by Walter Chaw In the hour or so past my bedtime in the endless dusk of UHF syndication, I used to watch Rod Serling's "The Twilight Zone" and Joseph Stefano's "The Outer Limits" with my father. The previous fed the nightmares of my youth, the latter fed my fondest desires and deepest faith in the eternal verity, and nobility, of asking questions, of ambition, of being courageous enough to fail to change the world. "The Outer Limits", I realize in these first months after my father's death, represented the best things about him--and about me: that line pure that stretches between where we are and where we hope to go. "The Outer Limits" is, more so than "The Twilight Zone", about how we never feel as though we are the men we ought to be because our fathers have set too difficult an example. Where Serling dazzled with O. Henry-like twists, "The Outer Limits" sobered with existential frustrations: one is the dove resolution, the other the hat forever emptying.