First, a short note. I wrote the following unaware of the article in Friday’s Hollywood Reporter revealing that Shannen Doherty is taking her act -- and her bitchy attitude -- on the road. Those of you expecting commentary on this development in this week’s recap will be sorely disappointed. Now, on with the show.
I’ve heard tell in the forums that this episode will be the last “lighthearted” one for quite some time. If so, kill me. Now. Drama does not wear well on this program.
Case in point: Phoebe Halliwell. The episode opens with her “forlornly” ensconced in the manor parlor. The Book of Shadows lies open in her lap. She gazes “sadly” at a photo-booth strip of pictures of herself and Cole in happier times. “Dejectedly,” she pastes the strip onto a blank page facing the one devoted to Belthazor. After “despondently” contemplating this for a moment, she “miserably” scrawls “Cole’s human FoRm” across the top of the page in her childish hand. At this point, I should care for her welfare. I should care that she lost her boyfriend -- or as she put it herself, her “soul mate” -- to the Forces of Evil. I should care that this loss might cause her to behave in a manner unbefitting a Charmed One. I should care that she’s marring the otherwise well-done Book of Shadows with her amateurish scribbling. I care about none of these things. Why? Because Drama Does Not Wear Well On This Program. Because These People Cannot Act. Because The “Writers” Suck At Scripting Anything Other Than Broad, Magic-Related Comedy.
I’m sorry. I suppose I’m being bitter. Maybe it’s because I wasted three hours of my life Saturday watching The Patriot. (“It’s not TV. It’s historically-inaccurate Mel Gibson crapfests.”) Maybe it’s the article I read in this week’s New Yorker about the toxic environment broadcast network executives force their creative teams to endure. I realize I should not take such frustrations out on the cast and crew of Charmed. That said, if the last two episodes are any indication of the direction in which this show is headed, I repeat: Kill me. Now.
Well. With that out of the way, let’s settle in for another thrilling episode, shall we? Returning from a date, Prue enters the manor and sets down her wrap. She’s wearing a chocolate-colored tube top and a white skirt that either has rather strategically-placed triangular panels sewn into it, or it’s so sheer that I’m looking at her panties. Phoebe asks why Prue chose not to invite her latest conquest inside. Prue accuses Phoebe of “eavesdropping.” Phoebe replies that she must get her romance vicariously through her sister’s dating exploits, now that she again is a single woman. Take out an ad in the personals, sweetie. And put a sock in it while you’re at it. Prue flips her hair around a bit and turns to enter the parlor. To my immense relief, her skirt upon closer inspection is indeed a series of triangular panels sewn together. I don’t think I could handle looking at Shannen Doherty’s unmentionables all evening. Prue announces that her love life lately “could be rated PG for ‘Pretty Grim.’” Phoebe decides this is because Prue is holding out for “Mr. Right,” as opposed, presumably, to Mr. Right Now. Prue insists she’d gladly settle for any or all of the Messrs. “Interesting,” “Personality,” or “Take My Breath Away.” Phoebe darkly warns against the latter, promising that those types tend to spring nasty surprises on the unsuspecting. To emphasize her point, she draws a thick arrow leading to a photo of Cole with her black Sharpie. Prue gasps in horror that her youngest sister is destroying the integrity of the Book of Shadows with her kindergarten doodling, and forcefully TKs Phoebe into an unfortunate plant stand before she can do more irreparable harm to the family’s most-valuable heirloom. Kidding. She doesn’t do any of that. Rather, she sits on the arm of the sofa to read from Phoebe’s entry. “Cole likes walks in the park, jazz, and fine wine.” And licking up the blood of Protestant babies as it drips from their lifeless bodies after he’s nailed them to the door of a Catholic cathedral. Oops. Sorry. I have no idea where all of this latent hostility is coming from tonight. Could it be the last twenty episodes? Okay, the last two, then.
Anyway, Prue gently notes that that sort of information has no place in the BoS. Indeed. It’s a guide to the underworld, not a dating service. Phoebe argues weakly that such information will be necessary for future Halliwell witches, should Cole do that voodoo that he do so well on one of their descendants. Prue interprets this reasoning as the cry for help it really is, and asks Phoebe if there’s anything she’d like to discuss. Phoebe insists there is nothing further to discuss. “I loved. I lost. And now I’m moving on.” Yeah. I know. I saw it already. And now you need to shut up about it. Piper helpfully comes to my aid by blowing something up in another corner of the house. The explosion rattles the lamps in the parlor. Prue and Phoebe drop their current pointless dialogue to investigate. In “the bunker formerly known as the basement” -- Phoebe’s term -- Piper is revealed to have destroyed the stored Christmas decorations. The Christmas decorations consist primarily of those tacky glowing plastic candy canes and Santas, so I certainly don’t have a problem with this development. To no one’s surprise, Piper still cannot control her amplified powers. Phoebe and Prue ask through the basement door if they can help Piper in any way. Piper shouts back the suggestion that they stay as far away from her as possible. Prue tries to cajole Piper into coming back upstairs. The Dolt needs her. The nightclub needs her. Her starving sisters need her to cook for them. “Do you want her to come up or do you want her to stay down there?” Phoebe asks. Snick. While all of this has been going on, the sounds of a kennelful of dogs yowling at the moon have been gradually getting louder. Due to the noise, Kit darts into the kitchen, distressed. S/he knocks over the garbage can in the process. Phoebe scoots up onto the island to avoid the darting feline. Her ample derriere accidentally shoves a set of utensils to the floor. Downstairs, Piper looks up, wondering loudly what’s going on. Phoebe yodels, “It’s nothing. Don’t blow anything up.” Prue moves to Phoebe’s side as the baying of the hounds increases in volume. “What the hell is going on out there?” Yes, Prue. Exactly.
