I've Got You Under My Skin

Before I start, I have to throw copious amounts of gratitude as well as a great big cooler chest of Beer Without Pity in SunMoonStar's direction, as she has so kindly lent me her Season One tapes for recapping purposes this summer. Special thanks also go to the many people who offered various forms of assistance, including Ozzie, Dr. No, and others from the forum boards, as well as Stefan69 from Fan Forum. (And if you're one of the TWoPpians who emailed me whose name I didn't mention specifically, know that it's because I was hopelessly and stupidly unable to link your email account to your user name, and not because I feel like skimping on the love and the props and the Beer Without Pity and whatnot.) And now, on to the continuing adventures of the Original Glamorous Ladies of Halliwell Manor

We fade up on a latticed arbor, beneath which is suspended a shattered slab of reinforced concrete stenciled with the logo "[quake]." Actually, the word itself is split by a great, jagged rip through the rock, through which a couple of shafts of twisted rebar can be seen, so I suppose the name of this place would be rendered in text more accurately as "[qua=ke]." A bulbous bruiser of a doorman escorts a beaming twenty-something heterosexual couple into the bar area as various chicly-clad extras mill about, giggling into their cocktails. At this point, I could go off on an irate tear about how the dot-com yuppies of the closing years of the last century were so falsely secure in their overrated IPOs, their overpriced condominiums, and their overindulged sense of entitlement that they felt free to mock in the most obnoxious manner possible the very real threats to the security they so took for granted, and that such behavior now, in these dark early days of the twenty-first century, seems downright surreal, but you know what? I've been wondering why some cunning entrepreneur in Chicago has yet to open a nightclub called Dirty Bomb, so I should probably keep my mouth shut. To be honest with you, I've always wondered why my city lacks a restaurant chain named Gacy's! with festive clowns available to twist out balloon animals for the kiddies' birthday parties. Oh, shut it. It couldn't be any worse than Ditka's.

Anyway, the camera tracks through the restaurant to land on Phoebe, looking terribly demure in a simple, spaghetti-strapped sheath with her bobbed hair swept back behind her ears. As she wanders through the crowd, she nearly runs right into Piper, who emerges from the kitchen with her bitch already set at seven and threatening to ramp up rapidly to fifteen. "I'm gonna kill him," she seethes. Speaking for the audience as much as herself, Phoebe yelps, "Who?" thereby allowing Piper to launch into the sort of rapid-fire expository tirade I now know has been this series' stock in trade from the beginning. "Chef Moore," Piper spits, referring to the odious toad from the premiere. "He of the phony accents hires me, and then quits to open his own place?" she continues as the two pedebitch to the bar. "Thank you very much!" While I'm ecstatic I'll never have to deal with that irritating tertiary character again, I should point out that Chef Moore's place of business in the premiere was a glass-enclosed, chrome-laden, ber-trendy boutique caf called "L'Opera Ristorante" and not this lovely little faux-Tuscan-courtyard of an eatery with the unfortunate name. Continuity, clearly, was the first casualty when the WB picked up the pilot.

Piper screams some more at Phoebe along the lines of "Dammit, Jim! I'm a chef, not a restaurateur! And why are you wearing my dress?" before this big bleached blonde we've never seen appears at the bar. Phoebe greets "Brittany," and compliments the cheap-looking "tattoo" of an angel Brittany sports on her right hand. It looks more like a hand-stamp they'd use at the old Limelight chain of nightclubs, but whatever. Phoebe PSAs that she thought hand tattoos were forbidden, due to the proximity of the veins to the surface of the skin in that area. Brittany blithely notes that such tattoos are indeed illegal in the United States, which is why she got hers in Tahiti. Bad Brittany! Bad! You'll suffer for such flagrant flouting of this great nation's laws, you whore! Do you think we should stone her? I think we should stone her. Brittany, having thus established her credentials as a suitable object of both audience scorn and demonic violence, announces that she has to "jam," which as far as I'm concerned is the real strike against her. I'm sure she'll be sparking up her crack pipe and kicking a few puppies on her way out the door. Then again, considering how screwed the WB's priorities always are, she'll probably just light a Virginia Slim on her way to that fuel-efficient Japanese import of hers in the parking lot, which along with the tattoo should be more than enough to mark her for death on the Frog.

