I don’t know much about Seth McFarlane, the creator of “American Dad,” except what’s obvious from watching his new animated series on Fox: He’s mired in middle school. The American Idol Channel has nevertheless entrusted him with millions of dollars and a premium time slot to peddle his pubescent point of view – a mistake in judgement that reflects how little networks understand why some shows work and others don’t. The best of animated comedy has more heart than gas.

Even Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the twenty-somethings who created and still run the highly juvenile but vastly superior “South Park” on Comedy Central, have demonstrated more emotional maturity than Mr. McFarlane does. (Every “South Park” episode ends in a lesson to rival “The Hardy Boys” in its clean-cut morality.) His new series “American Dad” demonstrates that in creating an animated classic like “The Simpsons” it helps to be able to resist the occasional fart joke. It never hurt “The Simpsons” to have grown-up humorists like James L. Brooks in the background; it had to have been Mr. Brooks’s influence, in part, that kept “The Simpsons” grounded in reality, with every episode centered around an emotional journey that ended in redemption. However tired “The Simpsons” might seem to those who’ve watched most of its 336 episodes to date, its heartwarming formula still manages to keep us hooked; our compassion for Homer Simpson knows no bounds.

The same will never be said of Stan Smith, the central character of “American Dad.” Fox generously turned over the time slot immediately following last night’s Super Bowl to “American Dad,” hoping to link it to the “Simpsons” sensibility by putting it alongside a “Simpsons” episode. It didn’t work. “American Dad” turns out to be as generic as its name, or that of its core family. Are we supposed to be reading quote marks around their name to enhance its ironic value? Irony allows untalented writers that freedom, and it’s sad to see it employed so often in the animated form. Come on, Mr. McFarlane: You can do better than calling your main character Smith. Or can you?

Nor could Mr. McFarlane’s dialogue be described as thought provoking – unless the thought is that maybe Mr. McFarlane spends too much time watching television. (After a while, the endless in-joke references on television, about television, become exhausting even to the most devoted tubeaholic.) The show opens with a bunch of inside pop-culture gags that will be out of date by the time this show reaches syndication, which it won’t – and are meaningless to the pre-teens who flock to reruns of “The Simpsons” and “South Park” as a bridge to the live-action sitcoms that await them.

I will admit to laughing at one comic run about the word “period,” in which Stan Smith’s unpopular son, Steve, briefly becomes student body president; he informs the school that the word “period” now has been changed to “Steve,” as in: “Don’t be late for first Steve.” The joke pays off when a teenage girl informs her teacher that she needs to go to the bathroom urgently. “I’m having my Steve,” she says. But that was the only real laugh I counted in 22 minutes. Not that cartoons ever make me laugh out loud – usually, if they’re good, they prompt a sustained smirk – but I was hoping for more from “American Dad” than one decent chuckle.

The premise of a CIA dad in a dysfunctional family didn’t seem all that fresh, either. Their talking fish and in-house alien took the Smiths out of the realm of reality; Homer Simpson’s three strands of hair looked faintly plausible by contrast to the doings of the Smith clan, who bear a closer resemblance to the central family in “The Incredibles” in their essential weirdness. Would that their family issues had the emotional resonance that gave “The Incredibles” such a ring of familiarity to audiences. Mr. McFarlane seems to have learned less from the great animated triumphs of the past, and more from the flatulent obsessions of fourth-graders. What separates the artistry of “The Simpsons” from the turpitude of “American Dad” is the lack of condescension in “Simpsons” humor. It turns out there’s a difference between looking like a cartoon, and acting like one.

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I can’t comprehend why “Unscripted” hasn’t caught on. There’s no match on television to the mix of comedy and pain that makes this Sunday night HBO series such a powerful experience. The journeys of its three central characters have me mesmerized – most especially Krista Allen, whose heartbreaking career failures somehow manage to induce pity and compassion, despite her amazing beauty and evident real-life success. (It’s a cosmic and entertaining irony that all these actors, portraying failures, can count “Unscripted” as their greatest achievement.) Frank Langella’s portrait of the alternately mystical and maniacal teaching guru Goddard Fulton has deepened; this past Sunday, his devastating explosion when a cell phone goes off in class had to feel painfully familiar to anyone who has ever sat in a classroom. When Jennifer studies her lithe body in a mirror – wondering how to lose the 10 pounds an agent has told her she must – the agony of an actor’s career becomes a universal experience; so, too, is the moment she’s passed over for a tiny voiceover on a television cartoon, while a friend gets the part. Which of us has never struggled with the demands of authority, or the pain of other peoples’ success? The tiny battles fought each week by Jennifer, Bryan, and Krista on “Unscripted” may seem insignificant, but they’re laying their souls on the line in pursuit of their dreams. It’s great television.