Cut to a nearby apartment. A dainty little pug yips at the closed window, then leaps from its perch on the sofa to yip some more at its master’s feet. Its master is seated in an armchair, paging through a photo album. The unfortunate actor portraying Pug’s Master has the painful duty of sighing the line, “Oh, Catherine -- my darling!” with a straight face while he strokes one of the photos in the book. Pug yips as His Master breaks down into sobs. Various items of glassware scattered about the apartment start to vibrate and dance as the yips from Pug grow more frequent and more urgent. Pug’s Master, still sobbing, tells him to cram it. Oh, dear. Pug’s actual name is “Misty.” Poor dog. Must catch a lot of crap around the fire hydrant for that one. Misty, finally exacting revenge for a name that too closely resembles that of a feminine hygiene product, yips, “The hell with you, then, Bucky,” and scoots away as the shaking of the apartment amplifies. Okay, I must admit that what follows is pretty damn cool. Misty’s Master senses the rattling, and whips his head back and forth to glance around the apartment. It’s as if the trembling heralds an earthquake of frightening magnitude. The thinnest glass shatters first. The light bulbs in the various lamps explode, plunging the room into darkness. These are followed by shattering vases, pitchers, tumblers, candy jars, clock crystals, and, finally, the glass in a framed photo of Misty’s Master and the presumably-deceased “Catherine.” To the growing horror of Misty’s Master, the row of windows facing the street blows into the apartment. A shadowy form leaps through one of the gaping window frames to bound to the center of the room. It’s a white-haired woman, clad in diaphanous rags that shift in the breeze. She raises her hands to frame her head, drawing her fingers into claws as she unhinges her lower jaw and lets loose with a high-pitched, piercing shriek. She jumps to loom over Misty’s Master, who has dropped the album to the floor and clapped his hands over his ears in voiceless terror. The intruder leans down inches from his face, screaming continuously. Misty’s Master moves his hands from his ears to his eyes. Blood seeps through his fingers as the shrieks carry us to commercial. Oh. Yeah!
Endless shots of night drifting into day over the city of San Francisco as some alterna-ovary chants drivel on the soundtrack. The shifting camera eventually settles on Halliwell Manor. Prue enters the kitchen with a newspaper and perks out “Morning” to Phoebe, who sits at the table scribbling madly in the BoS with her trusty Sharpie. Prue pours herself a cup of joe and asks Phoebe if she’s “still writing about Cole.” Phoebe reveals that she’s moved on to “his demonic side.” Prue crosses to the table to sit while expressing her concern for Phoebe’s morbid single-mindedness of late. Phoebe counters that it’s Piper with whom Prue should concern herself. The errant P has barricaded herself in the bridal boudoir. Prue opens the paper and changes the subject. She reads aloud that they were not the only ones in the neighborhood annoyed by the canine baying of the evening. “Says there was [sic] a record number of noise complaints.” She continues, “Says there was a man murdered at the exact same time.” Phoebe tells Prue to zip it. Prue carries on with the details of the crime: no apparent motive, nothing missing from the apartment, “lots of shattered glass.” Phoebe talks above her, telling Prue that she refuses to be distracted from the task at hand. Phoebe’s power of premonition is of a different mind on that matter. Phoebe grips the page containing Belthazor’s entry and is flung into a vision. A woman in a phone booth wheels about in terror at the sound of hideous shrieking. She covers her eyes as the glass in the booth shatters. Blood then seeps through her fingers. Phoebe snaps out of it and fills Prue in on the vision. She stands, clutching the BoS to her bosom. “I think a demon was responsible for that man’s death,” she announces. “And I think I know which one.” She stomps out into the dining room. After a moment of goggling, Prue rises to follow.
