Like everybody who does what I do, I suppose, I have a love/hate relationship with Entertainment Weekly. I almost dedicated an entire post to complaining about the fact that for "The Must List" a few weeks ago they gave "Entourage" as an identifying credit for Malcolm McDowell. Malcolm McDowell! Geez, the only way they could possibly have skewed less relevant is with Star Trek Generations.

I don't know why EW keeps taking potshots at "John from Cincinnati," as they did in the TV listings this week. The battle for viewers' hearts and minds has already been lost in this case, and David Milch and his bloated cast are merely now engaged in the entertainment-biz equivalent of playing out the string. Compared to the deafening silence that met the burnoff of the last couple of episodes of "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," the fall season's closest comparable failure, the critical beating "John" is (still) taking resembles one of those "games" fifth grade boys play where everybody just jumps into a pile and whales on the littlest kid. (Umm... no idea why my mind went there.)

It wasn't until last night's episode that I finally concluded that "John from Cincinnati," in addition to being doomed in terms of its chances of renewal, is past the point of no return when it comes to cohering as a valid artistic statement. It wasn't any particular downturn in the show's quality that did it in in my estimation, but rather the fact that since I managed to locate the third season of "Deadwood" on sale on DVD last week, I've been completely sucked back into that show's unimaginably vast world and "John" utterly pales by comparison.

The first episode of "Deadwood" I ever saw was the third episode of the second season, "New Money." It's rather an unusual entry point for the series, as you know if you've seen it, because it's the episode where Ian McShane spends the whole hour writhing on the floor in agony as Al Swearengen is incapacitated with a kidney stone. Rather than holding forth in his usual riveting style, most of McShane's lines of dialogue in "New Money" read something like "urrrAGGGHarrrRRRGH." However, it's impossible not to watch the episode and come away with the impression that Swearengen is the prime mover of events in Deadwood and the most important character in the show's vast ensemble. The deference with which all of the Gem's various visitors treat the unspeaking Al, through his locked door, makes his influence plain. You could have a "Deadwood" without Swearengen physically present, but there's absolutely no way his impact wouldn't still be felt in every scene. He's a force, and he's the best example of why the cultured, hyperintellectual David Milch is so often drawn to setting his storytelling on the far margins of polite civilization, whether it's the Black Hills or Imperial Beach, CA.

The trouble with "John from Cincinnati," or at least one of the more glaring problems, is that the central character is a complete inversion of Swearegen. Austin Nichols' guileless prophet/saint/alien has no ability to effect change on the people surrounding him, only to make the acuteness of their misery ever more evident. He's more like a catalyst, as best as I can interpret matters, but if anything Milch has gone too far in showing that the lives of the Yost family and their friends were already surreal and in crisis long before John arrived on the scene. The idea that a friendly, poofy-haired innocent somehow will spur them all to redemption is one that the viewer unconsciously rejects almost immediately. "John" seems to take as thesis the idea that no one is beyond saving, which is a vastly more pat and insulting theme than the fascinating look "Deadwood" gave at a specific place in time where the completely irredeemable were briefly free to shape their lives in their own revolting manner.

In a very real sense, it is the success of "Deadwood" that doomed "John from Cincinnati." Why? Because the style of filmmaking that Milch and his confederates developed on the earlier series worked so well for "Deadwood" that the writers tried to move it right over to "John." The huge difference in ultimate goals of the two shows, though, makes the "Deadwood" model poisonous for its successor. It's no secret that rewrites for both shows took place right up to the very moment actors were on the set staging their scenes. Rather than creating an overall arc in advance, Milch prefers to put his players in place and let the logic of the characters dictate the development of events. This works for "Deadwood" because while the path is unclear the end point of the show (whether we get to see it or not) is obvious. Inevitably, traditional structures of governance and law will arrive in the Dakotas, and men like Al Swearengen will be forced to either submit or find another, further place to pursue their fortunes. Every actor on the series, no matter which side of the law and order divide their role falls on, is aware of this. Even on the rare occasions Milch is unable to find a later justification for an earlier scene, the narrative dead-ends on "Deadwood" serve a larger thematic purpose which is intuitively clear to creator, actor, and viewer alike.

But with "John from Cincinnati," all Milch has is a starting point, and it's simply not enough. Because the ultimate goal is completely unclear, none of the actors has even the chance to become an avatar for the show's overall progress in the way McShane did for "Deadwood." The single most impressive performance on "John from Cincinnati" has been that of Garrett Dillahunt as the doctor who treated Shaun before his broken spine magically repaired itself. Dillahunt, unlike every other member of the cast, plays his role precisely the way someone in the real world would: he's certain a miracle has occurred, convinced that some sort of change in his life is required, and has not even the faintest inkling of an idea what that change is. Dillahunt's mixture of bliss and befuddlement is kind of the only right choice, but hardly something you can carry a show around, which is why all of the other players seem straining to pull in different directions. This hasn't flattered anyone, from Luis Guzman's myopic self-interest to Bruce Greenwood's first figurative, than literal absence to Ed O'Neill's fulminating rage. Worst done by in the whole ensemble is Rebecca De Mornay, whose incredibly unpleasant -- nearly unwatchable -- temper tantrums aren't at all justified by the ever-more frequent references in the dialogue elsewhere to Cissy as the "queen of ball-busters." By giving his characters a few baseline traits but no end point, Milch is encouraging growth in the wrong direction. Shaun grows ever more vacant, Linc ever more venal, Butchie irresponsible, and so on. And there's a couple of people in the cast, notably Emily Rose's completely useless Cass, who were never even given so much as that one-word summarization, leaving them undefined and adrift.

It's still worth watching "John from Cincinnati," even though its status as a failure seems now confirmed, because it's got a number of amazing performers perhaps working as hard as they ever have. Pretty much every scene with Dayton Callie in it is worth watching, even though I still don't have the faintest idea why he's on the show at all. The pure Milchian complexity of the dialogue spouted by O'Neill, Matt Winston, Stephen Tobolowksy and others is still a joy to digest even if it serves no larger purpose. What's more, the show is awesome-looking; the proliferation of DVDs and then the introduction of the HD format have really led to a revolution in the visual sense and style of television drama. Whether it's a long, deep-focus view of Cass and John strolling hand in hand under a border surveillance tower or the magnificently realized grunge of the motel, "John from Cincinnati" is really neat to look at. It's too bad that despite the tireless efforts of a large regiment of talented filmmakers there's not a whole lot of substance behind the style.