The Philanthropist

It works, thanks to Purefoy's winning performance, pacing that never lags (the Olivia/Philip/Rist triangle is a diversion, quickly glossed over) and terrific writing.

Against all odds, this week's premiere turns out to be a competent, highly watchable hour of television, the most promising broadcast network premiere since "Southland."

The Philanthropist proves compassionate and insightful, never didactic, and heartily entrenching.

Horton may in fact reach too frequently into his bag of editing and photographic bells and whistles, but for the most part his approach helps sustain interest when the teleplay falters, sputters or just plain poops out.

Purefoy brings some raffish charm to the role, but these days, who wants to embrace raffish philandering philanthropists--particularly ones so defiantly dim.

It’s hard to fault a drama that celebrates altruism and tries to glamorize social conscience. But I found myself cringing at the condescending scenes of our rich white savior wandering among the Africans with their colorful outfits and drum music, his checkbook at the ready in case he needs to bribe a local.

Pointless, charmless and bound to be viewerless after the first half-hour or so, The Philanthropist recalls such epochal television bombs as Manimal (a scientist who could turn into a crime-fighting dolphin) or It's About Time (astronauts break the time barrier and frolick happily with cavemen) in its conceptual imbecility.