"Charmed -- The One Hundredth Episode," booms The Velvety Voice Of The WB. "Michelle Branch guest stars, and someone won't live to see Episode One Hundred And One." Oh, Mr. Velvety Voice. Please let that someone be Michelle Branch. Please?
We fade up on the Manor exterior as The Mischievous Harp Of Rapidly Approaching Hundredth-Episode Hijinks unleashes a few unearthly -- yet fun-loving! -- tones upon the soundtrack. Up in the attic, the Dolt orbs onto the carpet from above, glances around for a moment, then pouts, "Come on, [Raige], I know you're here. You summoned me." A low, raspy, echoing noise tickles his ears, and he spins about in alarm as an unknown invisible shimmery presence sneaks up behind him. Make that "an unknown invisible shimmery presence with boobs," for the Predator-like entity currently refracting the low attic light appears to have quite the rack. The shimmery rack dives into the Dolt's back, and he immediately howls in agony as the presence runs roughshod through his internal organs. With a roar, the Dolt explodes in a cascading shower of orbing Dolt bits. Raige promptly materializes in a flare of yellowish Wiccan mojo and tosses her hands in the air triumphantly. "That was a vanquish!" she crows as the Dolt bits reassemble into Dolt form a few feet away. "Dammit, [Raige]!" he snits. "I would appreciate it if you didn't practice on me. I may be dead, but it still hurts!" Suffer, bitch. Lord knows I have.
Raige ignores the Dolt's outraged yelps to explain what just happened. Late one night, while wondering what she could do about The Cole Issue, Raige realized that Cole's "protection shield" was the biggest obstacle the Glamorous Ladies had to overcome with regard to a vanquish. So, she concocted a potion that grants her temporary invisibility. With it, she can evade the shield, invade Cole's body, and vanquish him from within with a bit of cheap doggerel. Kinky. Not to mention implausible. But let's just ignore those adjectives for the moment while the Dolt whines about Raige's rash course of action. It won't work, he claims, and even if it did, she shouldn't be doing it alone. He insists that the solution to The Cole Issue rests in the Power of Three. Raige refuses to let the prissy pantywaist piss on her parade. She's worked too hard for too many days on this idea -- alone, thank you very much -- and she'll not see all that effort go to waste. She snatches up another vial of the invisibility potion and flounces off in a huff. The Dolt purses his lips and sighs in an impotent display of passive-aggressive disapproval.
Casa Del Cole. The elevator bell dings, and the doors slide open to reveal the haggard-looking himself wearily loosening his tie. He disembarks and shuffles over to a low table in the foyer, upon which he tosses his keys and wallet before sadly regarding a framed photo of himself and Phoebe in happier times. It's the same saccharine image used several times in the past -- the one featuring Phoebe in her knit Chemotherapy Cloche -- and I silently pray that tonight's events mean I'll never have to gaze upon it again. Cole bleakly lifts his eyes from the snapshot and stares into his reflection in the gilt mirror hanging above the table. He grants his reflection a slight, sardonically cordial bow, and murmurs a tired, "Happy birthday." Aw. I know from crappy birthdays and the uncontrollable waves of morose self-pity that can inexplicably wash over a person enduring one, so he's getting nothing but sympathy from me. Then again, Cole's wallowing because of The Knockered Nitwit, so perhaps I should be telling him to get the fuck over it already. While compassion and annoyance tussle in by brain, Cole turns and enters the Casa proper to examine that dreadful photograph more closely under a lamp. The Shimmery Presence Of Invisible Raige wiggles into the room behind him, and we switch to the InvisiRaige Cam for a second as Raige stalks up to Cole's back. To his immense discomfort, Raige propels herself into his body and presumably recites her vanquish. Small white flares burst through his shirt before he himself erupts in a spray of chunky demon pellets that vanish outwards from the frame.
Gasping from the strain of what she's accomplished, Raige materializes and glances around before panting, "I did it!" Not so fast, sweetpea. A buzzing noise emerges from the silence as the Cole bits swirl back together into a spinning swarm that rapidly condenses before Raige's goggling eyes. Raige: "Ooops." Heh. The Cole Swarm slams into Raige's chest, hurtling her backwards through the recently-restored French doors. She dissolves into a cloud of orbs as the glass and wood splinter around her. Cole coagulates, and the camera sweeps in on his face as he expels a guttural howl. This is the worst birthday ever!
A weeny little clot of crappy CGI orbs "vaults" the city skyline before "splashing" into the bay. Raige surfaces with much spluttering disappointment, and treads water for a moment before shooting a wad of snot towards Oakland through a mighty, inelegant, and decidedly unladylike sneeze. Get it? The chilly bay waters gave Raige an instant cold! Wah. Wah. Waaaaah!
