Thus, when the various publicity-mongering jackholes slated to appear on the tenth season of "Dancing with the Stars" finally donned sequins and descended the giant staircase onstage to the roar of the crowd, the viewing public didn't swoon so much as ogle the sequin-adorned goods disinterestedly while contemplating switching over to "24."

But some confusion was stirred up – and most publicity teams will settle for confusion, these days, given the notable dearth of genuine interest or curiosity – when Even Lysacek entered the room. Didn't he just win the gold medal a few weeks ago? Then Buzz Aldrin appeared. Didn't he walk on the moon several decades ago? What does he need from this festival of sea donkaphiles?

And what's a feisty lady like Neicy Nash from a cool show like "Reno 911" doing in a sequined sinkhole like this one? Who let Shannen Doherty in here, and how much did she pay that sweet old guy to pretend to be her ailing father who's a big fan of the show? Does Pamela Anderson have some rare form of aging sexpot Tourette's, or is that pouty-lipped head-twisting purring-kitty whiplash routine she's pulling on Damian Whitewood's shoulder aimed at stirring some long-dead spirit in the loins of the free world?

Yes, Monday night's premiere of "Dancing with the Stars" whipped up more confusion than anyone would've expected, from the comeback of "Rock Star" host and post-pregnancy-corsette peddler Brooke Burke to the unexpectedly suave hip swivels and semi-masochistic training techniques favored by Cincinnati Bengals wide receiver Chad Ochocinco. Who would've thought for a second that former demonizable sea donkerella Shannen Doherty would look lovely in her gown, then gesture her way awkwardly across the stage like a partially tranquilized farm animal? Who would've expected Doherty to sob openly after her performance, recognizing that it was Not Good, instead of scratching someone's eyes out to squelch her self-doubt? Who would've guessed that Pamela Anderson would seem so human-like in her training session segments, compared to the strange, shiny mask-face, gigantic sea of teased extensions, and repetitive sucky-cheeked Tourette's she offered up live and in person?

Confusion seems to have taken hold of Kate Gosselin as well, who, despite sporting a hairstyle that doesn't look terrible for the first time in about a decade, can barely form words or the dimmest of smiles in the company of her dance partner. She says she's insecure, then proves it on the dance floor with a performance so leaden it would give lead itself a self-esteem boost. Maybe she should've posed in the sequined dress with the pretty hair then hopped the next bus back to Pennsylvania before opening night.

But that's okay, Kate's just there to make my personal favorite, Neicy Nash, appear all the more plucky and unflappable by contrast. Neicy isn't worried about winning, after all, she's worried that so much dancing might make her lose weight. "If I lose my jiggly parts, you're gonna get it," she tells Louis Van Amstel. "I want to prove that I don't have to be the little chubby girl who stands in the back," she tells the camera later. "I'm gonna be the nice thick strong woman who stands in the front."

Thus, just as the fallen pseudo-celebrity and the second cousin of the fallen demi-celebrity have gone from being C-listers to being indistinguishable from the ranks of actual celebrities, so, too, has "Dancing with the Stars" transformed itself from publicity maneuver and desperate cash-grab to legitimate (what does that word mean anymore?) temp gig for insecure former divas, football players with excess flair, former astronauts, notorious bad mommies recovering from notorious bad haircuts, and nice, thick, strong women who stand in front. Since that just about covers every demographic in America, save for chain-smoking fried-shrimp eaters who sit in back and distracted teenagers with bad skin who text from behind closed doors, it's clear enough that the tenth season of the world's cheesiest show will be a big hit. The comeback may need to make a comeback, but "Dancing with the Stars" is sitting in the catbird seat.

 

All of which almost made the first season a little disappointing, when taken as a whole. What did we learn about Jackie by the finale that we didn't know within the first few minutes of the show? There wasn't much character development -- or much of a complete season-long narrative arc for that matter. But the real issue may be that this show is almost a comedy, but not really, because it's too dark and not funny in the ways traditional TV comedies are. The show is almost a drama, but not really, because the characters aren't fleshed out enough and the show's storylines don't end conclusively the way that a drama's plotlines would.