Meanwhile, Phoebe glances down the bar at a rather unassuming and alarmingly square-jawed yuppie, and for her troubles is slapped in the teeth by a free-floating black-and-white premonition. Mr. Lantern-Head slides out of his seat with a grin, then shyly approaches Phoebe at her end of the bar. Phoebe snaps out of it, and directs Piper's attention towards the gentleman in question. She tells Piper that his name is Alec, and he's about to ask if he can buy Phoebe a martini. "Phoebe!" Piper chides. "You're not supposed to use your powers! We agreed!" Phoebe smirks that Piper and Prue agreed. Phoebe, on the other hand, "abstained" from the voting. And you all thought abstinence was a foreign concept for the Feebs. Besides, Phoebe claims, she can't control her premonitions, anyway -- they "just pop into [her] head." This, naturally, is Piper's point. What they can't control, they shouldn't use. She herself is worried that she'll panic and "freeze the entire restaurant." Alec shyly sidles over to Phoebe and asks if he can order her a martini. Phoebe gets giddily flirtatious while Piper grinds her back molars down to the gum line and rolls her eyes. "Prue is going to be pissed!" she hisses. Not if you don't tell her about it, Little Miss Tattletale. Phoebe playfully warns Piper that if she keeps up with all her worrying, she'll get wrinkles -- and years before Botox, no less. Phoebe leads her yuppie conquest to a table as Piper clenches every sphincter in her body.

Out in the parking lot, Brittany The Big Bleached Blonde shakes her tattooed, law-flouting ass over to her fuel-efficient import. I really shouldn't be so hard on her. Compared to the scrawny little lollipop-headed stick girlies they normally hire as innocents on this show, this actress looks, well, healthy. Then again, way back in 1998, all of the women on this show looked healthy. I'll be counting the episodes until they dwindle down to their more familiar anemic selves. Anyway, The Big Bleached Blonde peers about nervously, then opens her driver's side door. Whoops! Didn't check the back seat, did you? Bad Brittany! Bad! Should we stone her now? Huh? Brittany eases herself into the car and adjusts the rearview mirror to check her lipstick. Of course, when she does so, the squinty, glinty eyes of some serial-killing creep appear in the mirror to stare back at her from the depths of the back seat. Of course. Brittany lets loose a deep-throated howl of abject terror that would do Jamie Lee Curtis proud as the camera tracks back from her lonely little Fuel-Efficient Import Of Doom.

I was expecting the credits here, but I suppose they hadn't settled into that particular routine at this point. Instead, I get a lovely shot of a mist-enshrouded San Francisco at night as seen from a hill in one of the residential neighborhoods, and then we cut over to Shannen Doherty's naked thighs. I let loose a deep-throated howl of abject...never mind. Prue lets an oversized sweater drop down over said thighs as an out-of-focus, shagged-out, and shirtless Andy Trudeau snoozes on his stomach on a bed in the background. Prue quietly crosses to retrieve her purse, shoes, and skirt from a chair near the window as Andy snorts in his sleep. Just as Prue approaches the bedroom door, Andy's alarm clock goes off. For a moment, I'm confused that it's already a quarter to six in the morning, and then I remember they jettisoned continuity to land that initial full-season order. Prue jumps at the sound and whirls around to glare at the clock. The clock obligingly sails out of the open window before Andy can sleepily shut it off. Hee! Prue darts out of the room to commence her walk of shame as Andy flips around on his bed, and wow. Now I understand why people have such fond memories of this guy. Quite the muscled little slampiece, this one. They should have more well-built half-naked men on this show. And on that note, we slowly fade out into the opening credits.

As the Dolt-free credits roll by, I think to myself, "Okay. They should have more well-built half-naked men who aren't Brian Krause on this show."

Canadian commercials, courtesy of CTV. It's all aboot that Maple Leaf Ready Crisp Bacon. I bet it'd go great with some Kraft Dinner, eh?

