Time magazine recently called Lost's "The Constant" the greatest TV episode of the year, outranking cable greats such as The Wire, The Shield, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men. It's an impressive list, and I'm going to repeat this for emphasis: according to Time, the Constant is the greatest episode of last TV year. So how is it that the TV show responsible for its greatness gets snubbed on a yearly basis at every award show imaginable, and wasn't nominated once for anything at the Golden Globes?

First, something about me. Let's do the unthinkable and divide all of TV into just two separate categories. The atmospheric shows, and the episodic ones. Atmospheric shows aim to reach and sustain a certain "feel" throughout their entire arc. While some episodes may stand out over others, you can generally throw in a random DVD from your case and successfully predict the mood it will put you in. Sitcoms do this without exception -- the greats, Seinfeld, Friends, Californication, as well as the not so greats -- but grand TV series do it as well. The Wire, Deadwood, Dexter, Mad Men, Carnivale. Each one has a certain unmistakable atmosphere that will exist... if the show is successful, in every single episode. The amount of work that goes into sustaining so perfectly such a high note is remarkable, and some shows like Carnivale and Deadwood, are unable to finish.

Then there are the episodic shows, and the first ones that come to mind are Lost and Battlestar Galactica. One episode can cause a brain meltdown, another can rip your heart to shreds, and if it's The Constant, it might do both at the same time. At their worst, you might get an episode like "Nikki & Paolo Do-What-Why-Now?," but at their best, these shows go by the motto: how do we make this week's episode 10x better than the last? If it means cranking on the drama and the tearworks then so be it... and if it's confusing the hell out of the audience and leaving them feeling like up is down, then that works, too. You can't just take out a DVD and play a random episode, because there's a pretty good chance your mood calls for something else (if the show is particularly good, it'll set you in the mood whether you're looking for it or not).

The motto I described belongs to genre-defying shows that dare attempt it all, and when they succeed, it is truly glorious. Take Battlestar Galactica season 3: the first four episodes are a riveting drama, a high-octane adventure, and a rattlingly-realistic depiction of urban war and terror. A few episodes later you have Unfinished Business, the most heartbreakingly romantic episode of the series. And the season finale, less all its mind-blasting mind-fracks, is a court room drama with political and religious ramifications that have been emphasized throughout the latter half of the season. Or Lost, which defies genre conventions on an episodic basis, season 4 alone tackling Bourne via Sayid, Law & Order via Kate, and Kurt Vonnegut via Desmond, just from a brief overlook. Vonnegut, as you may have noticed, is an author most TV audiences aren't that familiar with -- yet this mainstream adaptation of his ideas, whatever its origin, has received praise. Yet what of the show without which this adaptation could not have been possible, would not even have been conceived?

Not to take the wind out of the sails of some of the greatest shows in the history of TV (and note that I firmly believe The Wire and Dexter have cultural and journalistic significance far beyond their entertainment value), but how can shows that settle for doing the same thing episode-in-episode-out, no matter how much work that takes, really compete with a show whose only dream is to one-up itself every chance it gets, and do it better than last week? How many of them would dare translate such a strong literal idea into what turned out to be a powerhouse show? They are staple shows, and such inspired brilliance is helplessly, hopelessly beyond them. They are capable of other kinds of brilliance, to be sure, but those aren't restricted to anybody. Yet not only do the writers of the great episodic shows shower us with literary and philosophical references, their musicians are given remarkable freedom. Not bound by Dexter's Spanish sounds or The Wire's less overtly-emotional approach, Michael Giacchino says of Lost: "I've been given so much freedom to kind of go where I want to go: weird references to things like Lutoslawsk or Shostakovich." And it shows in the music, which is a huge part of The Constant's success. Or Along the Watchtower, as composed by Bear McCreary for the season 3 Battlestar finale. These abstract musical references, powerful, fitting, and incredibly original, deserve their accolades of praise -- and yet they would not be possible if the show were not so visionary. Yet somewhere along the line there is a disconnect -- Lost's only been nominated for best drama twice, and only won once. Battlestar has been fortunate to get the writing nod that it did this Emmy season, judging from past nominations, though for the wrong episode.

Not everybody's like the Golden Globes. Lost's won its share of best-actor awards, both for Terry O'Quinn in season 1 and 3, and for Michael Emerson in season 4. Yet such a stellar cast is regularly overlooked (Elizabeth Mitchell's shocking snub in season 3). So how is it that these shows, capable of producing the greatest episodes in the history of television, are regularly overlooked? Why is the industry allowed to get away with such an oversight, and don't they care that few will dare to dream so grandly in the future?

-pW