Considering, though, that this is a show about an efficient, effective, on-the-job addict, considering that Jackie doesn't start Season 2 either in a 12-step program or in church, repenting for all of her sins, there may be a reason we should tolerate the close-but-no-cigar style of this story. Thwarting the expectations of the modern dramedy could be part of the point here. When Dr. O'Hara shows up to the hospital on ecstasy and comes on to the new RN, Sam (Arjun Gupta), when Zoey (Merritt Wever) befriends "God," the man who yells insults at people from his apartment across the street from the hospital, when Dr. Cooper (Peter Facinelli) develops a huge crush on Jackie and Jackie tells him he's an idiot for the 50th time, that's the show's writers telling us that they're going to choose the paths that they find entertaining or evocative, standard TV storytelling be damned. And when it comes to ridiculous conversations like this one, between Coop and Jackie, you sort of have to admit that they're on to something:

Cooper: It would be good for us to spend some time ...

Jackie: What us? There is no us. I thought we got past this weeks ago.

Cooper: (laughs) Jackie, this whole "come here, go away" thing is exhausting me. I'm just ...

Jackie: But there is no "Come here." It's all go away. Go away. Just go away!

Cooper: What do I care? Try to do something nice for a nurse, you know, who's a little bit older than me, by the way.

Jackie: Ok. Thanks a lot. I'm gonna head back to work.

"Nurse Jackie" is like that funny, bad boyfriend who you know will never pop the question. Even though you'll never get exactly what you want or expect, he's just too charming and addictive to kick to the curb. Not only is Falco irresistible as the no-nonsense, occasionally aggressive, wildly avoidant woman whom we haven't come close to understanding yet, but the rest of this clown show bounces along with breathtaking dynamism, teetering precariously between giddiness, rage and existential angst. When Dr. Cooper files a complaint against Jackie to a stern Mrs. Akilitus (who thoughtfully scribbles "World's Biggest Asshole" on her pad of paper as he's talking), then he breaks down crying in her office? When Jackie's lover Eddie shows up at Jackie's husband's bar (again) and manically incites an uneasy friendship with him? These are good, tense moments. We may not laugh that much or cry that much, but if that were the whole point, Jackie would've entered and left rehab, filed for divorce, quit her job and lost custody of her kids by now.

"Nurse Jackie" walks a more subtle path than that. And really, the second season of this show feels more like the second half of the first season. The same tensions are still growing: Jackie is still addicted, Cooper is still full of love/hate for her, and Eddie is still threatening to blow her double life out of the water by exposing their affair to her husband, and Grace is showing signs of needing more help than her parents, who have a shared interest in denial, are willing to admit that she needs.

Most of all, though, "Nurse Jackie" is a show that, through the patients who show up in Jackie's emergency room, focuses on the daily slices of joy and sadness that make up a life. Some days are fun, some days are heartbreaking, and it all adds up to a big picture that's sometimes difficult to look at closely without a hefty dose of pharmaceuticals.

We understand why Jackie needs those pills to get through her day, we just don't know who the real Jackie is yet. Maybe this season we'll find out. 

Personally, as much as I once craved a dark tragidramedy back when every channel was filthy with hugging and learning, these days I find myself repelled by the unrelenting nihilism of a handful of the darker-than-thou cable shows: "Dexter," "Sons of Anarchy," "Breaking Bad," all well-written, imaginative dramas with wonderful casts that nonetheless present us with the same scenario, week after week: Things go from bad to worse to unthinkable, lead characters flinch and cringe and sweat and sigh deeply and then dig themselves in deeper, and everyone around them suffers.