Kit was their cat. Kit had short hair. Kit is long dead, and his clips should be pulled! Just. Like. Whatsername's from Heathers. Were!
Manor. Raige's trusty Volkswagen has recovered fully from last week's debilitating slow-motion pre-credits fender bender and now rests peacefully in the Manor driveway. How very nice for it. Up on the sun porch, Alyssa loudly employs some of the mad counting skills she acquired for her Teen Steam video while the bulging Piper wobbles around on some earthy-crunchy "birthing ball" thing. The shrill shrieking emanating from the Feebs soon blows out both Piper's eardrums and her sense of balance, so the mother-to-be snipers sideways to the floor with a grunt. As the Dolt helps Piper to her swollen feet, a woman who is not Doctor Ava encourages her to try again, as earthy-crunchy birthing balls are good practice for home deliveries, or something. I realize that Doctor Ava's been tending to Lex Luthor's numerous and varied heterosexual needs for the last couple of months, but you'd think she'd be able to hop out to the coast for one lousy scene. Once they'd sprung this bit of disjointed casting on me, I lost all hope for a proper Old Home Night on Charmed. Sigh. In any event, Piper shrieks -- again -- that she's delivering the percolating infant in a goddamned hospital with proper sanitary precautions and copious amounts of drugs, and anyone who tries to stop her will have to face the Hands Of Discontent. Because she's back in full-on Pippihontas mode with those inane braids dangling from her scalp, no one on the sun porch takes her seriously. Not Ava natters about breast pumps and gypsy whatevers and homeopathic blah blah blah as Raige enters, stretching and yawning and apologizing for her tardiness. "Late night?" the Dolt suspiciously side-eyes. "As a matter of fact, yes," Raige squints back insolently. Not Ava pokes her head into her big bag of medieval midwifing doodads just as Raige honks another inelegant and unladylike wad of snot into her hands. She dissolves into a cloud of glowy orbs for a moment as she does so, eliciting a round of unusually low-key eye-popping from her sisters and the Dolt. Raige apologizes, noting she's "been sneezing [her] head off all morning." "Not to mention the rest of you," snides the suddenly quippy Dolt. Shut it, moron. Pippihontas pushes Not Ava off into the kitchen for some herbal cold remedies, then forcefully steers the clueless Raige into the parlor for a chat.
Once Feebs and the Dolt have joined them, Pippihontas describes what just happened. Raige is dumbfounded, but the Dolt thinks he knows what's going on. "I think you should tell them," he chides Raige. Raige reluctantly cops to the abortive solo vanquish the evening. Now, hold up a second -- did Raige receive her itchy schnozz from the water, or from Cole? If she caught it from something in the harbor, I don't see what the attempted vanquish has to do with anything. Dolt. And since I'm asking irritating questions, why didn't she orb out when she sneezed in the bay? Ours is not to know, it seems. Pippihontas and the Feebs glare as Raige sputters some mildly indignant explanations for her behavior. She simply wanted to provide Phoebe with a resolution to The Cole Issue. Phoebe's all, "Thanks, but no thanks," and Pippihontas snippily reminds Raige that they decided "to take a vanquishing hiatus during [her] third trimester." Yeah, try snippily reminding her of that the time a beastie barges through your unlocked front door during dinner and tries to impale you on his horns, hon. Since when did dark demonic forces sent from the flaming maw of Hell attack on your schedule? Huh? And take those freaking braids out of your hair! Auuugh! Raige, fed up with the recriminations and abuse, rolls her eyes and stomps upstairs to her boudoir. Piper growls.
Casa Del Cole. The demon of the Casa flatly states, "I'm willing to become one of your kind," as the Avatar who is not Tony Todd glowers over by the couch. Nice try, dude, but you're no Candyman, and the producers have blown yet another shot at casting continuity for their much-vaunted hundredth episode. I must admit, though, that Julian McMahon is beautifully lit throughout this scene in a bright, white, coming-from-all-angles glow that only serves to heighten his many physical charms. Of course, this sort of light hits San Francisco only on the sunniest of summer days, so it should count as an anachronous fuck-up in an episode airing in the middle of winter, but I don't care. Cole looks gorgeous. Anyway, where was I before I drifted off into filthy daydreams involving a (spoiler!) soon-to-be out-of-work actor I'll never meet, even if I live long enough to comprehend Warner's decision to waste thousands of dollars on "For Your Consideration" Oscar-bait trade ads featuring Matthew Lillard in Scooby-Doo? Oh, that's right -- smack in the middle of a morass of viscous exposition. Unfortunately, this exposition might be vital later in the season if the Avatars assume roles of grander importance in the general scheme of things, so here goes: The Avatars possess the "power to elevate powers such as [Cole's], to raise them above the restraints of good and evil." The "unlimited," unrestrained powers Cole will assume "are not meant to be used for personal vendettas," but rather in conjunction with other Avatars' to shape a future the Avatars themselves control. Hmmm. Would it follow that concepts such as free will and self-determination have no place in the Avatars' ideal future? Perhaps they're not so benign after all. They sound like Republicans, actually. Cole seeks assurance that should he accept Not Candyman's offer, he'll be able to manipulate time and reality. Not Candy eyes him skeptically, then insists that if Cole intends to misuse the elevated, unlimited powers, he won't receive them. Cole calls him on this, correctly noting that he wouldn't have been extended an invitation to join if they didn't need him so badly. The scene ends in an apparent stalemate, but we all know Cole's going to get what he wants.
