The 2009 fall television season and the sitcom form were reinvigorated by ABC’s “Modern Family,” which follows three distinct family units and intertwines them in a network of siblings and parents. What works so well in “Modern Family” is that humor exaggerates the norm of the family sitcom–“Everybody Loves Raymond,” “Malcolm in the Middle,” “8 Simple Rules,” “According to Jim”–to comment upon the fluid definition of family and the true nature of love (cue the aww). Quirky humor brings the audience closer to the characters of “Modern Family.” By laughing at them for their absurdity and recognizing that we don’t know anyone that absurd, we have to seek our commonality with the character. That quest for empathy invests the viewer in the show by unknowingly engaging him or her in a quest for the deeper meaning of a light, sometimes trite, half-hour comedy.

Where comedy draws you in, drama encourages the viewer to draw back and appreciate the rawness of the character and the virtuoso performance of the actor. It is my opinion that the device of audience identification fails when applied to a dramatic moment or performance on TV. When an episode is written such that the audience is intended to identify with a character’s struggle or breakdown, inevitably the screen representation will alienate the viewer. Moments of vulnerability are difficult to project oneself onto because the vulnerability and breakdowns are so personal. As a result of our powerful emotional and physical memories from our own breakdowns, we pull ourselves away from the character by nitpicking: when I fight with my mom, it was like this; when my husband left me, I felt like this; when I found out my son had autism, I cried, etc. For the writers of a TV show, then, the task of depicting dramatic disappointments and failures on screen relies on the strength of the writing and the authenticity of the acting. If these are accomplished, the audience reacts not with, “That’s exactly how I feel!” but with, “I believe that that is how she feels, and I sympathize with her.”

This is the failure of NBC’s new family drama, “Parenthood.” I didn’t hate the pilot for sure, but I walked away from it feeling apathetic. I now realize that the multitude of characters–two parents, their four children, each child’s significant other(s) and their children–weighs down the script with excessive breakdowns, epiphanies and fights. I believe that an ensemble show thrives with the development of the worlds of the individual characters (although many critics disagree with this point on “Modern Family” and prefer to see the three units united in an episode).

In “Parenthood,” this development exists briefly and intensely in each character’s breakdown moment–Lauren Graham crying on a date, Peter Krause and his wife crying about their son’s Asperger’s diagnosis, Erika Christensen crying about her daughter’s seeming punishment of her for her law career, and Dax Shepard stressing about his girlfriend’s biological clock and his ex-girlfriend’s surprise. It’s a lot to digest in less than an hour, and it forces you to throw pity at the characters, not get to know them. Ron Howard, the producer of the show and the director of the original 1989 film, describes the central tenet of the show as the idea that, “There’s nothing funnier than watching people go through the pain that you’re feeling.” For me, this is problematic in that the show is funny in the way that Seinfeld is funny when he’s yelling in his characteristic voice and in that Howard is that implying this is a show targeted for the parent demographic. If the show is very subtly trying to wink at its parent audience, I’m lost because, well, I’ve never pumped a child out of my nether region.

As a “child” viewer, I’m also frustrated by the role of the children in the pilot. They are oversimplified to simultaneous problems and prophets: Mae Whitman, who plays Lauren Graham’s daughter, gets arrested for smoking pot, but then tells her mom how to dress for a date. Erika Christensen’s daughter’s only role is to reject her mother, suggesting that this show will be about never understanding the kids and watching the parents cope. Most frustrating, yet promising, is Peter Krause’s character’s son, who is diagnosed with Asperger’s halfway through the episode. The representation of Asperger’s is subtle, and one of my favorite moments in the pilot came from watching him jump into a puddle without rain clothing. Those moments of artistry and ambiance will save the show; however, this boy also awkwardly plays a kind of “Tiny Tim” character in that he unites the whole family and, by virtue of his disorder, argues to the viewers that, “Parenting takes a village.” I think the converse, that parenting is what happens when you’re alone with your kid, not when you’re consulting your brother about how to parent, is the more compelling one.

“Parenthood” may be the life raft its parent network, NBC, has been waiting for, but I hope that the show finds a better format than congregations at the grandparents’ Berkeley hippie mansion to create the family.