Phoebe slams the BoS onto a chair and begins clearing the dining room table. Prue asks her what gives. As Phoebe tips the table on its side, she tells Prue that they’re going to summon the Colethazor using the “magic calling magic” spell in order to vanquish him. Prue reminds Phoebe that the details of Misty’s Master’s murder don’t quite match the Colethazor “M.O.” She believes Phoebe is “barking up the wrong demon.” Get it? Barking? You will. Phoebe disagrees, and vows to vanquish the Colethazor with or without her sister’s assistance. Prue reluctantly heads back into the kitchen to retrieve a vial of the violet Belthazor potion as Phoebe flips through the BoS for the correct spell. In the process, she passes a double entry on Banshees that happens to be on the page immediately following Belthazor’s. So determined is she to exact revenge on her ex-boyfriend that she misses the significance of this. Following the entry on the Banshees is a page entitled “To Summon Belthazor.” Hold up. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Piper and Prue rework an earlier “magic calling magic” spell in order to come up with this one in “Sleuthing with the Enemy”? If so, why does this page display the sort of artistry that went into the rest of the BoS, rather than the gals’ girlish scribbling? Do they contract out pages to experienced calligraphers? These and other questions, never to be answered on Charmed. Anyway, the scene cuts to the Cavern of the Bi Kraps. Cole, in black robes of the sort the late, unlamented Ian Buchanan sported in last week’s episode, lights a couple of votives while chanting in Latin. I have no clue if it’s real, as my last class in the language took place some time before Reagan won his second term. Funny I should connect that particular president with dark demonic forces sent from the flaming maw of Hell. Cole’s ritual is interrupted by a little chanting from Phoebe and Prue, which goes like this:
Magic forces black and white,
Reaching out through space and light,
Be he far or be he near --
Bring us the demon Belthazor here.
The Colethazor shudders a bit as a whirlwind swirls around his body. The effect is better in this episode than it was the last time they used it. Cut to the dining room, where Phoebe and Prue repeat the verse from behind the overturned table. Back down in the Cavern, Cole glows yellow in the storm as he resists the pull of the spell. A vortex of twisting white clouds appears in the manor hallway. Phoebe and Prue prepare themselves for the Colethazor’s arrival. Down in the dungeon, Cole morphs up into Belthazor, who shakes off the spell’s effects. Belthazor roars in rage, sweeping an assortment of demonic tchotchkes from the Cavern altar. Up in the manor, the vortex disappears. Prue and Phoebe gape, then rise warily from behind the table. “Dammit!” pouts Phoebe. “Why didn’t it work?” Prue hasn’t a clue. She asks Phoebe for further details from her premonition, but those are at best sketchy. Prue proposes that they head to the murdered Master’s apartment to gather what information they can. Phoebe wonders if they should rope Piper into this little adventure. Prue nixes the idea, as Piper’s under enough stress as it is. The two exit.
Bridal boudoir. Piper, seated in the lotus position, meditates on the bed as the soothing instructions of a New Age swami pour from the speakers of her stereo. The Dolt orbs in unannounced, startling her. She flings her hands in the air and blows up her tape deck. “Leo!” she bitches. “You’re supposed to knock!” She fetches a nearby fire extinguisher and sprays her smoking stereo. Blah blee Piper’s-a-menace-to-society bling. The Dolt reminds her that it took a bit of time to master freezing. Piper reminds the Dolt that “freezing is one thing. Blowing up stuff is another thing altogether.” The Dolt sweetly counters that he’s there to help her. Blather about canceling the honeymoon, which, as you’ll recall, was already decided upon last week. Piper orders her husband to order The Powers That Be to relieve her of her new power. “I’m not ready for it,” she insists. “Nonsense” noises from the Dolt. The two then set up Piper’s Lesson Of The Week, to be learned this evening after enduring as-yet-unspecified hardships. She claims she feels “helpless.” “You are not helpless,” the Dolt replies. “You are one of the strongest, most capable people I’ve ever known.” He eases her back down onto the bed as he continues, “And don’t forget: I’ve been around for a while.” She snuggles against his chest as he reassures further, “We can handle [this] together.”
Cut to the apartment of Misty’s Murdered Master. Inspector Nathaniel “Nat” Bussicio asks Phoebe and Prue, “So what kind of specialists are you, anyway?” So nice of Shannen to toss a little work at her old pal, Joe E. Tata. Phoebe deflects his question, muttering something about Detective Darryl while Prue takes a look at the discarded photo album on the floor. Inspector Nat’s curiosity must be satisfied, however. He wonders if the two are the “psychics” Darryl has been rumored to consult from time to time. Phoebe guffaws, dismissing the notion. Prue comes across the photo of Catherine, and asks if she was the wife of Misty’s Murdered Master. Inspector Nat confirms this, revealing that she died recently, leaving Misty’s Murdered Master inconsolable. Prue wants to know if a suspect has been identified. Nope. The police do know the perp broke in through the window. Given the apartment’s on the third floor, they’re a bit puzzled about how the perp managed to get up that high. Um, the fire escape shown in the establishing shot, maybe? Just a suggestion. Phoebe looks for scorch marks, the signature of a Flaming Ball Of Death. Prue starts to note that the body would be missing in that case, but catches Inspector Nat’s suspicious glance and shuts herself up. “Are you from Arson?” he squints. No, they’re not. But would he be so kind as to let them know the cause of death? Why, of course: Misty’s Murdered Master burst every blood vessel in his body. “He drowned in his own blood.” Ew. Messy. Nat’s still not giving up on the pesky questioning of the Ps’ credentials. “Are you two Feds?” Phoebe’s had enough and gets in his face to announce, “We’re witches, okay? We think a demon might have done this -- probably my ex-boyfriend -- and if he did, we have to find him and vanquish him. Satisfied?” Inspector Nat snarls at her and leaves. Prue wonders if Phoebe has lost what little remains of her scattered mind. Phoebe tells her to shove it. She got rid of Nat, didn’t she? Prue believes a supernatural force was at work, but does not believe said supernatural force was Belthazor. Phoebe glares.
