping themselves.

But no, none of those thoughts occurred to me at the time, although they've occurred to me since. My first question was much more simple.

When in the world did Anthony Michael Hall become a real actor?

Sure, Hall has had some good roles in his life -- being a wisecracking teen in the endless stream of '80s John Hughes comedies made his name. But after 15 years pass, you can't rely on Wisecracking Teen anymore. Instead, you've got to show some level of depth -- and hope that people forget that year you were a cast member on Saturday Night Live.

We can quibble about Hall's skill in imitating Bill Gates in "The Pirates of Silicon Valley." But here, as cursed psychic Johnny Smith, Hall gives the performance of his career. He brings a dignified air to a show that would probably otherwise be insubstantial.

At least so far, The Dead Zone has not resorted to killer-of-the-week theatrics that would reduce it to being CSI: Psychic Guy. Instead, it's a show that's much more about tone than it is about plot (a subtlety apparently lost on the knuckleheads at UPN) -- and that's refreshing for a show like this.

The series' second episode, featuring the hunt for a serial killer, isn't remotely played as a whodunit. Instead, it's a somewhat thoughtful, somewhat creepy piece about intertwined fate (Johnny's powers to foresee the future save one woman from the killer, but only by accidentally diverting him to another victim). Johnny's visions are the core of the show, slickly shot sequences where he foresees the future or relives the past, often in the shoes of the person who is committing the crime. In the most intriguing sequence, Johnny discusses what happened at a crime scene with his sidekick Bruce (John L. Adams) while, simultaneously, we see the killer and his prospective victim standing in the same positions on the night of the crime.

Mixed in with Johnny's psychic angst is his personal trouble: he's physically damaged from his accident and the years in a coma; Sarah, the love of his life (Nicole deBoer), is still around him, but she's now married to the local sheriff (Chris Bruno); his son doesn't even know he's the kid's real father; and his weird powers understandably separate him from the other residents of his hometown.

Most encouraging about the series is its unflinching willingness to let the story take its course, rather than getting into a same-thing-every-week rut. In the pilot, Johnny emerges from a coma. In the second episode, he solves a crime -- and makes front-page news. In the third, he deals with the ramifications of his new celebrity while proving to many that he's no fraud, but has a real gift. Where the series goes from here is a mystery -- USA has ordered a total of 13 episodes for its inaugural season -- but one would hope that a story arc is in the offing.

And one would hope that such an arc wouldn't involve the apparent villains of this series, Charles Winchester -- uh, I mean Reverend Purdy (David Ogden Stiers) -- and aggressive reporter Dana Bright (Kristen Dalton). Purdy is Johnny's legal guardian, apparently setting us up for several tiresome scenes of confrontation as the Reverend attempts to get Johnny committed to a mental institution so that he can keep control of the lucrative estate of Johnny's mother. Meanwhile, our crusading journalist seems to be the worst of cliches, the aggressive reporter who won't take no for an answer and ends up causing more harm than good. You know, like that guy on The Incredible Hulk.

Still, annoying potential villains aside, The Dead Zone is a surprise. No, not because it's pretty entertaining, airs on the USA network, and offers more style and substance than most of the basic-cable summer series out there (yes, we mean you, Witchblade).

It's because Anthony Michael Hall is a TV star, and he's actually carrying the load. Remind me again when Anthony Michael Hall become an actor? I just don't remember.

Politically Incorrect went off the air last week, and I can't seem to work up much in the way of a eulogy. Fact of the matter is, I was never much of a fan of the talk show hosted by stand-up comic Bill Maher and featuring a panel of celebrities and talking heads holding forth on everything from the Middle East crisis to Constitutional quandaries. I think it's because I never really subscribed to the three central conceits of the show: (1) that it's fascinating to learn what movie stars and famous folk think about the central issues of the day; (2) that everyone can express an opinion on any subject; and (3) that Bill Maher is a funny fellow whose talents border on -- if not regularly surpass -- genius.