The Demon Cam On Crack jostles us several blocks over and several hours later, where we smack into the neon sign outside P3. Down on the stage, this Michelle Branch person lip-synchs badly to one of her "songs." You're supposed to actually sing while they're filming you, you shrew, otherwise you blow the illusion when the muscles in your throat don't move. Not that I really care, because I get to fast-forward through this entire sequence, which, you should know, takes up a full minute of my tape. And look at that -- here's the Dolt toting a champagne bucket over to the Glamorous Ladies' usual table. Piper and Phoebe are hosting a small celebration in honor of Darryl's promotion to lieutenant. Piper, poor dear, has been thrust into Eilish's crack-addled stab at "expectant mother eveningwear" -- a glossy silver-and-black top that seems to have been stapled together from strips of Barbarella's shower curtain. The Fun Bags, meanwhile, threaten to pop from a comparatively sedate floral corset with periwinkle piping around the cups. The winner of tonight's P3 fashion contest -- in the sense of, "No, really! She looks good!" -- is Darryl's wife, clad as she is in a simple, rust-colored halter with a tastefully low-key necklace beneath a sleek cap of sixties-style pixie hair. And allow me to take a moment to go, "Darryl's wife! It's Darryl's wife! Woo! And a hoo! I'd wonder where the hell you've been the last four and a half years, but I'm too excited to see you! Whee! Mrs. Darryl! Sorry you don't get a single line of dialogue, or even a name, for that matter, but hooray! It's Mrs. Darryl! Yeah!"
Just as Piper and the Feebs lie to Darryl and his wife regarding Raige's absence, the missing P herself saunters down the stairs in what I'll remember as the most trying element of tonight's Very Special Centennial Episode: a loose, sleeveless, belly-baring white top featuring a limp, lacy black ruff at the neck over a pair of matching drawstring pants. For one thing, white washes her out completely and should be banned from her wardrobe. For another, she's a pointy hat and some puffy buttons away from turning into a girly, teenaged Pagliacci. Raige The Sad Clown? I wouldn't think so, but that's what they apparently would have me believe. In any event, Piper and Phoebe dart over to the stairs to hustle Raige into a secluded corner. They're worried, you see, that Raige will hose down the bar with snot rockets while orbing uncontrollably hither and yon. Raige insists that she's conquered her itchy schnozz with some of Not Ava's herbal gypsy nonsense. Nevertheless, Piper and Phoebe sit Raige down for a chat. They confess that they're concerned about the night's attempted vanquish, and want to know what gives. Raige sighs and reluctantly admits that she's been feeling "suppressed" lately -- after having been an only child for so long, she's chafing under the constraints of life "by committee" in the Manor. Piper wonders how Rose McGowan pissed off Brad Kern to the point that he'd saddle her with not only a hideous outfit, but also this improbable, slapped-together, out-of-the-inky-depths-of-left-field character point for the landmark hundredth episode. Or maybe I wonder that while Piper wonders what she can do to fix things. Raige shrugs her shoulders and hesitantly states, "I just think maybe I need to start looking for my own place to live." Phoebe lifts her brows to the heavens while Piper stifles an incredulous gape.