And that's not to mention the bad guys. Since these shows revolve around likable but deeply flawed, not-very-good guys, the actual bad guys have to be very, very bad, indeed, straining during most of their time on-screen to embody pure evil. In fact, the narrative arc of these shows is propelled mostly by the looming threat of what these Very Bad Guys are capable of: We see them torturing their underlings or their wives or their dogs; we watch as one Very Bad Guy forces a woman to jump off the side of a building to her death, then witness another Very Bad Guy verbally taunting the man whose wife and daughter he stole, hinting that he might molest the girl. Then, as the tension mounts, the Very Bad Guys make spectacular displays of their cruelty: One decapitates his enemy, then uses explosives to blow his head to smithereens when the DEA finds it; another slits the throat of a pretty wife and leaves her baby sitting in a pool of her blood; another pulls a knife on a baby then absconds with him as he cries piteously and his father panics and then crumples into a heap.

See how, in the fallout of these hideous acts, we're meant to gasp and shake our heads at the unthinkable cruelty of it all. I can't wait to see how our Not Very Heroic Hero will respond to this one, we say to ourselves and each other.

Now that the Dark Cable Drama season is just beginning, we can look forward to the same opening scene on each show: Stunned, shaken, guilty, devastated Not-Very-Good Guys sit around, staring into the middle distance, trying to come to terms with the wreckage around them. We can guess that Jax (Charlie Hunnam of "Sons of Anarchy") will be despondent over the loss of his baby son, shaking his head and wondering how he could've let it happen, then snapping unnecessarily at Tara (Maggie Siff). Presumably Dexter (Michael C. Hall) will stumble, aghast and detached, through his new reality in the wake of his wife's murder, struggling to figure out how to take care of his baby and explain to his stepkids the nightmare that their waking lives have just become. Likewise, Walter (Bryan Cranston) spends the third season premiere of "Breaking Bad" (10 p.m. Sunday, March 21, on AMC) reeling from his wife's discovery of his gig cooking meth, not to mention the midair jet collision that he basically caused -- you know, the one that sent bodies flying to the ground in his neighborhood?

Oh, but don't worry, there's comic relief ahead! Walter goes to a high school assembly where the kids are asked to share a few words about the horrible tragedy they endured when the jets crashed over their heads. After listening to the kids say emotionally tone-deaf kid things, Walter takes the microphone and tells everyone to look on the bright side.

"First of all, nobody on the ground was killed and that ... I mean, an incident like this in a popular urban center? I mean, that's got to be a minor miracle. Plus, neither plane was full." This is exactly the sort of thing a scientist who doesn't know himself and walks around in a state of confused alienation might say, of course. This contrast between Walter's circumstances as a meth "manufacturer" and his polite, professional manners, the gap between his lying and ethical lapses as a husband and his insistence that he loves his wife and that they have a great marriage, form the tension that gives "Breaking Bad" its unique spark. But the intelligence and cleverness of this picture doesn't make up for an overriding feeling that creator Vince Gilligan and the other writers are hell-bent on torturing us with maximum bleakness and horror. After each blow to the gut, we wonder, Must I endure this purgatory, just to find out what happens next?

And if we aren't bothered by this running habit of serving up the most spectacularly devastating, soul-crushing moments possible, if we aren't unnerved by the fact that we're meant to chuckle or marvel at clever moments as the human suffering is at an all-time high, if we can still appreciate the artful, sly approaches to people fucking up their lives flatter than hammered shit (as "Deadwood" creator David Milch might put it, always leavening his particular flavor of darkness with so much charm and flair that you found yourself drawn into the picture rather than continually repelled by it), then that must mean that we're just as confused, alienated and detached as Walter himself is.