Wow. The opening travelogue just zips right by, because for once it's set to a song I actually like -- "Torn," by Natalie Imbruglia. What? Shut up. No, seriously. No. Seriously. All of you can shut the hell up. Now. After shots of the skyline and the bay and a cable car practically upending itself down a hill, we land on Prescott Street and Halliwell Manor. In the kitchen, Kit yowls and prances across the counter past the little white television set. Piper whips eggs for omelets while keeping a wary eye on a suitably cheesy and sensationalistic documentary about the witch trials in Salem, Massachusetts. It's all In Search Of with lousy faux-woodcut graphics, cheap sound effects, and the forbidding recitation of overwrought narration. It details one Mary Estee, who supposedly attempted to enter the town church to protest her innocence but was struck by lightning as she touched the door. This bit of information is accompanied on the TV by a tinny scream from the unfortunate Goody Estee. "In the court's mind," the narrator intones significantly, "God Himself had spoken, forbidding the eeee-vil witch from even entering His house." Holly Marie Combs's deadpan of glazed dismay at this piece of information is hysterically funny. "The witches were subsequently convicted of heresy," continues the narration, "and burned alive at the stake." Prue brightly enters the kitchen in time to hear this last bit, and snarks at Piper for watching so trashy a television show. Um. Word, Prue. I think. Piper flutters her hands around dismissively before revealing that Andy called. Prue: "Whin?" Why is Shannen Doherty incapable of pronouncing words correctly? Innyone? I kin wait, but while I do, I'll kintinue with the scene. Piper senses Prue's mood and guesses that the evening's date went badly. On the contrary, Prue notes with remorse, it wint rather well -- "Dinner...movie...sex." "You sleaze!" Piper teases, shocked -- shocked -- that Prue would do it on the first date. Prue counters that it wasn't exactly a first date, and Piper exposits that Prue and Andy's history as a couple in high school doesn't count, as that was all "last decade."

Prue grabs a cup of coffee and spins around to stride through the dining room, reluctantly admitting that the sex was "amazing," but adding that they were "going to take it slow" and "it shouldn't have happened." Phoebe bounces down the stairs at this point, and Piper fills her in on the evening's events. Prue, needless to say, is much annoyed. The three ricochet through the parlor onto the sun porch as we learn that Phoebe was quite the woman of non-existent virtue the evening as well -- she even had the nerve to drag Lantern-Head back to the Bimbo Boudoir to engage in her tawdry fornication. Can we stone her now? The banter grinds to a halt when Phoebe accidentally lets slip that she received a premonition of her boy toy before he actually walked over to her. Prue gracelessly flops into a wrought-iron chair with her cup and proceeds to read Phoebe's beads for using the power of premonition to land a one-night stand. They bicker in this vein for a bit before Phoebe blurts, "Nobody died, and, FYI, nothing happened last night. At least, nothing I'm ashamed of." Whore. Prue drops a PSA-bomb Andy gave her regarding "someone who's abducting women in [their] area," noting that "warlocks aren't the only evil [they] have to watch out for." Phoebe looks suitably chastened. "Ind, FYI," Prue continues, "I'm not ashamed of innything, either." Phoebe smirks proudly. Whore. Prue heaves a sigh and gazes at her coffee.

The Loneliest Precinct House In The World. Andy and Darryl examine a photograph of Brittany, in which her Limelight hand-stamp is prominently displayed. The photograph has been provided by Brittany's live-in love slave Max, who's worried because Brittany never came home last night. The boys send Max on his way with the slender reassurance that Brittany will turn up of her own accord. Once the fretful love slave has left, Andy grimly notes, "Fourth one this week." Darryl, for some reason, responds with, "You do something to your hair?" You think I'm kidding, don't you? I don't make this shit up, people. Andy sticks to the business at hand, expositing that they "can narrow down [the presumed abductor's] feeding pool [sic] to the area around the restaurant." Darryl snarks, "You better tell your sweetheart to lock the door tonight," and whaps his partner's tight little stomach as he eases past to go somewhere else. If I didn't know better, I'd say Darryl's jealous. Of Prue.