Back at the Casa, Cole's on his knees before Not Candy, and you'll have to insert your own tasteless jokes about that development, because I've got Craptin to transcribe. "Ribus uero fecit orum," Not Candy chants as an intense beam of white light connects his outstretched palms to Cole's forehead. "Bitis danae arca," he continues. "Convenio hospito fortis mundis." Just once, I want them to come up with something translatable for these rituals. Craptin thus chanted, Cole exhales with a shudder that makes it sound as if someone reached over and tweaked his nipple. Go back and listen to it again if you don't believe me. He rises to his feet and enthuses about the new sensations of heightened power that are making him feel alive for the first time in months and wah. Not Candy prepares to escort Cole...somewhere else. To whatever plane of existence it is, I suppose, where Avatars frolic and gambol when they're not planning to remake the universe in their own image. You know. There. Cole "uh-uhs" and reminds Not Candy of their agreement. First Cole "get[s] [his] wife back once and for all"; then he joins in on the Avatar games. Not Candy is shocked and appalled. "That's what you wanted?" he asks with barely-concealed disgust. Dude, that's what I've been asking for two goddamned years. "Your new powers can't affect love," Not Candy adds. Cole, naturally, has a cunning plan. He'll alter the one event in the past that led to the destruction of his relationship. You mean when Ian forced you to smoke that guest witch in the attic, leading Phoebe to smash the Belthazor-specific power-stripping potion on the floor? Or was it when you entered into that shady deal with The Source Of All Evil to reverse time, inadvertently delaying the Dolt in the Underworld and thereby contributing in your own small way to Prue's death? Or was it when you inhaled The Hollow to help vanquish the Source, and unwittingly became the Source yourself? The answer, of course, is "none of the above," because any of those options would make sense -- particularly the first one -- and Cole is now, lest we forget, crazy! Also, Shannen Doherty would sooner wipe Alyssa Milano's ass after darling Lyssie's taken a massive, messy dump than rejoin the show, but that's neither here nor there as far as alternate plotlines for the episode go. How cool would the first option have been, though? We'll have to debate it on the boards, unfortunately, because I frankly don't have time to detail it here.
In any event, Cole intends to prevent Raige from reuniting with Piper and Phoebe after Prue's funeral, thereby preventing the reconstitution of the Power of Three. "Undo what was to change what is," he clarifies. Not Candy warns that "changing the past to create a new reality has unforeseen consequences," even for Cole. Cole vows that he couldn't care less: "I am not spending another hundred birthdays without her." Fool. Not Candy shakes his head and smears away in silence rather than stay to watch Cole screw everything up and die. Cole moves to the center of the room, buttons his jacket, spreads his arms, and chants, "Magna tempus dormiebat ribus." And you needed to button your jacket for this...why, exactly?
Over at P3, Raige suddenly feels the urge to spray snot across the gyrating yuppies on the dance floor. Phoebe panics while Piper hustles Raige into the back office. Just as Piper shuts the door behind them, Raige sneezes and orbs at the same time.
Casa. The force of the spell lifts Cole from the floor, and he spins as the screen flares into a whiteout. The camera lifts up above the barely-visible Cole, and cross-fades to a swirling overhead shot of the Transamerica Pyramid before slamming backwards to take in the entire glittering city. A fast-moving supernatural fog washes across the skyline, dimming the lights considerably. So, no Charmed Ones means continuous Bay Area brownouts? Whatever. The camera spins once more, and we end up...
...back at P3. Raige orbs back in to a suspiciously darkened office. Piper's nowhere to be seen. "Who turned out the lights?" Raige bleats, pulling on her jacket to ward off the apparent chill in the room. She frowns at Piper's absence, then turns to open the door. It drops from its hinges the second she twists the knob, and crashes onto a pile of debris. Raige slowly picks her way through the ruins of what should be Piper's club until she stumbles across the ruined neon sign. Raige inhales sharply as we plunge into the blackness of the commercial break.
Back from the break, Raige hollers for the Dolt, but her shouting only serves to wake the crackhead junkie wino who'd been sleeping in the wreckage. Let's call him "Brad." Crackhead Brad bitches that Raige has invaded his personal space, and she'd best hustle her ass on out of there before he breaks his foot off in it. Crackhead Brad even produces a switchblade, which he waves in Raige's face. Raige tries to call for the knife with her orbing telekinesis, but nothing happens. Crackhead Brad barrels towards her, but she yanks a little Raige-fu from her handbag of tricks and flips him onto his worthless back. Crackhead Brad goggles and flees. As he scampers up the stairs, the Dolt orbs onto what remains of the dance floor. He's kitted out in a pair of dirty jeans, a grey hooded sweatshirt, and a plaid thermal vest. For some terrifying reason, this all makes him look exactly like Ryan O'Reily on Oz, and I begin nervously scanning the frame for Jericho or, even worse, Betty Buckley. Maximum Security Dolt takes one look at Raige, fails to recognize her, and makes to orb away. She calls him out of the orb by arguing that she must be one of his charges, otherwise he wouldn't have heard her shouting for him. Painfully slow on the uptake here, Raige quizzes Maximum Security Dolt on his surroundings and his wife before gradually realizing that something demonic is afoot, and that said something likely occurred when she sneezed. She attempts to orb, and fails. Maximum Security Dolt asks suspiciously, "How do you know about orbing?" She just saw you do it -- twice -- you brick-headed tool. Raige, a bit more polite and far more frustrated with the current situation than I, simply orders Maximum Security Dolt to escort her to Piper's current location. "She'll figure all this out," Raige sighs. "She always does." Maximum Security Dolt grudgingly takes her proffered hand, and the two vanish upwards. By the way, the faint beating of overhead helicopter patrols underscored bits of that scene. Nice, subtle touch.