I'm not suggesting that blood and gore and tragedy and darkness don't form the core of plenty of dramatic works of art. From Hamlet to "The Sopranos" to Charles Dickens' novels, tragicomic explorations of the human condition have always helped us to navigate our own tragicomic lives. Nonetheless, there's something different about the Dark Cable Drama: Maybe it boils down to shocking CGI effects, or the supreme alienation of its lead characters, or the ways that the misery sustains itself over the course of several long, drawn-out seasons, or those peculiar strains of ironic distance and macho posturing, which insist that, despite making one messed-up choice after another, despite actively cobbling out his hellish fate, our distinctly UnHeroic Hero is a hero, just the same.

And in the context of a culture that loves its horror movies and savors two hours of creepiness and gore and pained screams, maybe the Dark Cable Drama can be viewed as a relatively thoughtful and richly layered and suspenseful exploration of the darkness that lives in human souls.

Nonetheless, there's an enormous difference between, say, "The Sopranos," and "Breaking Bad" or "Dexter." Even though all of the Unheroic Heroes of these shows, just like Tony Soprano, are constantly struggling with their humanity, always trying to find some way around their hideous responsibilities, always trying to emancipate themselves from the ignorance and cruelty of their worlds, the grim core of the Dark Cable Drama is pure agony, where escape is futile and hope is a mirage. There is no wider perspective offered, there are no insights into regular, everyday life reflected in these depraved scenes, there's nothing to learn about hubris or ignorance or greed here.

Or, as Jesse (Aaron Paul) tells Walter in the third season premiere of "Breaking Bad," "You either run from things, or you face them, Mr. White. I learned that in rehab. It’s all about accepting who you really are. I accept who I am."

"And who are you?" Walter asks him.

"I’m the bad guy," says Jesse.

This is the heart of the Dark Cable Drama, the rotten core of its swooning love affair with horrific murders and big flashy plane crashes and splintered marriages and traumatized children and a cascade of terrible mistakes piled on top of more mistakes: In the end, no matter what glimmers of humanity or sweetness you might encounter, you're a fool to do more than surrender yourself to your own worst instincts.

No one is aching for another Big Moral Lesson, but the slightest hint of a wider perspective beyond bewilderment and learned helplessness would go a long way. Simply training a camera on heartbreak and gore and destruction and never pulling back, except to tease out the inept and uncomfortable and utterly insufficient ways that human beings handle despair? As Livia Soprano would say, "It's all a big nothing."  

FX's "Justified" (premieres 10 p.m. Tuesday, March 16) translates the intense interactions of author Elmore Leonard's characters into dialogue that's unpredictable, dynamic and positively riveting. In fact, the show's juicy verbal exchanges can make its action scenes feel like a side dish. Take this banter between our hero, U.S. Marshal Raylen Givens (Timothy Olyphant) and his new, somewhat resentful co-worker, fellow Marshal Rachel Dupree (Erica N. Tazel):

Raylen: I'm sorry if I crossed a line with you at the office. If I shouldered my way to the front of the line, it wasn't intentional. I can imagine how hard it's been for you to get where you are in the Marshal service.

Rachel: Because I'm black or because I'm a woman?

Raylen: Because you're an idiot.

Rachel: Excuse me?

Raylen: (smiling) I didn't shoulder my way to the front of the line.

Rachel: I didn't say that, you did.

Raylen: Look, I understand I'm the low man on the totem pole, I understand that. But Rowland and I have a long history and I should be walking point.

Rachel: This isn't just about this case. You did cut to the front of the line. I don't know if it's because you know the chief from Glencoe, but you walked in and you went right to the front.

Raylen: You ever consider I happen to be good at the job?

Rachel: And you being a tall, good-looking white man with a shitload of swagger, that has nothing to do with it? You get away with just about anything.

Raylen: What do I get away with?

Rachel: Look in the mirror. How do you think it'd go over if I came into work one day wearing a cowboy hat? You think I'd get away with that?

Raylen: Want to try it on?