Cut to the bell tower of a stately mainline Protestant church beneath lowering skies. Piper silently throws a sideways glare at the front door from the confines of her car. Snicker. "Pastor Williams" thumps on the side of her car with his umbrella, like, thanks for those dings in the door, jackass, and asks Piper why she's so early. In case you're wondering why I'm pegging the church as Protestant, it's because Piper herself addresses this guy as "Pastor," and he's clad in a grey suit over his clerical collar. In any event, it seems Piper made arrangements to drop off [islamic jih=ad]'s lunch leftovers at the church's soup kitchen every afternoon. Piper fidgets, sort of half-admits that she stopped by with a question, then babbles something inane about Mary Estee while asking if it's true that evil beings cannot enter the house of the Lord without God frying their wicked, wicked asses. Pastor Williams smiles that he has no idea, but adds that he wouldn't want to find out, either. He takes his leave of her and enters the church. After a moment, Piper screws up her courage and hops out of her Grand Cherokee. She edges her way across the street, nervously mounts the steps one at a time, and stretches a shaky hand towards the door. As she's about to touch the handle, a thunderclap echoes across the city and the bells in the tower toll. Piper hoots and squeals races back towards her car. Snerk. Silly? Of course, but it was entertaining nonetheless, although you know neither Alyssa nor Shannen would have been able to pull off this sort of crap.

The tolling bells take us over to the Buckland Auction House. Well, that's what the sign out front says, at any rate. It actually appears to be a twelve-story office tower that happens to contain Buckland's on the top floor, and I don't know why the building's owner would identify the property with a sign for a single tenant, but you know what? Moving. On. Prue skitters through the lobby and pulls a Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan by dumping all of her belongings onto the floor and screaming for someone to hold the elevator until she can get her shit together. A British twerp who wishes he were Hugh Grant obliges her, and even stoops to help collect her things. When the twerp notes that her belongings include a folder on "eighteenth-century French art," he asks if she's a Buckland's employee. Prue gamely admits that she has a job interview, then overshares that she's running late as her cell phone rings. It's Andy, talkin' smoove, telling his baby that she shouldn't be ashamed they "made" the "love," and asking why she gotta be so cold, sneakin' out of his apartment the way she do. Probably because you call it "making love" with nary a shred of irony, you tool. Prue tries to play it cool as every male eye in the car ogles her all, "Hey! There's a slut in the elevator!" Fortunately for Prue, her cell connection wonks out before she can further humiliate herself in front of this carload of strangers, but the damage appears to have been done as she glances around to find all of the surrounding gentlemen staring at her ass. Prue grimaces and notes that every call button for every floor between the lobby and Buckland's has been pushed. She squints her eyes. The elevator skips straight up to the top. So much for those prohibitions on personal gain, huh? Hypocrite. Whore. Hypocrite whore. Prue flips a snark at the Grant manqu and bolts out of the elevator.

[boxcutt=ers]. Phoebe slides through the active lunch crowd to deliver a menu to a gentleman I shall call "Pecker," for we shortly learn that he's a world-renowned fashion photographer, and I can already tell that he's a prick. Phoebe instantly recognizes Pecker from her wild sojourn in New York City, and slobbers compliments all over him while Pecker's lunch date gives Phoebe the wicked side-eye. Long story short, Pecker's in town on a "Porsche shoot," and invites Phoebe to stop by for a "session," if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Evidently, Prue's earlier warning went in one of Phoebe's vapid little ears and out the other, for Phoebe immediately agrees, accepting with a smile the proffered bar napkin upon which Pecker has scrawled his studio's waterfront address. As Phoebe titters herself away from Pecker, Piper accosts her with an order she needs Phoebe to deliver. Phoebe agrees to help out, but asks Piper to first see if Pecker is still looking at her. Pecker, alas, has disappeared.

Buckland's. Apparently, the auction house is renovating its office space, as drop cloths and scaffolding abound. Well, either that, or they hired an egregiously inept decorator. An Amazonian blonde gingerly picks her way through the disarray with Prue at her side while explaining that the house's owner, "Rex Buckland," is quite impressed both with Prue's rsum and with her work at the Armenian Mutant. The blonde, towering as she is over puny Prue, does have one question: Why would Prue's former boss at the Mutant thrash Prue's reputation when asked for a reference? Prue cops to her ball-busting ways, revealing that she and Roger were engaged until she called it off. The Amazonian Blonde's all inappropriately stoked at this news as she enthuses, "Gotcha!" and eases open the door to Rex's office, like, what did I say last week? Do not shit where you eat. Fools. To the surprise of absolutely no one, with the possible exception of those very few Amish types who did not indulge in TV during their rumspringa, Rex is the one and only Hugh Grant wannabe from the elevator. He's changed into a suit from his earlier outfit of jeans and a button-down, of course, but still. Prue gapes.

