I happened upon Primeval last year after reading about their ad campaign in New York.Prehistoric monsters coming out of buildings? Sold! That firstepisode with the dinosaur ripping apart a kid’s room pulled me in,and learning that Professor Nick Cutter’s missing wife Helen was still aliveafter eight years freaked me out. Sure, it’s a show about portals intothe past (and future) opening up and letting exotic beingscome through — not necessarily an original idea, but still intriguing ashell. Last season’s finale could have easily been an appropriate end to the series,with Stephen getting killed in the ARC, and an epilogue about Helen cavortingwith 50 or so iterations of "that guy," you know "the Cleaner," who died in almost every episode. So what happened on last night’s new season premiere that made me wish the show HAD ended last season?

Nothing. As in, nothing happened. Sure, a pristichampsus came through the "Sun Cage" that’s made of magnetite which meant the Egyptians could control the anomaly. But that’s about all.  A cop got eaten, and Sarah (the newest member of the anomaly investigation team) feigned sadness over her boss’ death.  There was bad dialogue, lots of running around the British Museum, and a nice shot of the London Eye. Then the injured animal jumped back through the anomaly. The end.

Seriously, I could go into more detail about the episode, but compared to the previous season, last night’s show was a bore, complete with hokey music that reminded me of a bad made-for-TV adventure movie. In fact, I’m going to pretend that last night didn’t happen. I’ll watch the next episode, but I’m not too hopeful. Just like Scrubs, Primeval should have just ended last season. 

What did you think?  Did you feel the story actually progressed? Are you as let down as I was?

I watched all two hours of Farrah’s Story last night. I found it grim and sweet and sad. Ken Tucker gives it a fuller review here. I was touched though to see how the Angels rallied around their former co-star. How, how I obsessed over these women when I was growing up. (Obviously it is an inelegant time to bring this up, but I was always partial to the other Monroe sister, Cheryl Ladd.)

My mother, though, had a problem with a show that starred bikinis and hair, and I was tragically not allowed to watch the series. I also wasn’t allowed to have Barbie Dolls; I had to keep my stash of Sweet Valley High and heavily dog-eared copies of Tiger Eyes and Footfalls under the bed; and that Violent Femmes tape I had cranked up on high while sunbathing in the backyard ended up in the trash. I still break into a sweat when I remember the Sunday afternoon my Mom took me and two girlfriends to the matinee showing of Footloose. She had agreed to sit two rows behind us, but I could hear her working herself up into a lather during the scene when Lori Singer wears the forbidden red boots to the picnic. I started picturing the Monday morning mortification that would await me at school if word got out that my Mom yanked us out halfway through the movie. She finally relaxed. The kids danced. Everybody won.

What I think is funny is that for all my Mom’s rigid rules about what pop culture I was and wasn’t allowed to partake in, she only ended up fanning the flames of my early tastes. I just went to Kelly Cunninghams’ down the block and watched Charlie’s Angels, taking notes on hairstyles and crimefighting, or pawed for hours at her extensive Barbie wardrobe. I babysat and cleaned houses so I could buy all the dopey junk romances I wanted. (And if anyone out there went through a similarly ill-advised and obsessive romance phase, drop me a line if you remember the title to the Harlequin Romance that starred a green-eyed bad boy named Dane. I miss him and would love to reconnect!)

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