Over in an abandoned and burning rail yard -- no, seriously -- Maximum Security Dolt orbs in with Raige, and the two crouch behind some stacked garbage to spy on the subsequent action. A Lazarus Demon who is not Coolio materializes above the waxy, knife-gouged, decaying corpse of an unfortunate indigent lad, and prepares to -- I don't know. Snack on the maggot-ridden entrails or something. Piper lopes into view from behind some shipping crates and yells, "Hey!" She's decidedly un-pregnant and very Beyond Thunderdome in her distressed black leather bustier. Well, she would be very Beyond Thunderdome were it not for the severe multiple-strand choker she's wound around her neck, the dozens of rings glittering in each ear, and the fringe dripping from her opera-length fingerless gloves. I'd wonder why a mentally distressed renegade witch obsessed with the death of her elder sister would bother with the flashy accessories, but Alterna-Piper needs a nickname. In keeping with the prison theme established by the Dolt, we'll be calling her Cell Block Piper, and we'll be liking it, though of course I'll be reciting "pop, six, squish, uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz" in my head for the rest of the evening. Cell Block Piper freezes Not Coolio, then unfreezes only his cornrowed head. "I knew you'd take the bait," she mildly remarks. What she reveals about who she's become through that one statement is by far the most unnerving thing about the entire alternate reality they constructed for this episode. So, of course, it's dropped immediately, and never do the other characters mention that Cell Block Piper's luring demons into the open with the maggot-ridden corpses of prematurely deceased adolescents. Not Coolio is an even worse actor than Actual Coolio is, which simply staggers the mind, so I'll get through this exchange quickly. Cell Block Piper demands that Not Coolio lead her to Shax. Not Coolio pleads ignorance, so Cell Block Piper blows up first one, then the other of Not Coolio's arms. "Go to Hell," Not Coolio sneers. "I'm already there," she predictably replies, before unleashing the full power of her Hands on Not Coolio's talent-free ass. Not Coolio howls and wails and bursts into a cloud of dust that settles onto the ground.
Meanwhile, Raige still hasn't stepped onto the clue bus, and has an urgently whispered conversation with Maximum Security Dolt about the whole Shax-is-still-alive thing before leaping up from behind the trash to confront Cell Block Piper. There's a tiresome bit of dialogue during which we learn that Cell Block Piper divorced Maximum Security Dolt at some point in their altered past, after which Raige attempts to prove her identity by pointing out that Not Coolio's not really dead yet. "As a breed, [Coolios] resurrect," she informs the others. "You have to bury their remains in a cemetery." Cell Block Piper pffts and turns to lope away. Not Coolio promptly rematerializes and hurls a crowbar at Piper's head. She spins and ducks just in time, then shows him the Hands Of Discontent once more. After the dust resettles, there's some more back-and-forth about the difference between Raige's reality and this brave new world and blah before Raige throws a fit and stomps off to the Manor in search of Phoebe alone. Cell Block Piper still believes that Raige is some sort of Elder-sent fraud, you see, and Maximum Security Dolt can no longer orb to the Manor, as the place is now "off-limits" to the forces of good. Cell Block Piper eyes Not Coolio's remains, then raises a questioning brow in Maximum Security Dolt's direction. Appropriately enough, it's the brow with the scar.
