I Like to Watch

If, on the other hand, you’re a bored, middle-aged suburban dad who’s filled with self-hatred and longing and secretly wishes he could fly to Paris and screw a sexy Russian operative, then NBC’s "My Own Worst Enemy” (premieres 10 p.m. Monday, Oct. 13) should be right up your alley.

With squintily soulful Christian Slater, the quintessential cynical Gen X hero, in the leading role, the show’s timely battle between hedonism and humility plays out against an early '90s suspense-thriller backdrop that’s slick and subtly edited enough to belong on the big screen. Slater plays a spy, Edward Albright, who volunteered for an experimental program after the death of his parents. Edward subsequently became a man with two personalities: When Edward “goes to sleep,” his alter ego, Henry, lives the normal, everyday life of the average suburban family man. His job forces him to travel to conventions across the country, leaving his family behind and enabling Edward’s top-secret missions.

Life is essentially satisfying for Henry until he learns of Edward’s existence, at which point the lid comes off Pandora’s box. (You know, like the moment when Main Street woke up and realized it was getting sodomized by Wall Street?) Henry wakes up in a dark room, being interrogated by a Russian operative or criminal, it’s not clear which, and is utterly ill-equipped to handle the situation. Somehow he makes it out alive, then wanders around Edward’s bachelor pad and drives Edward’s sports car. That invasion of privacy leads to retribution by Edward, who wakes up and sees that Henry has been rifling through his possessions, then he goes to Henry’s house and screws his wife for good measure. She’s thrilled! Suddenly her boring husband is pulling hot moves in the sack like a jet-setting Gen X James Bond!

There are lots of similar dirty pleasures and reasonably sophisticated plot twists in store, in fact. “My Own Worst Enemy” presents a nice fable for America’s battling obsessions, a fierce struggle between middle-class values and the hot sex and filthy lucre of the uber-class. Henry is fine until he learns of Edward’s existence, and then he finds himself alienated from his own low-key choices -- Edward’s outrageous lifestyle somehow undermines his comparatively humble existence. Edward, on the other hand, finds that he’s slightly envious of Henry’s comfortable, boring life in spite of himself.

By having Edward leave videotaped messages for Henry and vice versa, the writers avoid the cliché of making a character talk to himself. It’s easier than you’d imagine to treat these two men as separate characters, even if they are played by the same, rather familiar actor and inhabit the same body.

There also aren’t a lot of differences between the affectations and verbal tics of the two men. Edward speaks in a cool-guy monotone while Henry has more of an earnest, naive lilt to his voice, but sometimes Edward has a little lilt and Henry assumes the monotone. It can get a little confusing. That said, Slater is believable in both roles and he has enough flair that he can sell this story without making the whole picture feel hopelessly cheesy. (In contrast to Sewell, who seems to have studied at  David Caruso’s Macho Grumbler School of Acting.)

And unlike “Eleventh Hour,” the “My Own Worst Enemy” pilot demonstrates a knack for tight storytelling and unexpected plot twists. While you do have to wonder where the show will go from here, since it has the plot of a two-hour movie, not a 20-hour series, it has the benefit of being far more original and unpredictable than 90 percent of the new shows to hit the airwaves this fall.

Funkytown!
 Our final soulful-eyed hero lies at the center of ABC’s "Life on Mars” (premieres 10 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 9), a show that doesn’t exactly qualify as original, since it’s a remake of the popular BBC hit. Even so, this is one of the better pilots hitting the air this fall. I haven’t seen the BBC version beyond its first episode, but plenty of people swear by it. Nonetheless, my ignorance at least allows me to view the American version on its own merits, something that’s tough to do when you’re attached to the original.

Jason O’Mara may be my favorite pretty-eyed hero so far (although Simon Baker’s penetrating “I see right through you!” gaze on “The Mentalist” makes him a close second). O’Mara plays NYPD officer Sam Tyler, an all-around great guy who somehow gets beamed back to 1973 after he gets hit by a car. Cue David Bowie’s “Life on Mars,” cool '70s cars, a haunting shot of the twin towers, groovy '70s outfits … How does ABC afford all of this stuff? But best of all, when O’Mara wanders into the police department, who’s there? Michael Imperioli, wearing a wicked suit and a badass mustache-sideburn combo, plus Harvey Keitel, whipping out his demonic-urban-overlord shtick!

Seeing those two guys in crazy '70s garb would’ve been enough to keep most of us hooked, but then you throw in vintage NYC sets, lots of great music, and a plot that – well, it is a procedural drama about a time-traveling cop. But there’s a serial murder mystery to solve here, one that Tyler thinks he might’ve been beamed back in time to help with, and it’s handled pretty well: puzzling evidence, a creepy suspect, and a witness plied with good pastries and a few swigs of alcohol.

The snappy banter is the real draw, though, particularly coming out of the mouth of Keitel, who plays Tyler’s boss, Lt. Gene Hunt. When Tyler asks Hunt what year it is, Hunt responds, “It’s 1973, or as our Chinese brethren like to call it, the Year of the Fist!” Then he socks Tyler in the gut, hard. Bad lieutenant! Baaaad lieutenant.

Even with such bullying in store for him, Tyler keeps asking everyone around him what’s going on, as if someone might have the answers and not just think he’s insane.

Sam: Is that why I’m here?

Hunt: No, you’re here to make me curse the day my father’s sperm asked my mother’s egg if it could have this dance.

Or take this lovely exchange between Tyler and Ray Carling (Imperioli) after Tyler calls on Annie Norris (Gretchen Mol) during a presentation to the other cops, hoping she might help him form a hypothesis about the mysterious serial killer. As Norris, whose nickname among the men is “No Nuts,” walks to the front of the room, the men snicker loudly.

Carling: Oh I get it. Every Houdini needs an assistant with a great set of gams!

Tyler: Ms. Norris has a psych degree from Fordham.

Carling: Yeah, well, I have an ass that can fart the melody of every Peter, Paul and Mary song ever recorded. Do I get to stand up there, too?

In short, “Life on Mars” is colorful and fun and well-written. Of course, it would have to be, to attract a cast this talented. This one’s worth watching, for sure. We’ll just have to wait and see if all of the extra bells and whistles can make even those of us who are weary of procedurals tune in over the long haul.

And let’s face it, we need some high-quality distractions on our boob tubes during these times of global economic chaos. We can only hope that our real-life leaders know this, so that when the true, blood-in-the-streets crisis begins, we still won’t be forced to face our demons or wrestle with big existential questions or even go without dental floss for more than a few hours. Personally, for all my panicking, I know deep down inside that Arnold Schwarzenegger, given all of his firsthand experience with apocalyptic scenarios, would never let the people of California down. They’ll surely be passing out pudding cups at the End Times Emergency Shelter they set up outside of Palm Springs, and there’ll be fluffy bedding and big, icy glasses of lemonade and power strips and T3 wireless and spa treatments for all. Dare to dream it might be so, my fellow fallen Americans! Dare to dream.