Episode Report Card Demian: B- | Grade It Now! YOU GRADE IT You were expecting a Seuss joke here, weren't you?
By Demian | Season 5 | Episode 9 | Aired on 11.16.2002
A massive black blot smears down from the ceiling to morph into two black-clad gentlemen. One is a scrawny little middle-aged white guy with a ponytail and a goatee. The other is the master of menace himself, Mr. Tony Todd. That's just sad, guys. Tony Todd's gone from Candyman -- which was, hands down, the most frightening horror movie of the 1990s -- to Candyman's two awful sequels to Final Destination to Smallville to Charmed. I weep for you, Tony Todd. Tony Todd and his scrawny accomplice advance upon Cole, crooning, "We've been waiting for this moment." A lingering glamour shot of Julian McMahon's pretty, scruffy, pouty-lipped face takes us into the opening credits.
The opening travelogue has been abandoned this evening in favor of a sharp fade up on Raige shoving a blueberry muffin into her mouth as she and Piper discuss supernatural nannies in the Manor kitchen. Raige's black bra strap, meanwhile, mesmerizes me by playing peek-a-boo with the camera, popping in and out of her blouse as the scene repeatedly shifts points of view between the sisters. Was no one on the set that day able to convince Rose McGowan to choose a strap strategy and stick with it for two lousy minutes of dialogue? The Dolt finally orbs in to further tonight's plot with a piece of news from The Ever-Useless Elders. Raige is to assume responsibility of her first charge as a Whitelighter. "His name is Samuel," the Dolt explains. "A good man who's lost his way." "Samuel?" Raige replies. "You mean like my long-dead, home-wrecking father Samuel?" Oh, fine. Raige says no such thing, choosing instead to babble enthusiastically about Sam's "good, strong, Biblical name." Piper attempts to dampen the general enthusiasm a bit by making note of Raige's lack of experience, but Raige is not having it. "I don't want anyone to rain on my Whitelighter parade," she coos, tracing invisible patterns of joy in the air with some subdued spirit fingers.
Cue the bellowing of the Feebs. Phoebe races downstairs into the main hallway and oh, Lord. She's working the ever-so-flattering Angela-Lansbury-as-Mrs.-Lovett double bun look again, and she's accented the simple, restrained combination of jeans and a white jersey shirt with a length of pale pink netting she's wound around her neck as a scarf. Piper, Raige, and the Dolt scamper in from the kitchen to find Phoebe shrieking demands for the Cole vanquish Raige concocted using the bloody letter opener from the season premiere. Raige confesses that she destroyed it, as she discovered that it wasn't strong enough to do any good. She tested the potion on the letter opener itself, you see, and nothing happened. Piper steps into the conversation to wonder why Phoebe needs a Cole vanquish in the first place. Phoebe relates the sordid tale of last night's attempted biker bar robbery, taking care to emphasize the incident's supernatural details, particularly the part involving the thugs' unfortunate encounter with a couple of Flaming Balls Of Death. And Phoebe knows about this...how, exactly? She had a premonition? She heard it on the radio? Dionne Warwick sent her an email? Darryl called from the set of The Other Half with the skinny? What? Whatever. The writing staff obviously doesn't care, so neither should I. Raige, bursting with pride over her purported promotion, adopts a serene countenance to caution Phoebe against jumping to conclusions while prudently suggesting that she confirm her suspicions before attempting to destroy her ex-husband. Phoebe, surprisingly, agrees with Raige, and exits the Manor for a private chat with Cole. She does, however, instruct Raige to whip up a stronger version of the vanquish while she's gone. "If I'm right about Cole," she calls over her shoulder, "our truce with him is over."
Casa Del Binge Drinker. Cole flings open the French doors, no doubt to rid the condo of the wretched stench rising from the pool of Jack-induced sick staining the carpet behind him. Though Cole's probably the type to pass out without vomiting, right? In any event, The Master Of Menace smears in with his scrawny lackey and announces his presence with a velvety-voiced murmured greeting. Cole wearily turns towards the intruders and orders them to leave. Sorry, Cole. Tony Todd and the middle-aged scrawn are contractually obliged to remain in your apartment until they describe the latest jerry-built addition to the general Charmed mythology, and nothing you say or do will prevent them from fulfilling their appointed duties. Tony Todd and the middle-aged scrawn are "The Avatars Of Force And Power," you see, and because Cole "crossed a line" the previous evening with his murder of the tubby thugs, they decided to drop by with an invitation to join them. Okay, here's where my head explodes. Where did Cole cross a line? When he offed two scumbags who displayed no concern for human life? The thugs had already killed the bartender, and had Cole himself been human, he'd have ended up sprawled across a puddle of Jack Daniel's, bleeding to death. The way things were going, the robbery would have ended in a massacre -- probably in the walk-in refrigeration unit out back. Tubby thugs with fully-automatic pistols just love shoving unsuspecting bar patrons into walk-in refrigeration units out back and plugging their unsuspecting heads full of lead. When, you know, the tubby thugs aren't just wandering into fast food restaurants and mowing down random customers. I know. I read about it in the paper. Several times in the last twenty years. Cole's actions were entirely justified, if you ask me. Sure, he could have kept TKing the thugs into heavy objects until their brains leaked out of their ears, but why waste all that energy on a couple of guys who were going to end up on the business end of a policeman's service revolver anyway? Or, more likely, strapped to gurneys with needles in their arms. Cole not only saved the life of every single biker in that bar, he also spared the taxpayers of California the expense of trials, lengthy appeals, and the executions themselves. Pin a medal on the guy already and be done with it.