Cut to the Cavern of the Bi Kraps. Cole’s consulting a demonic alchemist. “Why would they try to summon me?” The alchemist believes that Phoebe wants to pick up where she left off with the Colethazor. “Humans can be very forgiving,” he observes, unfortunately reminding me of the numerous second, third, and fourth chances I gave the various morons I’ve dated. Thanks for nothing. Cole finds this hard to believe. The Phoebe-wants-him-back thing, not the bit about the lug nuts I managed to saddle myself with in years past. “If I know [Phoebe],” he snarks, “she wants to crucify me.” Cole wants the alchemist to come up with some sort of potion to destroy his human half, thereby severing all connections he has with the mortals upstairs. The alchemist allows that he can “transmute” Cole’s blood to render the violet vanquishing potion useless, but Cole will never be able to rid himself of his humanity. This, Cole did not want to hear. He evaluates his options briefly, then crosses to the alchemist’s side. “Do what you can,” he orders, rolling up his sleeve. The alchemist TKs a dagger into his hand and draws the blade down Cole’s forearm. He then places his palm over the open wound. Blue bolts of electricity flicker about the gash as Cole gasps in pain.
Manor parlor. Phoebe and Prue bicker a bit more about Cole’s supposed guilt in the murder of Misty’s Master. Phoebe reminds Prue that her premonitions are set off by whatever she’s holding at the time. Prue um-duhs, flipping the Belthazor page in the BoS over to reveal the entry for Banshees. Banshees brought on the vision, not Belthazor. Prue rather improbably wonders what banshees are. Doesn’t everyone know what a banshee is by the time they hit middle school? Or is that just the little Irish kids? The Dolt, calling from the stairway behind, announces that banshees are “demons who feed on souls in great pain.” Which they’re not, but I’ll go along with that definition because I’m too tired to argue. The two swivel on the sofa to greet him, and are surprised to note that Piper has ended her self-imposed exile. Piper reluctantly crosses to her sisters, wondering if they should be “wearing asbestos suits” to prevent possible injury. Prue smiles that if Piper can’t freeze them, she probably can’t blow them up, either. More information on the nature of banshees follows. The Dolt notes that “they’re pretty rare” and that “they hunt for their victims with a high-pitched scream -- something beyond our range to hear.” No one connects this to the baying of the hounds the evening, because that would make them smart, which they are not. Phoebe reads further from the entry. Banshees “locate a victim by hearing the inner cry. [They do] this by zeroing in on the waves of pain that emanate from the stricken.” The Dolt finishes up for her. Once a banshee has targeted an unfortunate, the “call turns into a scream that kills.” The Book contains no banshee vanquish, but it does offer a tracking spell. Phoebe proposes that they designate a “tracker.”
Attic. Designated tracker Prue stands in the center of a circle of candles. Phoebe asks Prue if she’s certain she wants the responsibility. It’s Prue, Feebs. Of course she wants the responsibility. Prue remarks not unkindly that neither Piper nor Phoebe possesses the ideal mental state at the moment to deal with the situation at hand. “Besides,” she notes, “it’s just a tracking spell. What’s the worst that could happen?” Yeah, we all saw the previews. Get on with it. Piper and Phoebe recite the following from the sidelines:
The piercing cry
That feeds on pain
And leaves more sorrow
Than it gains
Shall now be heard
By one who seeks
To stop the havoc
That it wreaks.
Ugh. Better than most of the spells, but nevertheless. Ugh.
Immediately, a burst of bright light blinds Piper, Phoebe, and the Dolt. Prue, encased in shafts of white electrical sparks, makes an amusing “Um, I’m waiting…” face before she disappears, seeming to melt to the floor. Piper: “Ohmigod. Prue?” The camera pans to the carpet to find Literal Bitch Prue where Figurative Bitch Prue once stood. Piper looks to the Dolt as if to say, “Well, what now, genius?” The Dolt gapes. Phoebe leans down to Literal Bitch Prue, who whines us out to commercial.
Heh. That Sears Kenmore dishwasher commercial reminds me of the year my dad bought my mom a vacuum cleaner for Mother’s Day. God, she was pissed.