That last point, I realize, is a matter of taste upon which reasonable people may disagree. A healthy segment of the population may think Bill Maher is the bee's knees, which is their cross to bear, I suppose. Myself, I could never shake the feeling whenever I saw Maher hosting his show or performing his stand-up act that the biggest fan of the man's work was right there on camera. And while one man's comedy is another's "Evening with Carrot Top," I like my comedians to have an air of self-deprecation about them, not to act like calling George Bush dim-witted or making fun of fat people is the comedic equivalent of discovering radium.

As for the other two points, the second one is true enough, so long as you add the caveat that just because someone can express an opinion doesn't mean it's particularly interesting or worthy of your consideration, as a quick glance at the Letters to the Editor section of any major metropolitan daily will confirm. And the first point is just patently ridiculous. I'm probably generalizing here, but there's usually a reason someone like Chevy Chase is making "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" instead of crafting foreign policy, and no, it's not because he failed the civil service exam.

The final episode of Politically Incorrect featured a panel consisting of Maher's favorite guests -- columnist Arianna Huffington, babbling nincompoop Ann Coulter, ex-Mamas and Papas singer Michelle Phillips and one of the former members of Kid 'N Play (Kid, I think, though it might have been Play, or very possibly 'N.) Or, as the panelists are more commonly known around the Michaels household, "You Again?," "Put a Sock in It," "Didn't You Choke to Death on a Sandwich?," and "Bwah?" The topic on this final installment appeared to be "Bill Maher -- Brilliant Satirist or Martyred Visionary?" After a free and open exchange of views, the panel agreed that he was both.

Maher, you may recall, landed in hot water last fall when, six days after 2,800 people went to their deaths, said, "We have been the cowards, lobbing cruise missiles from 2,000 miles away. That's cowardly. Staying in the airplane when it hits the building, say what you want about it, it's not cowardly." Sponsors pulled their ads, the White House made boo-boo-kitty faces, and Maher's remaining time at ABC looked to be about as lengthy as the lines at EuroDisney. Sure enough, in May, ABC pulled the plug on Politically Incorrect -- doubtlessly because those craven suits at Disney just can't stand a truth-teller.

That was the conclusion of Maher and his amen-chorus during the final Politically Incorrect, anyhow, and who am I to tell them differently, especially when no less a political authority than Barbra Streisand writes in to praise Maher for "empowering" the country. We should simply be thankful she didn't appear on the last broadcast to sing "Evergreen." And I'm certainly not going to contradict West Wing creator Aaron Sorkin who wrote a letter calling Maher's show the "victim of the dumbest brand of domestic terrorism," though I would like to point out to any young people reading us today that the effects of hallucinogens on the human brain are apparently lasting and devastating.

No, I don't want to rain on Maher's self-important parade off into the sunset any more than I want to deprive him of the free-speech martyrdom he's worked so hard to insist that he's obtained. But, since Maher left the airwaves last week by crowing that his audience "appreciates thinking outside the box -- really thinking outside the box, not just talking about it... who don't subscribe to groupthink, who don't care what crosses the line, what is not appropriate," then perhaps I will offer just one tiny, little counterpoint to the mass opinion that our television landscape is the poorer for the combined absences of Politically Incorrect and Bill Maher.

Maybe Politically Incorrect is off the air not so much because of Maher's September 11-related comments -- which, really, were more tactless and clumsily ham-handed than unpatriotic and daringly blunt -- but because his show had become a tedious bore. Maybe the show had fallen off badly since its early days on Comedy Central, booking guests with increasingly less star power and increasingly greater shrillness, exceeded only by the host's own descent into strident pomposity. Maybe "Politically Incorrect" had squandered its early promise of offering something other than another late-night talk show where the guests were on hand just to shill their latest project by becoming exactly that -- only instead of promoting "Mr. Deeds" or "Juwanna Man" or their upcoming "Circus of the Stars" appearance, they were there to pimp the same old party line or tired ideology or the latest copy of their mimeographed newsletter. I'm not really sure which is worse.

And maybe instead of patting himself on the back for mouthing a few risqué one-liners that briefly scandalized a handful of bluenoses, Maher should be kicking himself in the ass for wasting such a prime opportunity.