There are good ideas, and then there are good scripts. “New Amsterdam,” a new series directed by Finland’s Lasse Hallstrom that makes its premiere tonight on Fox, comes with a reasonably intriguing premise: John Amsterdam (the Danish actor Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), a Dutch-born (this is all very Nordic) New York homicide detective, has been living in Manhattan since 1642 because, like many people on television these days, he’s … immortal! So please excuse him if he occasionally feels a little world-weary, can’t resist showing off his superlative knowledge of the city’s history, and, despite his 498 years, has yet to sprout a single chest hair.

John is also a romantic, eternally in search of “the one,” the woman who will not only allow him to experience true love in a life long enough to give even a cryonics enthusiast pause, but also restore him to ordinary mortal status. A hokey battle scene from 1642 shows him almost dying as he saves a Native American woman’s life. She turns out to be a pipe-smoking shaman, and in return not only gives him the kiss of his life, but grants him eternal life as well — at least until he meets “the one.”

“To be human is to die, and to die is what makes life worth living. It’s God’s little joke,” quoth the philosopher-detective, who is on his 36th dog, 609th girlfriend, and hasn’t had a drink in more than 15,000 days, though he still attends Alcoholics Anonymous.

Part of the joke of the series is that Amsterdam doesn’t really hide his immortality. On the contrary, despite appearing to be in his mid-30s, he constantly alludes to having been present at events such as the 1944 invasion of Normandy, which one would think took place long before he was born, knowing perfectly well everyone will assume he’s joking.

The latest person in John’s life to make the assumption is his new partner, Detective Eva Marquez (Zuleikha Robinson), a “strong,” “independent,” and fatally humorless (as far as the show is concerned) cop straight out of Central Casting. Eva’s main job on the program is to appear unimpressed by Amsterdam while secretly being impressed by almost everything he does. In other words, the “strong,” “independent,” feminist-friendly stuff is mostly camouflage for an utterly traditional female role: She’s there to make the man look smart.

Inhabiting an even less original part is Omar (Stephen Henderson), a grizzled black bartender, wise man, and walking ethnic cliché who is the one living person who knows that Amsterdam is immortal. He also knows that Amsterdam hasn’t always been a detective. For instance, he was a master craftsman back in the 19th century, and Omar still has a stash of his collectibles, which he occasionally sells. “I remember when Thelonious Monk bought one of your desks, after the midnight show at 5-Spot with Coltrane sitting in,” he growls during one of their faux-soulful chats in his permanently empty bar.

A funny time for old Monk to buy a desk, the viewer can’t help thinking, but the thought immediately evaporates when Amsterdam responds sadly: “‘Trane died mad at me.” Oh, dear. If the goal is to make Amsterdam a compendium of the city’s cultural history, the result is mere pretentiousness. Before long, he’ll be telling us about his quarrels with Edgar Allan Poe.

The failure lies in the script. Buttressed by tinkling jazz and songs by such modern pop acts as the Decembrists and Death Cab for Cutie, the show aims at sweeping romanticism but forgets that before you get to stir the soul, you have to provide the occasional insight into the human condition. Amsterdam’s opening voice-over sets the hackneyed tone: “New York City. ‘A beautiful catastrophe,’ someone once called it.” (That would be Le Corbusier, who specialized in hideous catastrophes.) “I call it home, romance, glamour, excitement … the city has it all.” Or: “I’ve watched the world change. The best invention? Indoor plumbing. The worst? The alarm clock.”

Nor does the pilot episode spare us the customary plot concerning a beautiful girl who has been murdered. (By this point, grandma’s missing poodle would be more exciting.) There’s also an unrealistic chase scene, and the usual mind-numbing forensic mumbo jumbo. “The bullet perforated the right bronchial(?) cephalic(?) vein in the [something or other] artery,” states a medic who yawns immediately afterward. Who wouldn’t? So is there hope for “New Amsterdam”? Maybe. It does possess the potential to explore the idea of serial selves, or simply the very American concept of perpetual restlessness and reinvention. Amsterdam is like the man who tells his wife he’s going out to buy a pack of cigarettes and never returns. Only in his case, there’s a reason. Unless he’s willing to fess up to being a vampire, sooner or later any wives (he’s had a few), lovers, friends, co-workers, and even casual acquaintances are going to wonder why they seem to be getting older and grayer while he hasn’t aged a minute.

Hence, sooner or later, there will come a time for Amsterdam to disappear into a new profession, a new life, abruptly leaving the wondering and weeping husks of his former existence behind. We get an extended taste of this in the second episode, in which we discover that as well as having been a master craftsman during the 19th century, he was a lawyer (surname, York) involved in a biracial romance during the 1940s. You’d think at some point he’d switch cities, too, if only so as not to run into his ex-wives, but “New Amsterdam,” which takes its title from Manhattan’s name when it was a Dutch colony, is, among other things, a love song to the island on which Amsterdam has lived since he arrived there in 1642.

Television valentines to New York are a dime a dozen right now, however, and this one will have to work its gimmicky premise hard to make it worth sticking with.

bbernhard@earthlink.net