Back from the break, Phoebe peers beneath a bed, beseeching Literal Bitch Prue to come out. L.B. Prue whines and edges further away. Snicker. “Don’t be so sad,” Phoebe pouts. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” “How!” Piper brays from above. “How is this going to be okay?” Phoebe retorts, “Hands in your pockets!” The Dolt enters from the hall. Piper wonders aloud why the spell “backfired.” The Dolt is of the opinion that the spell worked as it should, finally connecting the banshee’s cry to the more sensitive auditory abilities of dogs. Phoebe informs them that, spell or no spell, they’re screwed if they can’t get L.B. Prue out from her hiding spot. She returns her attention to L.B. Prue, asking the dog to emerge to save “the teenage girl” from her earlier premonition. L.B. Prue apparently still understands English. This argument gets her to scuttle out. Phoebe lays it on thick with the patronizing, “That’s a good girl! Who’s a good girl?” If I were L.B. Prue, I’d be chewing Phoebe’s hands off about now. Piper’s relieved to note that L.B. Prue “still understands what [they’re] saying.” Phoebe, awed, states, “She’s such a pretty dog.” Piper grunts, “What did you expect?” “A Doberman,” is the Dolt’s blunt reply. L.B. Prue snarls and snaps at him. Heh. The three humans strategize. L.B. Prue should revert to F.B. Prue once the banshee has been vanquished. L.B. Prue doesn’t like the sound of that, and whines her way out of the bedroom. As “banshees feed every night,” the Dolt explains, they should be able to resolve the issue that evening. Phoebe believes that, as they lack a banshee vanquish, the resolution will not come so easily. The discussion is interrupted by caterwauling from the floor below.
The three dash downstairs to find L.B. Prue engaged in a rousing game of “Eat The Cat.” As she chases Kit through the lower rooms, the two animals knock over various items, causing general havoc in the manor. Kit skitters upstairs. L.B. Prue is halted by Piper. The Dolt decides this is the perfect opportunity to get away from his bitch of a sister-in-law. He announces that he’s leaving to consult TPTB on a banshee vanquish. “What if we run into one before you get back?” Piper inquires, still attempting to placate L.B. Prue. The Dolt supposes that Piper could blow it up, just as she blew up the Freak last week. Piper’s not so sure about that, but the Dolt doesn’t care. He orbs on out of there. L.B. Prue, meanwhile, woofs her way to the front door. Phoebe and Piper tag along behind, wondering if L.B. Prue hears the banshee. L.B. Prue scratches at the door persistently. Phoebe flings it open, and L.B. Prue makes a mad dash down the front steps, barking all the while. Piper and Phoebe grab their coats and follow.
Cut to an open area lit by -- natch -- the full moon. Yeah, they blew this joke by rerunning the punch line endlessly in the previews, but still. Phoebe and Piper stand side-by-side, their faces settled in grim dismay. Phoebe, anxious: “This is worse than I thought.” Piper, exasperated: “I never imagined anything like this could ever happen to us.” Phoebe, determined: “All I know is this can’t go on much longer.” Piper, hopeless: “So what are we going to do?” Phoebe sighs, then perks, “Rock-paper-scissors?” “No way. You already lost.” Piper flips a garbage bag into Phoebe’s phiz as L.B. Prue shamefacedly rounds a bush. Well, as shamefaced as a malamute can get. Phoebe splutters, “This is so humiliating,” as she covers her hands with the bag to retrieve L.B. Prue’s shit. I know. Doggy potty humor. It should be beneath me, but it’s not. This isn’t on the gross-out level of TV Funhouse, but I’m snickering nevertheless. A crescendo of barking in the background saves Phoebe from her gruesome task. L.B. Prue joins in the yowling, then dashes off out of the park with Piper and Phoebe hot on her heels. Or hind paws. Your choice.
The StalkerCam kicks in as we enter the alley from the premonition. The “teenager” from said vision is revealed to be a runaway. She places a desperate collect call to her parents, begging them to allow her back home. Just as the “teenager” tells her father she’s “somewhere in San Francisco,” the banshee leaps atop a Dumpster, screaming full-throttle. The glass in the phone booth shatters. The banshee hops to the ground, amping up the volume of the shriek as she goes. Before every blood vessel in the “teenager’s” body bursts, however, L.B. Prue storms in and pounces on the banshee. The banshee goes down faster than a French prizefighter. Piper rushes to the “teenager’s” aid, ordering her to get out of the alley as fast as she can. Banshee/Halliwell smackdown. L.B. Prue remains off to one side, barking constantly. The banshee flips up over Phoebe’s head to kick her from behind. She then hurls Piper into a pile of those convenient shipping pallets that seem to plague the alleys of San Francisco. The banshee howls again, stalking Phoebe, who backs away warily on the ground. Piper tosses her hands up into freeze/destroy position. Her aim is off, however, and she vanquishes the Dumpster instead. The force of the explosion sends the banshee flying to the far side of the alley. She rises to her feet, reevaluates the situation, and scampers off. Piper collects Phoebe as L.B. Prue chases after the banshee.
Out in the street, Banshee leaps first to the hood of a car. Then, in a crappy blue-screen effect, she hurtles across the road to land on a car on the opposite side. L.B. Prue, proving to be a dimwitted as her Figurative self, runs out into traffic. BAM! A car driven by one Matt Battaglia, who eschewed a career in the N.F.L. to study acting with Burt Reynolds -- and no, I am so not making that up -- has smacked into L.B. Prue. Matty’s wearing something that’s as close to a puka-shell necklace as you can get without it being made of actual, you know, puka shells. Not a good look. He’s horrified he hit a dog, and I silently sympathize. He cradles L.B. Prue’s furry white head in his lap as he shouts for help.