Aside from the unpredictable turns this conversation takes, what's wonderful about this scene -- and so many scenes in "Justified" -- is that we can't decide whom we like more, our hero or the person with whom he's trading barbs. Leonard once said he's never written a bad guy he didn't like, and that shows on the screen -- not just in sketchy types like Boyd (Walton Goggins, see also: Shane from "The Shield"), the white supremacist whose racist beliefs Raylen suspects are merely a shabby cover for his deep-seated desire to blow shit up, but also in Roland Pike (Alan Ruck), the hangdog criminal on the run from the law and from his drug cartel enemies. In fact, no character appears on "Justified" without kicking up a little of our interest: Flirtatious but murderous wives have an empowered, unapologetic air about them, bosses have a world-weary ease to their words. (When someone reports that they can't find Harlan, Ky., on an online map, Chief Deputy Art Mullen [Nick Searchy] replies, "I guess some places haven't been entered into the system yet, like North Korea, and Raylen's hometown.") Even Raylen's ex-wife Winona (Natalie Zea) is sharp-tongued but sympathetic to him in a way that makes us hope for an eventual reunion.

On paper, FX's "Justified" might appear to be just another procedural with a little excess flair. The show is a western set in modern times starring our gun-toting hero Raylen, the sort of lawman who will politely ask for compliance, but won't hesitate to shoot a bad guy in the belly before he can even react. ("I want you to understand, I don't pull my side arm unless I'm going to shoot to kill. That's its purpose, to kill, so that's how I use it. I want you to think about that before you act and it's too late," Raylen tells one criminal who's considering his options.) Throw in the levity and appeal of USA's "In Plain Sight" or "Burn Notice," and it's easy to see why this is the sort of thoroughly modern drama that a channel like FX adores.

Based on the first three episodes, though, "Justified" is far richer and harder to ignore than other procedural dramedies of its ilk, thanks to the show's unusually seamless mix of sly humor, weighty moments and suspense. While the heaviness always feels a little out of place on the mostly wacky but always delightful "Burn Notice," for example, there's a heft to "Justified" that makes you root for Raylen the way you might root for the most compelling characters of the small screen, from Vic Mackey of "The Shield" to Jimmy McNulty of "The Wire." Now throw in imaginative storylines and characters whose motivations are never simple -- no one is evil, exactly, just stupid and deluded at worst, and we're offered at least a few reasons to side with even the most reprehensible bastards among them -- and you've got one of the best new shows of the season.

Yet somehow the complexity of "Justified" never leaves us in the same disheartening ethical mire we find ourselves in after watching other shows this dark. On "Justified," characters who do bad things sometimes pay for it, and sometimes they don't, and those who are "good" try to live up to their ideals, and often fail. Instead of concerning itself with malevolent forces or valiant heroes battling on an epic stage, "Justified" focuses on the trivial delusions and tragic screw-ups of everyday people. Jokes are told, mistakes are made, and no one can predict how it will all turn out in the end. Sound familiar?

Few TV dramas have done justice to the pleasures and pains of raising kids. "Six Feet Under" touched on the feeling of being out of touch with and disempowered by your children – first in the form of Ruth Fisher (Frances Conroy), a passive-aggressive controlling mom who struggled sweetly to find some way to connect with her smart, headstrong children, then, in Nate's (Peter Krause) attempts to battle his own avoidance and controlling urges with his daughter. ABC's "Brothers & Sisters" took these challenges and translated them into an idealized world of open, honest conversations ending in hugging, learning big important lessons and impromptu slow-dancing as a family. If this warm, fuzzy wonderland didn't feel like a fantasy to you, then please let me into your family immediately -- once I stop wretching, anyway.

NBC's "Parenthood" (10 p.m. Tuesdays) tries to offer a middle ground between these two extremes, demonstrating the frustrations of parenting, but leavening it with moments of awkward connection, goofiness, relief and joy. Unfortunately, getting this mix just right is never easy. Somehow, when it comes to parenting and family, shows that are outwardly dark ("Six Feet Under," "The Sopranos") or consistently light ("Modern Family," "The Middle") appeal to audiences much more than those that try to mix the two. Just as with real parenting, finding some balance in portrayals of parenting is nearly impossible. More often than not you fall into bleakness and pessimism, then pull yourself out of it with laughter, deep sighs and a strong drink as the sun sets.

