I’ll usually be the first person to defend a writer when a story that sounds good on paper turns to shit on the screen. Not this time, not after watching the series finale to CSI…
When CSI first came out I watched it because it was visually different, the hyperactive editing, supersaturated palate and often extremely graphic nature of the visuals making for irresistible eye-candy, but I eventually tired of it because it was too much procedural and not enough character driven TV, and as a writer I like character driven stories. I held out with the show until William Petersen left, and I stopped watching after that, and in truth, the show never again reached the heights of the season 5 episode directed by Quentin Tarantino, the one with Nick Stokes buried alive. That was some damn good TV.
Anyhow, I watched the two-part series finale last night, and it was abysmal. I don’t know how they got Petersen to come back for such utter tripe. I can only assume he felt he owned it to the show that made him comfortably rich, because I sure as hell couldn’t see any other reason for him to be there. If you were thinking of watching this last two-part tale, skip it. It was almost depressing, with a lackluster plot (centered around Lady Heather, the most boring character the show has ever had—please, Hollywood, enough with shows featuring smart guys bewitched by vapid dominatrixes) and even worse, a Villain from Nowhere.
Use of the Villain from Nowhere is a cardinal sin because  it is lazy writing, and  it always sucks balls, but it is especially egregious here. The production team had 15 YEARS of Crime Scene Investigation to draw inspiration from, and this was the best they could do? To hell with that! You need to pay homage to what has gone before, and if you can’t find a suitable baddie from past years, why not have one of the established cast members snap and turn into a psycho killer? Shit, the show was over anyway, so trash the fucking stage on your way out! God knows some of the characters had been through hell and back, and could be believably unhinged.
Imagine Jim Brass going off the deep end and quietly mumbling one-liners like, “Let me give you a .45 caliber reminder of what is happening here,” while blowing people away, and then using his knowledge of crime scenes to evade detection? That would have kicked nine kinds of ass.
But no, instead of going out with a bang, this once groundbreaking show went out with a whimper.
[It was almost as offensive as the very last episode of Enterprise. Almost. But no finale will ever be as shockingly, inappropriately awful as These are the Voyages, and that wound will never heal. Yes, I’m looking at you, Brannon goddamned Braga.]
I guess the smartest cast members may have been George Eads and Elizabeth Shue, both of whom turned down the chance to take one last spin across the blood-spattered floor, probably after reading that pathetic excuse for a script.
The CSI finale was an absolute failure, and this time there is no one to blame but the writer.