Manor kitchen. Piper slams the Yellow Pages down on the counter as Phoebe enters, pleading with Detective Darryl on the cordless to have the boys at the precinct “keep an eye out for [L.B. Prue].” I can almost hear Darryl’s exaggerated sigh of irritation as he apparently capitulates. Phoebe instructs him to ring Piper’s cell should he hear anything, and hangs up. Piper busies herself looking for an animal shelter that’s still open at that time of the night. Phoebe crosses to the fridge, insisting that everything will work out for the best. Piper halts her search to give Phoebe the Eye. “Banshees zero in on people in great pain,” she notes in an accusatory tone. Would Phoebe care to explain why Banshee got up in Phoebe’s face, when Piper was the one blowing up Dumpsters? Phoebe with the Cole Guilt Goggle. Piper takes a page from Stuart Smalley’s self-help manual, basically nattering out the chestnut, “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, sister.” Piper knows what it’s like to love a demon, only to have him turn on her. Would Phoebe just drop the pretense and admit she’s still in pain? Phoebe purses her lips and rolls her eyes in a terrifyingly tight close-up. “Well, Dr. Laura,” she inexplicably begins, “right now I have a different demon to worry about.” She crosses to exit the kitchen. What does she think she’s doing? She intends to have Piper cast the banshee tracking spell again, on her. Piper “Whuhs?” at this. Phoebe tells her to can it and leaves. Piper shakes her head in stunned disbelief.
Attic. Phoebe pages through the BoS, lingering unnecessarily on her new entry for Cole. A sad flute tootles in the background as she lifts the Book from its stand and moves to sit with it in her lap. After a brief pause, she dissolves into a series of gasping sobs. Intercut with her weeping is a series of shots of the new page in the Book. In his main photo, Cole disturbingly looks like a toothy J. Crew model. We also discover that he’s “ticklish.” I’ll spare you all the filthy thoughts that just popped into my head. Phoebe gasps out a few more sobs, and we cut to the main hall below. Piper’s bitching into the phone about missing-dog-related issues. The Dolt orbs in behind her. She snots, “Never mind,” and cuts off the call. “We lost Prue!” she too-brightly remarks to her husband. She then proceeds to bring him up to speed on the alley encounter. The information disturbs the Dolt. TPTB told him that “banshees are former witches.” Piper: “Yes, and?” The Dolt: “The banshee’s scream doesn’t kill witches; it turns them into banshees.” Ruh. Roh. Piper puts it together and glances nervously upstairs. Back in the attic, Phoebe lets out a mournful “Why, Cole?” as she gazes at his J. Crew shot. Glassware begins to rattle. Phoebe calls out to her sister as the rattling glassware starts to shatter. The windows blow in, sending Phoebe into a defensive crouch on the carpet. Banshee throws herself into the room, howling determinedly at Feebs. After a bit of this, she stops and stands up, as if wondering why Phoebe hasn’t bled from the ears yet. Piper enters and raises her hands to freeze/destroy position. Banshee is tossed back into the air a bit, then explodes in a shower of black shards and green sparks. Piper: “Huh. Shut her up.” Snerk. Phoebe falls back into a daze on the carpet. Sure enough, she morphs into a banshee herself -- white hair, vacant-yet-intense blue contacts in her eyes, the diaphanous rags, the works. She languidly rises to her feet, then peers in a near-reptilian manner at Piper and the Dolt. Not sensing the necessary “great pain,” apparently, the FeebShee hurls the two backwards across the attic floor. The FeebShee springs to the ruined window frame and lets loose with her very first earsplitting shriek. As the FeebShee, I mean. Phoebe’s yodeling has often made my ears bleed in the past. Unless that was those sharp objects I kept plunging into my skull. I note that the diaphanous rags are most flattering to the Fun Bags of the FeebShee, by the way. The FeebShee screams again, then leaps into the commercial break.
Attic. Aftermath. Piper wails her way through a near-monologue on the plagues of the evening. The Dolt again urges her to “relax,” which serves only to anger her more. She gestures in frustration, blowing up Grams’s sewing machine as she does so. The Dolt very nearly straps his bitch on when he snits, “Now is not the time for you to lose it.” Piper yells that she already has lost it, thank you very much, and would the Dolt stop nagging her, please? He barrels forward with the exposition nonetheless. If Phoebe were to murder a single person before they can reach her, she’ll be doomed to FeebSheedom forever. It follows, of course, that Prue will therefore be doomed to Literal Bitchdom forever as well. Piper’s Lesson Of The Week continues apace. She frets she can’t solve this problem on her own. That Phoebe and Prue “are the superwitches” of the trio. That she merely “tags along and freezes things.” The Dolt insists that Piper is as powerful as her sisters. He instructs her to “listen to [her] instincts.” Piper closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She then snaps her eyes open, announces, “I think I know what I have to do,” and darts out of the attic.
