Battlestar Galactica had its moments, but as a whole it was pretty dumb. Last night’s series finale was split neatly down the middle — one hour of spectacular battle, one hour of maundering philosophy — as if the focus groups couldn’t focus. Episodes here and there in the middle of the series that dealt with issues of human rights, torture, freedom of speech, the dangers and uses of centralized power, and so forth, had some substance. But please don’t tell me I’m the only one who queased out when Laura Roslin looked out the window of her flying Pacer at a flock of flamingos, muttered “so . . . much . . . life,” closed her eyes, and died. Please. Hari Seldon wanted better for we his children. (And when it comes to love? Rat Korga and Marq Dyeth make Caprica-Six and Gaius Baltar seem simpler and shallower than Archie and Betty.) Sorry to sound like a frakking pretentious git. I don’t have a prejudice against television, I really don’t. I believe great art can arrive through any medium, from theremin to car crash. I just get a bit vexed when people call treacle genius and put it on their syllabi. Did you see this? Couldn’t they have had those kids read The Plague instead?