Television may get a bad rap – and by most accounts, it's deserved – but at the same time there's something to be said for its potential as an extension of cinema. Moving images don't operate any differently via a television set, but that they're made to unfold periodically makes for an especially unique, if not inherently thrilling experience. Indeed, given the low threshold and waning attention span of today's accelerated movie audiences, the sixty minute screenplay makes perfect sense; when serialized across twenty or more episodes, the momentum gained is virtually unrivaled.

With the narrative clockwork of 24 (Fridays, 8.30pm, TV3) a case in point, the advantages are clear to see: not only is the hook irresistible (terror scaremongering, aside), scheduled methodically so as to consume every Friday night of one's life for near-on half a year, but when events unfold in real-time, the very concentration of plot generates an intensity of storytelling simply not achievable within the framework of a feature-length film.

Sequels arguably mimic the same spread, but not nearly with the same amount of thrust or urgency. When Peter Jackson wrapped the Lord of the Rings trilogy for instance, one could almost predict the need for a thousand different endings in order to plug the two-year lapse between beginning and end. Time constraints of the theatrical kind also disperse when translated to television: Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan, the benchmark aesthetic war movie, finds itself rendered comparatively hollow when superseded by the emotive resonance of his own grueling mini-series Band of Brothers. A recipient of a ten hour duration, there's obvious benefits in being able to mould story, and particularly character across a roomier timeline. If war is about human beings, then television allowed the space to elaborate on them properly – or at least not neglect or overshadow them with the perpetual onslaught of dirt showers, severed limbs and machine gun fire.

Despite production values and budgets having noticeably increased, the "sitcom spectre" still in part remains: stage-lit set decor and ambience a usual giveaway, whilst the diminutive box configuration of the screen an impediment to TV shows ever reaching the sort of spectacle that only a broad, projected image is capable of. The HBO depression-era drama Carnivale (Fridays, 11.20pm, TV1), however, comes pretty close to making a breakthrough – it's easily the most cinematic show on at the moment, if not in recent television history. Granted, it's a vivid, painstakingly authentic illustration of 1930s America – its art direction and visuals certainly of a high enough bar to show-up any mainstream movie – but what really allows it to transcend the perimeters of the tube is its clear aversion to reality. The beginnings of a new "anti" movement, perhaps, but Carnivale's own revolt against popular convention might just be a strong enough of a statement against Reality and Genre TV alone (namely crime dramas, and anything involving voting off). Replicating the purgatory metaphor of Lost by grouping displaced souls into a traveling carnival circus – itself, a floating island of sorts for outcasts neither in or out of society – the show is as eclectic as it is fantastical: consider it a merger between The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck battlers in the Great Depression), X-Men (a band of ostracised "freaks", some of whom have special powers), Carnival of Souls (for multiple reasons) and most of anything by David Lynch (including The Straight Story).

Like the aforementioned Lynch film, Carnivale is a road-trip through heartland America en route to a final destination where two estranged individuals will meet. But there is to be no reconciliation: in a classic tussle between good and evil/light and darkness, fugitive Ben Hawkins (Nick Stahl) must come face to face with minister Brother Justin (Clancy Brown) in a showdown that will ultimately determine the fate of the world. Hawkins possesses the power to heal the injured or dead; Justin, on the other hand, is possessed by and wields the power of the devil. Simple enough, but the trajectory is anything but straightforward: woven in magic and mystery, this is all about opaque symbolism and religious subtext, swept up in a dustbowl of gritty hardship and desperation. That Michael J. Anderson (Twin Peaks' "Man from another place") plays Samson, the "ring master", seems like no coincidence either: shaded in prophecy, disturbed dreams and the omnipresence of evil always lurking just beyond the frame, Carnivale even has its own archetypical Lynchian "monster". Known simply as "management", he resides in the back of a dingy trailer, behind a curtain, seemingly never to emerge, and only ever compelled to speak in creepy high-pitched tones when thickening the already abstracted plot.

Above all, Carnivale is a puzzle, warped by a complex, oblique evolution that could only ever be articulated through its chosen format. But television, for all its creative promise as a medium, can also be incredibly fickle; with only a handful of episodes left to screen, the end is nigh – and as far as the commerce of broadcasting goes, absolute. HBO did not renew the series for a third season, meaning some questions will undoubtedly remain, while the Armageddon we've been on a collision course towards may never eventuate. But anticipation is a wonderful thing – escalating week-to-week, as only television can make possible – and when you've been addicted from day one, the only thing left to do is keep watching, even if it seems doomed to be unresolved.—Tim Wong

» Joel Surnow, Robert Cochran | USA | 2001-2005+
» Daniel Knauf | USA | 2003-2005