Peter Krause is a good start as harried dad Adam Braverman. Krause has a knack for playing the overly intense control freak -- something in the way Adam clenches his jaw and bugs his eyes out in spite of his easygoing surface demeanor speaks volumes about his inability to control his emotional investment in every little aspect of his son Max's (Max Burkholder) behavior. His dad, Zeek (Craig T. Nelson), wears his more aggressive approach on his sleeve, openly coaching Max while Adam struggles to coach Zeek on how to coach Max.

Zeek: You weren't any different. You had to get over your fear, too.

Adam: We're not raising him the way that you raised us, all right?

Zeek: Oh, OK. What's that supposed to mean?

Adam: It means I don't want him to feel like everything in life is a war.

Zeek: (Sighs.) Oh, sonny. It is a war.

For a pilot to get straight to this clash between a parent's and a son's perspective over how a kid should be raised is impressive, with or without the smart, funny 1989 movie starring Steve Martin as its precursor. That the scene is handled with just enough contempt mixed with polite restraint is a testament to the director's and producers' hard work in finding the right emotional tone between too harsh and too idealized. (In the original pilot, this scene was a shouting match that came off as far less interesting and revealed less of their relationship.)

Although the dynamics between Zeek and Adam are more nuanced than they were in the original pilot, other aspects of "Parenthood" are kinder and gentler to the point of feeling forced. Where the pilot felt scrappy, slightly harsh and occasionally very dark, the series tries to maintain a lighthearted, wacky mood that doesn't always match the characters and stories involved. Yes, Sarah (Lauren Graham) has two angry teenage kids, a drunk ex and no job. But look how silly and self-deprecating she is at the interview for the job she doesn't get! Yes, Adam and his wife are worried that son Max has Asperger's, but look at kooky Adam, chasing a possum around in his backyard!

Real parents may have little interest in riding this roller coaster in the rare moments that they're allowed to relax, by themselves, without children around. At 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night, after a long day of dealing with your own crazy kids, do you really want to watch a married couple learn that their son has Asperger's? Even if the next scene features Dad's siblings cracking up and sharing a joint, that doesn't help -- in fact, it rings a little false, like those parents who repeat that their kids are a "true blessing" in the breaks between shouting harsh words at them.

The most disconcerting change, for those of us who saw the original pilot of this show last fall, is the replacement of Maura Tierney with Lauren Graham in the role of Sarah. I'd never taken much notice of Tierney before, but she brought a lot of warmth and vulnerability to Sarah, the 38-year-old single mom whose life has been a series of reckless choices and haunting regrets. Graham plays Sarah with much more humor and harried-mom shtick, and though Graham is of course fantastic and has great timing, it's really sad that Tierney's breast cancer robbed her of such a wonderful role. And Tierney vacating this role robs "Parenthood" of a lot of weight. More than any other actor on the show, Tierney had a way of balancing the gravity and levity of parenting in a way that felt organic, rather than manic.

Even as the TV landscape changes by the minute, you have to wonder why a network drama about domestic life can't quite touch the same darkness that it might on a cable or premium cable channel. The networks are obviously afraid of a harsh portrayal of parenting, but what they end up with -- sugarcoated heaviness -- isn't a solution, and it's destined to alienate viewers much more than the shadows and low moments of a show like "Six Feet Under" ever would.

So what does work, as far as network family shows go? Five years ago no one would think the answer would be "sitcoms," so tired and stale was the old formula of goofy dad, nagging mom and adorable, supernaturally clever kids gathered around the couch. But thanks to ABC's "Modern Family" (9 p.m. Wednesdays), somehow, some way, the domestic comedy has been revived from its half-dead state and transformed into a thing of true beauty.