After a time-lapse shot of the sun rising behind the Golden Gate Bridge, we head over to Prescott Street, which is clogged with expensive, non-P vehicles. Around the Manor, a spiky "wrought-iron" security fence has been embedded in some painfully fake stone walls. I mean, you can see the seams where the cheaply-stuccoed flats have been nailed together. And still no one's painted that goddamned Victorian door. You'd think they would have taken the money they so obviously neglected to spend on sets and effects and used it to hire a couple of relevant guest stars, but no. They couldn't even buy Mrs. Darryl a name. Idiots. Anyway, Cole leans against a car on the street, silently gazing at the various alterations to the house above. He's clad in his classic black-on-black-over-black ensemble, and once again I must note how tasty he looks. When news of Julian McMahon's decision to leave the show first leaked, a poster whose handle escapes me at the moment stated that if McMahon added nothing more than his gorgeous presence to the show, that was more than enough, and that if we're meant to start lusting after Brian Krause once McMahon's gone, we should all just shoot ourselves in the head. Word, Temporarily Anonymous Poster. Word. And since I'm off on a tangent, I'll wonder why Cole has yet to enter the Manor. We're to assume hours have passed since he altered reality, right? So where the hell has he been all this time? Whatever. A truckload of Latin American gardeners trundles past just as Not Candy smears down behind Cole. Cole's mildly surprised to see him, as he thought he alone "crossed over" after the spell. This, Not Candy darkly notes, is merely the first of Cole's many miscalculations. Not Candy explains that, in addition to the alternately superficial and supernatural changes to the Manor, Cole himself has been changed. He's no longer invincible, for one thing, and has in fact reverted to the Colethazor existence he led at the beginning of the fourth season. He's therefore both vulnerable and vanquishable. Not Candy begs Cole to reverse the spell and return with him to that place where the Avatars dance and sing and paint pretty rainbows on each other's faces, but Cole refuses. "I have to play this out first," Cole states, leveling his gaze on Not Candy as The Mournful Flute Of Cole Fucking Everything Up tootles in the background. Not Candy's all, "Whatever, jackass," and smears out.
A demonic bouncer eases open the Manor door for the Colethazor, who enters with a mix of wariness and delighted anticipation on his face. The foyer antiques are gone, replaced by a couple of mellow-looking henchdemons and a truly appalling reproduction of what I believe is the Apollo Belvedere. I'm not as up on my statuary as I should be, but this thing is wretched. It looks like they swiped it from the hostess station in a strip-mall Olive Garden. Cole loves it, though, and I'd make a crack about his questionable taste, but he's been chasing after The Knockered Nitwit for two and a half years, so I think we can all agree that Cole has no taste whatsoever. Cole turns to enter the front parlor, which has been similarly stripped of furniture and now contains little more than a five-foot-tall Balinese idol glaring at a billiards table. He appreciatively regards it all before sliding open the doors to the back parlor, whereupon a pre-stomach-bypass Al Roker leads a clamorous throng of short-skirted twentysomethings in cheering, "Surprise!" You think I'm kidding? It's a bunch of skinny little women with a big, fat, bald, bespectacled black guy over in the corner. I can't make this stuff up, people. Cole beams and turns around as another crowd of happily demonic partygoers materialize in the front parlor behind him. None of them looks particularly demonic, mind you, and it in fact seems as if they pulled a horde of interns and production assistants out of their carrels, slapped some glasses of fake wine into their hands, and ordered them to scream a lot while remaining on their marks, but Cole's thrilled, so what can you do aside from constructing a lengthy and awkward run-on sentence to describe the whole thing?
Cole dives into the bubbly throng to receive numerous enthusiastic congratulations as a portly gent who is not the Al-Alike rolls a three-tiered birthday cake in from the dining room. The icing's black with little red flowers and flourishes, by the way, and a festive "Happy 100th Birthday!" crowns the uppermost tier. The assembled production assistants chant, "Speech! Speech! Speech!" so Cole obliges them with a few stammered remarks expressing his surprise before he admires the cake. The portly gent clasps his hands over his heart and brightly replies, "Thank you, my liege. But I must admit I thought you were one hundred and seventeen!" A hundred and eighteen, but who's counting? Besides me, I mean. And everybody on the forums. A shocked silence greets the portly gent's remark, because the production assistants can correctly subtract 1885 from 2003, too. After a moment, the portly gent erupts into flame and presently disappears in a veil sparks and smoke. The gathered production assistants part, and -- hooray! Slinking to the center of the frame with a flaming index finger raised before her face is Miss. Debbi. Morgan!
Just how twisted am I after recapping this show for two and a half years? I'll tell you: I cheered when Debbi Morgan finally appeared. Cheered and bounced around on the couch while squealing, "It's D'Eartha! Aiiiieeeeee!" I trust you'll pardon me while I gush about Miss Morgan like the blithering simp I've become because of this wretched series. She looks fab-ulous. Gone is the dismal orange poncho she wore during her nine-episode run last season, replaced by a lovely off-the-shoulder, cleavage-enhancing violet crushed-velvet gown, and her hair's twisted into a fierce, weave-me-alone pile high upon her head. I luh-hove Miss Morgan. Not enough to watch her crappy new show on Lifetime, of course, but still. Whee! "I know how sensitive you are about your age," Miss Morgan purrs as she ambles up to Cole. She smirks, and with a wicked, bemused side-eye, bows briefly before offering, "Happy birthday." With every gesture and expression, she telegraphs to those watching just how little she thinks of Cole. Love. Her. Julian McMahon's open-mouthed, gobsmacked expression of shock makes me snicker for a second until Cole pulls it together long enough to blurt, "Seer! You're...alive!" Heh. Miss Morgan cocks a suspicious brow at this, then shrugs that suspicion off to laugh at Cole's "joke." The laughter's short-lived, though, for Cole's question sets off every bell and whistle attached to Miss Morgan's finely-tuned bullshit detector. "Where's Phoebe?" he asks. Miss Morgan shoots him a small glare laden with distaste, directs Cole's gaze to the stairs, and -- oh, God.
