I have a dream.  Hear me people.  From coast to shining coast, every man, woman and child will be able to tell a computer their interests, and from that data a customised show will be digitally created and beamed straight to its intended recipient.  The age of broadcasting is over, and the new age of narrowcasting is here.  And yay, the oceans shall rise and the air will hum with programmes whizzing to breakdance enthusiasts partial to cookery competitions, Morris Minor owners thinking of retiring to somewhere in the sun with a swimming pool, and toddlers with a liking for bumblebees and poo.  Each microniche an audience in the bold digital age, every one worth cultivating and entitled to just what they want, when they want it.

That’s one vision anyway, and though argued with a touch of sarcasm there are proponents of that way of thinking.  Latest example of where that trend leads is The Mentalist, a show devoid of anything resembling wit, compassion or originality, but damn if it isn’t finely honed.  Not just a cop show, it features a maverick cop.  And not any old maverick cop, but one whose methods cause controversy with his colleagues, though he has a knack for pulling a result out of the air just before the last beat is played out with quartz precision.  And our maverick cop has a gimmick.  He has a canny knack for the kind of headgames that Derren Brown has popularised in the UK.  Perfect!

Well, it had to happen.  Look in your local bookshop if you don’t believe me.  Paul McKenna knows how to make you thin, rich, and sleep with his series of slim volumes.  Any number of chancers are offering to revitalise your life with homeopathically watered down versions of something that passes for NLP to those who’ve not had contact with the genuine article.  Diabolically clever serial killers are luring their victims with cryptic mindgames, on alternate thriller covers between the ones offering further iterations on the theme of the Da Vinci Code, Shakespeare Conundrum, Pam Ayres Paradox etc.

So, no wonder that a show like The Mentalist exists.  There’s a whiff of the zeitgeist about it.  Its DNA shows traces of a dozen other cop shows, and the patina of body-language reading, David Blaine-esque street magic and half-assed hypnosis will give the gullible the impression that what they’re watching is a primer on sophisticated contemporary policing.  It isn’t.  But if you’re in the mood for a detective show with a different pitch, then The Mentalist will keep you going.

Make no mistake though.  This is by no means the kind of quality crime programme that America can produce when the right constellation of talent comes together.  There’s no David Simon or Shawn Ryan conjuring the familiar elements into another Wire or Shield.  No, this is more along the lines of CSI.  Predictable entertainment with no moral centre.

Is there a justification for this kind of show?  Bottom line says that whatever attracts an audience will be put out there for as long as that audience watches it.  And audiences will watch all kinds of crap.  The notion that television can have a purpose, something beyond attracting ad revenues, is an obscure one to many within the industry.  But we need people with that wider vision, however eccentric, to be willing to share it with us.  That’s what makes the difference between shows like Six Feet Under, State of Play, Madmen, and any amount of formula garbage.

All of which is to pick up on a point that musician Robert Fripp makes, about the distinction between popular and mass entertainment.  Popular art can touch the lives of millions: The Beatles are his preferred example.  The mass market has no room for originality and heart: Oasis will do just fine.  And if you don’t get that example, best check your pulse before checking out of here, and no protestation on the guestbook on your way out.