If you aren't watching this show yet, trust me, you should be. From the cool-dad foolishness of Phil Dunphy (Ty Burrell) to the eye-rolling spats between Cam (Eric Stonestreet) and Mitchell (Jesse Tyler Ferguson) to the gruffly lovable weirdness of Jay (Ed O'Neill), this show features wall-to-wall great moments and hilarious lines.

My favorite character of all, though, is weird little gentleman Manny (Rico Rodriguez). Somehow the interplay between the babying of his Colombian hottie mom Gloria (Sofia Vergara) and the tough love of grumpy older dad Jay works in each and every scene. How could you not love writing over-the-top scenes for these three? This week, Jay accidentally kills Manny's turtle, but lies and says that a raccoon jumped in the window and killed it (after making little, muddy stuffed-animal footprints down the wall and across the carpet).

Gloria: You lie. I'm Colombian, I know a fake crime scene when I see one.

Jay: I was hanging up the new poster, and it fell on top of him. It was an accident.

Gloria: You have to tell him.

Jay: No, I've been through this before. When Mitchell was 9, I was supposed to take care of his bird. It got out and flew into a fan. It was like a bloody pillow fight. To this day, Mitchell looks at me, I see him thinking, "That's the guy that killed Fly-za Minnelli."

Gloria: Fly-za Minnelli?

Jay: How did I not know that kid was gay?

The memorial for Manny's turtle is priceless ("Turtle, reptile, pet, Shel Turtlestein was many things," his homage begins), but then almost every single line of "Modern Family," every story, is pure genius. Why settle for a full hour of lukewarm drama about parenting, when you can savor a funny but still heartfelt half-hour instead?

What "Modern Family" really nails, though, is the way real parents experience the highs of parenting. It's not about chasing possums through the yard or making jokes with your siblings then clinking glasses of red wine. The real moments of sweetness and gratitude come when everything is going to hell around you. Even as the chaos unfolds before your eyes, even as you're flooded by the noise and the conflict and the little battles and the mess, the soundtrack changes for a minute. You take in the madness from a distance and think: This is what it's all about.

Then someone throws up on your pants.  

Finally we join our young, hopeful Marines aboard a big gray battleship, gliding toward Guadalcanal.

Marine No. 1: Can someone remind me why we're here again?

Marine No. 2: We're here to keep the Japs out of Australia!

(Arguing, then someone asks Pvt. Robert Leckie to speak up.)

Leckie: You want to know why we're here? "Without a sign, his sword the brave man draws, and asks no omen but his country's cause."

Everyone is filled with awed respect for this thoughtful man who can quote Homer, but audiences at home may quickly long for Terrence Malick's "The Thin Red Line," in which every war cliché -- the brave hero who fights for his country, the fearless leader who calmly guides his men to victory, the beautiful wife who waits faithfully for her darling husband back home -- is blown out of the water with startling grace. Based on James Jones' novel about his experiences in Guadalcanal, "The Thin Red Line" is a brilliant intersection of art film and war film, pairing breathtaking footage of clouds and sunlight dancing across the grass with soldiers dropping dead from bullets zipping out of nowhere, or interspersing a thoughtful man's search for meaning among the native tribes of the South Pacific with his painfully visceral experiences of war.

Somehow Malick's soaring, melancholy portrayal of the Battle of Guadalcanal forces itself into the frame when watching "The Pacific," not just because the subject and source material are the same ("The Pacific" is also based, in part, on James Jones' novel) but also because Malick's $52 million film underscores the relative shortcomings of the $250 million HBO miniseries. Both works focus on the dramatic toll that this chapter of WWII history took on the souls of the men involved, but where Malick brought the immense sorrows of war to life with breathtaking lyricism, originality and imagination, executive producers Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks and writer Bruce C. McKenna offer us their signature brand of straightforward storytelling.