Meanwhile, across town, we're treated to an exterior shot of a waterfront warehouse before heading inside to take in a red Porsche baking under studio lights. A wrinkled hand mottled with liver spots passes in front of the lens with a stout blue candle as generic "rock" "music" plays on the soundtrack. The hand slots the candle into a tall holder as the camera rotates slowly to reveal Pecker's side-eyed lunch date strapped down onto one of those glowy tables photographers use to examine slide sheets. The table is surrounded by lit candles. The lunch date gets screamy, begging Pecker to release her. Pecker emerges from the shadows, and much to Lunch Date's horror, he's all wrinkly and old. "It's Javna," he rasps as he approaches her. Lunch Date's screaming rises in pitch to canine-exclusive levels as Pecker's eyes glow orange. Two shockingly cheap CGI rays of light shoot from his eyes to hers. Actually, it's an insult to computer-generated image technology everywhere to call these things CGI. It looks like some slave-wage animator on the Korean peninsula went frame by frame with an eraser, rubbing out the relevant sections of film until ray-like strips of white light were allowed to bleed through onto the screen. Lunch Date screams and ages rapidly before our eyes. Wrinkly Pecker morphs into Smooth Pecker, and I just made myself squirmy with disgust. Smooth Pecker flips around a hand mirror and chuckles at his reflection as we head into the commercial break.

Buckland's. Job interview. Mention is made of Prue's extensive curating experience at the Mutant. Rex then smarms something he overheard Prue natter at Andy in the elevator about being "totally wrong for the job." Prue slams him for having the gall to throw what she said during "a private phone conversation" back in her face, and adds, "You called me, re-mim-ber, not the other way around." She rises to her feet and tells him he's "being unfair" and wah, and Rex caves and explains he only just took over the auction house from his father and blah and he's not entirely comfortable in his managerial role as of yet and whatever. He does add that despite Prue's qualifications, he wouldn't want to hire her if she didn't really want to work there. Prue greets this apparent deal breaker with a poker face and thanks Rex for his time. She reaches the door to his office before spinning on her heel and retracing her steps back towards his desk with the following: "My area of expertise ranges from Ming Dynasty to a Mark McGwire rookie baseball card." As my immediate and violent snort of derision shot my entire spleen and most of my large intestine out of my nose at this point, I missed the rest of the scene, but I think Rex was impressed by Prue's sassy moxie and arranged for a second interview.

The Forbidding Episcopal Edifice. Piper and Phoebe cruise up in [sleeper c=ell]'s van to make the daily delivery of rancid leftovers for the homeless. As church volunteers retrieve trays of food from Phoebe, the gals blather about Prue's shocking behavior with Andy the evening. Phoebe's pretty blas about the whole thing, hoping that Prue might lighten up a bit now that she's getting some while adding that sex on the first date isn't necessarily a bad thing, especially considering Prue and Andy's history together. What network is this show on, again? I mean, I can see the little CTV logo in the corner of the screen, but does that mean Connie & Co. cut one edit for those saucy Canadians and another for the morbidly frigid suits at the WB? Because Phoebe's practical attitude towards sex is so sensible and, well, refreshing that I have a hard time believing the WB Standards & Practices Nazis would ever allow a United States audience to hear all of this. Piper does voice some reservations about it all, but those reservations seem linked more to her character's flustered and hesitant attitude towards life in general than to some network-mandated PSA on the evils of fornication. Well, her flustered and hesitant attitude towards life in general and the fact that her boyfriend ended up being a dark demonic force sent from the flaming maw of Hell to gut her like a fish in an elevator, but whatever. I'm so confused.

The conversation is cut short when Pastor Williams pops up behind Phoebe to greet her warmly, noting that he had no idea she was back in town. They banter about New York for a bit before Phoebe books it to a nearby newsstand for some gum. Left alone with the minister, Piper stutters and stammers and concocts a story about a "friend" of hers who thinks she's a witch, and does this mean God will fry her "friend's" wicked ass if said "friend" tries to enter a church? Pastor Williams rather unhelpfully quotes Exodus: "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Referring to Piper's "friend," he harshly adds, "If you go by the old school, it means put her to death. She's evil." How did this jackass land a job at an Episcopal church in San Francisco? I bet his "old school" lectures on Leviticus go down real well with the parishioners. Not. Asshole.