Phoebe appears on the landing with an attendant who futzes with her hair, and I'm sorry, but this is just wrong. According to the script, she's meant to be working a "sexy, satin designer dress," but all she's actually working is my last nerve. And Natalie's hairstyle from The Facts Of Life. Her gown, such as it is, is fire-engine red and slit up to her cooter, and she's also modeling an ungainly cubic zirconium necklace. It's vile. Then again, it's perfectly in keeping with the hundreds of fashion disasters that preceded it, so I suppose it's appropriate for this, The Very Special Hundredth Episode. Cole, taste-free bastard that he is, immediately starts drooling, and hustles on over to greet her. He slavishly compliments her look, eliciting a tart, disbelieving sneer from the Feebs. A brief furrow of confusion crosses his face, but he gamely leans in for a quick peck. Phoebe wrinkles her nose and shoves him away, snitting, "What the hell is the matter with you?" She slips past him to beeline towards...is that the guy from An American Werewolf In London? No, it's Michael Bergin. Holy Mother of God, what happened to him, and why is he on my television? Ew! I suppose whatever happened was dreadful, because here he is in a non-speaking role on an Aaron Spelling show as one of Alyssa Milano's boy toys, right? Right. Miss Morgan knifes through the crowd to comfort a dismayed Cole, urging him not to worry. "Once she conceives your magical heir," she croons, "you won't need to keep up pretenses." Or anything else, it seems. Ba-dum-bump. She places a gentle hand on his cheek and adds, "I'll take it from there." Oh, D'Eartha. Scheming, disloyal, triple-timing, vicious, poisonous, power-hungry D'Eartha. How I've missed you.
The shot cuts away to reveal Raige huddled in a doorway at the center of a throng of demonic production assistants. She spies on Miss Morgan's interaction with Cole, then catches sight of Phoebe heading into the kitchen. Raige sets a determined expression on her face and wedges past the demonic PAs to join her sister.
Back in the kitchen, Phoebe orders the cooking lackeys from the room so that she can sneak a cigarette from her stash in one of the drawers. Because dastardly Cole's evil spell has so destroyed her world that poor Phoebe's been driven into Philip Morris's open and comforting arms in a wild and reckless attempt to ease her pain, or something. Shut up, Phoebe. Though I do appreciate this opportunity to gift Alterna-Feebs with a prison-appropriate nickname. Since "My Cellmate Sold Me To A Psychotic Lesbian Serial Killer In The Shower For A Pack Of Tareytons Phoebe" takes too much time to type, "Prison Bitch Phoebe" will have to do. Raige enters, and we get another round of "I'm your sister! No, really!" Prison Bitch Phoebe tolerates about three seconds of this before bellowing for her lackeys to remove Raige from the Manor. Darryl, surprisingly enough, answers the summons. Raige -- still not getting it -- greets him brightly. Darryl grabs her arm to toss her out the back door, but Raige snatches up a handy frying pan and bonks him on the head. As he collapses to the floor, Raige pleads for Phoebe's help, arguing that "in [her] heart of hearts," Phoebe knows she's not meant to be with Cole. Darryl, meanwhile, pulls out an automatic and squeezes off a couple of rounds. Raige ducks, and that little television set they insist on having in the kitchen takes another one for the team. Raige flees, followed immediately by Darryl as the camera focuses on Prison Bitch Phoebe's horrible hair, overdone eyeliner, slack jaw, and ugly necklace. I mean, "conflicted face."
Outside, Raige smashes through a gate and barrels towards the sidewalk, shouting for Maximum Security Dolt the entire way. Raige takes a digger at the foot of the drive and tumbles onto her hands and knees as Darryl aims his automatic at her head. Maximum Security Dolt orbs in, shoots A Look Fraught With Significance at Darryl and his gun, and reaches for Raige's hand. As he orbs out with her, Darryl's bullet biffs into the now-empty concrete where the two had stood. Darryl bites his lower lip and squints.