Home For Wayward Burt Reynolds Protégés. L.B. Prue awakes on a sofa. We shift to the black-and-white MalamuteCam as L.B. Prue examines her surroundings. Matt’s on the phone in the background, canceling his plans for the evening because “the vet said someone should keep an eye on the dog.” The MalamuteCam captures Matty blowing the dust off a camera lens before continuing, “Hey, I gotta soft spot for animals.” Like you don’t even know yet, Matty boy. L.B. Prue processes the camera, gets a good look at Matty, and hears he’s a journalist of some sort. The Pruevert within attacks. L.B. Prue pants and grunts and playfully rolls around on the couch. Damn. Someone get a bucket of cold water to throw on her. Matty notices that the dog has risen, and hangs up the phone. He joins L.B. Prue on the couch and commences with the heavy petting. L.B. Prue approves. Yikes.
Abrupt cut to a darkened parking lot. The FeebShee creeps out from behind a car, stalking a lone Latina. Dogs howl and bark and bay in the background. The Lone Latina senses something wrong, pauses long enough to pull her keys from her purse, then double-times it over to her car. The FeebShee lurks in the shadows. The Lone Latina rounds a corner, catches sight of a not-unattractive gentleman leaning against a car, and sighs in relief. “Oh, Ramon!” “Ramon”? Well, I suppose it’s better than “Jesus.” The Loving Latinos embrace. The FeebShee, thwarted and starving for some human suffering, slinks behind a wall and wails.
Home For Wayward Burt Reynolds Protégés. Matty’s feeding the dog some beer. Just like a guy to get a dog all liquored up so she’ll put out. And on the first date, even. Tramps. L.B. Prue interrupts the interspecies canoodling to bark at the door. Matty tells her to pipe down before she upsets his neighbors. She insists on being let out. He caves. She runs out the second the door is opened. Looks like Matty won’t be getting any this evening. He grabs what appears to be a leash to chase after his fickle mistress. So that’s how it is with you, huh, Matty? Kink. Kay.
Cut to the manor. Piper and the Dolt clomp down the stairs. The two bicker about Piper’s cunning instinctual plan, which involves summoning the Colethazor. The Dolt doesn’t find this the best of ideas. Piper disagrees. As the Colethazor is the source of Phoebe’s pain, if they enlist his aid and he somehow removes that pain, Banshee’s curse will be lifted. The Dolt wonders if the Colethazor will deign to assist them after what they’ve put him through in recent weeks. Piper’s all “there’s only one way to find out.” Clutching a vial of the vanquishing potion as insurance, she recites the summoning spell. Cole appears presently in a column of swirling clouds. “Piper!” he notes with surprise. “You’re not the witch I was expecting.” Piper gives him the brief version of the evening’s events, and asks if he’ll help. Cole doesn’t “do ‘good’ anymore.” “Not even for someone you love?” Piper inquires. The Colethazor corrects her, emphasizing the past tense of that four-letter word. The Dolt’s had enough, but Piper’s not giving up so easily. She continues attempting to persuade Cole. He continues to deflect her arguments with rather sturdy ones of his own. Phoebe gave up on him. Why should he bother saving her from what is essentially herself now? Piper keeps playing the “love” card. Cole keeps telling her to shove it. Piper finally acknowledges that the negotiation is going nowhere. At the urging of the Dolt, she flings the vanquish vial at Cole’s feet. Cole makes “Oh! Oh!” noises before cracking into a grin. “Surprise!” he shouts. “You didn’t really think I’d come here without magical protection, did you?” Piper, aghast, draws away from him as the Dolt threatens. Before the demon and the corpse start clawing at each other’s faces, however, L.B. Prue pads into the manor. Her nails click on the tiled floor. L.B. Prue barks out a warning as Piper greets her. Cole’s incredulous, but before they can fill him in on the details, the glassware in the sun porch vibrates. Cole: “What’s going on?” Piper, in a singsong not unlike the little blonde girl’s in Poltergeist: “Phoebe’s home.” Every piece of glass on the sun porch explodes. Given that it’s a sun porch, that’s a lot of glass. The FeebShee keens her way in through a window and tackles the Colethazor to the carpet. She howls deafeningly directly into his face. Atta girl. I can totally relate to that. He snaps his head back and forth in agony while slowly morphing into Belthazor. Belthazor snatches the FeebShee into an embrace and squiggles out with her. Piper looks lost as the Dolt shoots her an icy look that says, “Well. Any other brilliant ideas?” L.B. Prue whines us into the commercials.
Shrek? Not in a million years, buddy.
Back on the sun porch, the Dolt strokes L.B. Prue’s neck as Piper worries herself into a panic in the background. She’s determined that they’re screwed. If Belthazor kills the FeebShee in self-defense, there goes the Power of Three. If the FeebShee kills Belthazor, she’s stuck with a dog and a demon for sisters. The Dolt tells her not to fret. “We found Prue, we’ll find Phoebe.” L.B. Prue trots to the broken door and unleashes a series of barks. Piper and the Dolt order her to be quiet. L.B. Prue responds by yanking on the Dolt’s pantleg with her teeth. She then trots to the ruined door and bounds out. Piper supposes that L.B. Prue hears the FeebShee. She trundles out after the dog with her husband.