Sure, their style worked just fine in the 2001 HBO miniseries "Band of Brothers" (about WWII in Europe), and it does the job here. The battle scenes are suspenseful and riveting, the dialogue is reasonably sharp, and the story advances at the same pace as the war itself did: There are harrowing nights on the battlefield that will make you grit your teeth in fear, and then there are months where our Marines -- who, except for two main characters, are difficult to distinguish from each other until a few hours into the series -- meander along trying to sort out the reason and purpose for this fresh hell. All of which is well and good, but if you're hoping for that extra bit of dramatic flair, if you're expecting one or two unusual choices, a little innovation, some imaginative filmmaking? You won't find it here.

Yes, our heroes do take a terrible fall from the sweet, bow-tied, red-lipsticked beginning of our story. The jungles of Guadalcanal, by all accounts, left no man's sense of optimism and belief in the glory of battle intact. But even after that, the lead characters find more to hope for: a little R&R in Australia, some love from an Australian girl, idyllic scenes where our boys bask in the sunlight all the while dreading their next deployment. Slowly, though, the grueling years of war take a toll on these lives: We can see it in the expressions of Robert Leckie (James Badge Dale), who seems so confident and optimistic at the start, but grows grimmer with each passing trauma and disappointment. Then there's Eugene Sledge (Joe Mazzello), a privileged kid whose doctor father tries to keep him from enlisting for as long as he can. These and all of the other characters in "The Pacific" are sketchy and incomplete at best. Mostly, we see their romantic notions chipped away by the cruel realities of war.

But do we feel what they feel? When they're fighting, we do. The battle scenes of "The Pacific" vibrate at a higher frequency and pull us into the darkness, crouching behind our rattling guns, our hands shaking in fear.

But in the slow moments, "The Pacific" doesn't mesmerize us in quite the same way. Quiet, subtle scenes require much more from our storytellers. To pull viewers into such lulls in the action, to make us feel the longing and frustration and loneliness that these men felt when bullets weren't buzzing through the air, when the sound of a bird chirping or the sight of a young girl picking tomatoes in her parents' backyard could break their hearts? "The Pacific" fails at this task. We don't understand these men, and the lulls between battle scenes feel like just that: lulls. This makes the battles themselves, while impressive, far less visceral. The stakes aren't high for us, because we don't care enough about these men.

Back in 1999, Terrence Malick was a best director Oscar nominee for "The Thin Red Line," but Steven Spielberg won for "Saving Private Ryan," which, despite that first incredible, heart-stopping scene at Normandy, trudged slowly over the same old hero clichés and tear-jerky landscapes we've seen in every war movie ever made. Now, here are Spielberg and Hanks 11 years later, teamed up again to draw out a far less nuanced, far less riveting portrayal of the Pacific theater than Malick gave us back then. If you adored "Saving Private Ryan" and "Band of Brothers" (I enjoyed but didn't love both), then "The Pacific" is well worth your time. But if you're sometimes left cold by the epic films that others gush over, if you're often lukewarm on Spielberg and expect more from a war movie than just realistic battle scenes, then I would skip the 10 hours of viewing time and rent "The Thin Red Line" instead. Turn down the lights, sit close to your biggest, best TV set, and give the movie your full attention. It may be the best war film ever made, and it will break your heart in two.

As unfair as it may seem to compare "The Pacific," a TV miniseries, to "The Thin Red Line," a film by one of this country's most celebrated directors, considering the talent and the millions of dollars that went into both, the comparison feels not only fair but unavoidable. "The Pacific" is a well-made war series. But as Malick and Jones understood like no one else, war isn't just a story told in chronological order, with characters who struggle with right and wrong, good and bad. War is pure madness. Without a spirit of madness infused in it, a war story doesn't come close to touching war's dark glimpses into the human soul.