Episode Report Card Demian: B+ | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT Black as the Bitter, Bitter Heart Of Brad Kern
By Demian | Season 4 | Episode 8 | Aired on 11.14.2001
Random alley. A steroid-enhanced demon squiggles in, all Darth Maul markings and hamhock biceps. According to the Internet Movie Database, the gym rat they hired to play this demon previously appeared as the bouncer in "Size Matters," so if, unlike me, you still have that on tape, you can see what he looks like without the makeup. "Wiiiiiitch," he growls, and claps a hand over a squealing little blonde woman's mouth. He pushes her back against a Dumpster and examines her necklace with the blade of the dagger he carries in his right hand. The charm dangling from the chain is in the form of three intertwined crescent moons. "You're next," he seethes. He guts the woman with the dagger, then allows her corpse to drop to the ground. The gym rat turns to stride over to a nearby pay phone, morphing into a thirtysomething (who bears a faint resemblance to Garth Brooks in a suit) as he goes. The Garthalike punches in a number and -- adopting a tone that aims for innocent shock but ends up at mild blandness -- states, "I'd like to report a terrible murder. A beautiful young woman in the alley behind the Cannon Theater." Best as I can tell, there is no Cannon Theater in San Francisco, but that's not terribly important right now. What's more important is that, were I the emergency services operator who received this call, I'd immediately assume the person on the other end was the killer. I mean, "terrible murder"? "Beautiful young woman"? The choice of words added to the tone of voice should be more than enough to set off the alarms. A random twit interrupts the Garthalike: "Hey! Are you gonna be long?" The Garthalike sets the receiver down momentarily to fling an FBOD at the unsuspecting twit. The twit howls as he hurtles backwards to scorch a brick wall before disappearing in a veil of fire. The Garthalike returns to the phone, instructing the emergency services operator to send the police immediately before hanging up. The Garthalike squiggles out. The first time I saw this, I was left to wonder why the Garthalike chose to incinerate the twit, but called in the police to investigate the blonde's murder. I supposed they needed a way to justify Dorian Gregory's presence in tonight's episode, but Brad Kern and Nell Scovell, the clever co-authors of this evening's script, eventually proved me wrong.
Manor attic. The Book is open to a page entitled "Scavenger Demon" that includes a rendering of Diaper Boy from the pre-credits sequence. Phoebe reads that the Diaper Boy "feeds on the remains of other demons' victims." Oh, gross. So it's like Chief Brody blowing up Jaws immediately after it had eaten Quint or the shark in Deep Blue Sea exploding shortly after it had snacked on Saffron Burrows? Not only were Phoebe and Cole splattered with demon goop, they also were sprayed with the mangled remains of Diaper Boy's last meal? That's just disgusting. Piper changes the subject, asking Phoebe what she and Cole fought about earlier. Phoebe, with a hideous pair of braids draping down over her shoulders, has changed into a tight mauve V-necked top that puckers at her cleavage. She eventually admits that Cole proposed to her. She also admits that the proposal was so sudden and unexpected, she had no idea how to respond. "All my powers of premonition," she explains, "and I never saw that one coming." Piper sputters that she doesn't think it's possible for a witch to marry a demon, then adds in her best Grams intonation, "Honey, we can't have a demon in the family." Phoebe sighs and crosses to sit on the step leading up to the bay windows, whereupon we get a good look at her jeans. It looks like she waded knee-deep through the bombed-out remains of a yellow, orange, and pink appliqué demon and hasn't bothered to dry-clean her pants. Piper joins her, wondering what TPTB will think of the proposed union. Phoebe doesn't care -- she has to sort out her own issues first. I roll my eyes as a peremptory defense against any angst-laden marital story arcs involving witches and those The Rules forbid them from marrying, since I had more than enough of that sort of garbage last season, thank you very much. Phoebe confesses that marriage never entered into her plans for her future -- not even during childhood daydreams. She hopes desperately that Cole will just drop the issue, but Piper doesn't find that a likely solution. "A question like that just doesn't go away by itself," she sagely notes. Cole squiggles in at that moment, cleaned up and looking fine as he nervously swings his arms back and forth, uttering a bashful "hey." "I'll be downstairs," Piper gracefully announces and exits, pausing along the way to give Cole a pointed look.
Once Piper's gone, Cole and Phoebe engage in an awkward conversation about the demonic business at hand while both clearly have their minds on the elephant in the middle of the attic. Julian McMahon does a far better job conveying a tense, longing unease than Alyssa Milano does, but I suppose I'm biased. Deal. Cole didn't discover who is responsible for this latest spate of murders, but he managed to "rule out the usual suspects." Cole supposes it's just "another upper-level demon trying to build a reputation by killing witches to move up the ladder." He tries to make a small, self-mocking joke out of this characterization, for obvious reasons, but Phoebe's not having it. She rocks back and forth like an autistic child spinning plates on the floor, avoiding Cole's eyes. Cole dejectedly turns to squiggle out again, but Phoebe at last jumps to her feet to deal with the matter of marriage. "It's just hard," she stutters. "It's just me," he says softly. Sniffle. I'll marry you. In Vermont. Phoebe approaches him, asking whether he really meant to propose, or if his words were what I believe the courts might deem an "excited utterance." I watch too much Law & Order. Cole admits that he blurted the words out in the heat of the moment, but insists that once he did say them, he meant them. Phoebe wigs a bit and turns her back on him. Cole advances on her cautiously, stammering out his reasoning. He understands that who they are might prevent them from marrying, but he believes that if such supernatural class distinctions really mattered, they never would have fallen in love in the first place. I think I saw this plot last night on Turner Classic Movies in an ancient Gloria Swanson flick from 1919. Except for, you know, the "supernatural" bit there. Phoebe relents, turning to face him while indulging in her irritating habit of exhaling heavily while reaching up for his cheek, as if "heavy breathing" is the equivalent of "masterful acting." Cole continues with the "I want to spend the rest of our lives together even though you will grow wrinkly and die within the next fifty years while I shall remain well-dressed and hot" thing before he's interrupted by the wails of an infant rising up through the floors below. Their expressions of mutual devotion slide into expressions of mutual befuddlement as we cut to the Manor parlor.