Mausoleum’s mausoleum. Belthazor and the FeebShee rip into each other the way only jilted exes can. She hurls him into a bier. He kicks her across the room. She tosses him into a wall, then sits on his chest and pounds his face with both fists. In some bizarre way, this almost seems like a demonic version of foreplay. I don’t think that’s how they intended this to come across. Belthazor flips her back over the bier, then straddles her torso, trying to pin her down. She howls and shrieks up at him. He claws at his ears, screaming, then throttles her into silence. “Don’t make me kill you,” he pleads. Aw. Demon with a heart of gold. So sweet. The FeebShee doesn’t share my opinion. With a full-throated yowl, she heaves him into a back flip. He crouches in a corner and morphs back down into Cole. “Dammit, Phoebe,” he confesses. “I love you.” She’s not having it, and lets Cole know this through another agonized keen. There’s a brief shot of L.B. Prue, Piper, and the Dolt racing through The Hardest-Working Cemetery In Show Business. Cut to the FeebShee, who morphs back into Phoebe. Banshee or Phoebe, she’s not exactly buying the profession of love from her ex-boyfriend. She fixes him with a hardened, embittered glare. Outside on the lawn, Literal Bitch Prue flares up into Figurative Bitch Prue. She trots along for a bit, clutching her hip, then stops. Piper’s delighted Prue’s back to her old figurative-bitch self. Prue wonders why she’s human again. The Dolt guesses that Phoebe’s no longer a banshee. Yes, but is she alive?
Crypt. Phoebe warns Cole to stay away from her. Back and forth blithering of the failed reconciliation sort. Cole eventually gets around to telling Phoebe about Ian’s evil spell -- you know, the one that made Cole fry Jenna the witch. Phoebe suspiciously wonders why Ian would do such a thing. Cole finally gets around to telling her about Ian’s larger plan -- you know, the one that involved getting Phoebe to hate Cole so he’d return to the Boys of Bi Krap a whole new demon. Phoebe’s at a loss for words. So am I. This all could have been resolved last week if he’d told her then. Cole tells Phoebe she needn’t try. He did what he did. That, they can never change. Nor can they alter their love for each other. “It’s a pain we’ll both have to live with,” he states gently, stroking her cheek. Phoebe’s about to cry. Cole turns away from her and squiggles out. Phoebe glances around, blinking back glycerin. I mean, “tears.” On the lawn, the Dolt has picked up Phoebe’s aura. Or essence. Or scent. Whatever. Piper instructs him to orb to her location and escort her back to the manor. Prue’s been rabidly scratching her scalp during this exchange. In an unusual special-effects screw-up, she stops scratching with her arm in a painfully unnatural position while the Dolt disappears. They’re usually better about those things. Anyway, Prue whines about her life as a dog. She hated urinating on trees, she ate garbage, and now she has fleas. Piper makes a painful unfunny with “Musta been rough. No pun intended.” Yeah. Shut up. Prue reveals the bright side to the experience: she met a cute guy. Piper can’t believe it. “You met a guy?” “Yep.” “While you were a dog? “Uh-huh.” “How?” “He ran me over,” Prue grins casually. Heh.
A yodeling ovary accompanies us on a nighttime tour of the skyscrapers of San Francisco. Eventually, the camera pans down to the entrance canopy of P3 After Dark. You think they invited Inspector Nat over for a beer? Nah. Neither do I. Weekly Summation Time. Phoebe suggests that Piper “raise the drink prices” now that they’ve received the latest bill for manor repairs. Shout-out? You decide. Piper notices Prue glancing around the room. “Are you expecting someone?” “A certain journalist with an empty fridge and a soft spot for man’s best friend,” Prue allows. No comment from me as Prue spins around to greet the freshly-arrived dog fucker. Oops. I mean, "Matt." The pair disappears to the dance floor as Piper beams in approval. Phoebe takes this opportunity to thank Piper for calling upon Cole. “If you hadn’t,” she notes, “I might still be screamink.” Yes, the Lizbot’s speech impediment has infected the cast of Charmed. Piper makes with the “aw, shucks” for a bit; then she reveals that her Lesson Of The Week has been learned. She should trust both her instincts and herself, for she is as powerful as her sisters. Speaking of instincts, Phoebe’s decided to go with hers and give the Colethazor another chance. Piper looks doubtful. Phoebe’s insistent. Cole confessed that he still loves her, therefore “there’s still good in him.” “I can bring him back,” she perks oh-so-codependently. “I know I can.” Phoebe smirks, then makes her exit. Piper turns to head back to the register. For some reason, her expression is one of sadness, doubt, suspicion, and apprehension. But that could just be me.
week is the season finale, kids. The night starts with a rerun of “Wrestling With Demons.” In the original episode that follows, intrepid journalists uncover the Halliwell secrets. A media circus ensues. This better be good.