The Hardest-Working Cemetery In Show Business. Maximum Security Dolt orbs in amongst the memorials with Raige, who still doesn't quite get it. She natters on and on about Cole living in the Manor and long-vanquished demons roaming the earth and previously-saved innocents moldering in the cold, cold, ground until something in Maximum Security Dolt's expression shuts her up. "What are we doing here?" she asks, as if noticing her surroundings for the first time. Maximum Security Dolt points to the ground. The camera cuts away to display Raige's own sad and neglected grave marker, etched with her name and the inscription "BORN 1975 DIED 2001." Not. No doubt speechless with rage because her alternate-reality survivors fucked up the birth date on her headstone, Raige gawps at Maximum Security Dolt before vanishing into the commercial break.
And we're back. Maximum Security Dolt reveals he checked with the ever-useless Elders, who confirmed Raige's story. You know, Dolt, if the production staff hadn't blown the budget for tonight's episode on Phoebe's eyeliner, you might have asked Finola Hughes and Jennifer Rhodes, who could have confirmed Raige's story on camera. In any event, Maximum Security Dolt adds that his reality's Raige met an untimely death at the hands of the Source, which is why other-reality Raige can't access her powers. Which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, but we'll just have to go along with it. Also, does this mean there's a ghostly Alterna-Raige floating around out there? And if so, wouldn't she have noticed that her corporeal double just stomped all over her grave? I mean, I know it would piss me off if my corporeal alternate-reality doppelganger just suddenly appeared and thoughtlessly strolled around on the final resting place of my earthly remains, so I can just imagine what Alterna-Raige must be feeling at the moment. Anyway, Maximum Security Dolt wraps up his expository diatribe by claiming, "If you hadn't sneezed when you did and orbed into the neutral plane, nobody would have ever known." "The neutral plane"? But isn't orbing simply a Whitelighter's method of...oh, fuck it. Raige disagrees with the Dolt's assertion, insisting that Cole altered reality to win back Phoebe. Cole would know whether or not Raige ever existed, and Cole is therefore responsible for her alternate incarnation's death. Does that make any sense? Christ on a stick, but I hate alternate realities. Why couldn't they have done a nice little time-travel episode instead? Maximum Security Dolt offers to assist Raige in any way he can. Raige remarks that while his help is appreciated, she really needs her sisters. "Maybe we can start with two and go from there," Cell Block Piper calls from off-screen. But Raige has only two sisters, Cell Block Piper, so if you started with two, there'd be nowhere else to go. Whatever! I don't care anymore! La-la-la-la-la! Do you hear that? That's me not caring! About the plot holes or the errors in continuity or the gaps in logic or the shoddy dialogue or the hideous clothes or any of it! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Cell Block Piper admits she followed Raige's advice regarding Not Coolio, and she figures that if Raige told the truth about Not Coolio, she might be telling the truth about everything else. Concerned looks all around.
Back at the Manor, Cole shoots pool while Darryl reports on Raige's escape in the arms of the Dolt. Miss Morgan is most displeased. "Your wife, consorting with other witches again?" she icily snits. "I don't like it." Cole has other things on his mind, however, and wonders why Darryl's now working for him. Darryl and D'Eartha exchange a look before Miss Morgan requests a little alone time with the boss. "Are you feeling all right?" she asks once Darryl skulks away. "You wanted to kill the cop, but your wife cast a spell. She wanted to make him useful -- save him." Cole's all, "Oh, right!" but Miss Morgan's not having it. "Any perceived weakness on your part could leave you vulnerable," she reminds him, but her warning falls on deaf ears, for Cole's now watching Prison Bitch Phoebe canoodling with the over-the-hill underwear model on the sun porch. He nearly chokes on his cigar when Prison Bitch Phoebe takes the decaying sex symbol's hand and leads him upstairs to the Bimbo Boudoir. "What are you doing?" D'Eartha hisses when Cole attempts to follow them. "You both have your affairs," she snaps. "That's no secret." Cole's flabbergasted, so Miss Morgan summons a nearby chippie who boobs into Cole's face with K'Amaya's "I'm whoever you want me to be" schtick from last week. Cole pushes her away, insisting that Prison Bitch Phoebe's "the reason [he] went through all of this." "Went through all what?" D'Eartha frostily inquires, but Cole's already scampered off. Not K'Amaya conspiratorially whispers, "I think we should report this." Miss Morgan doesn't reply, but it's clear she's wondering how best to extract herself from what is quickly becoming an unviable alliance with the Colethazor. Wave goodbye to Miss Morgan, kids, because that's the last we'll see of her. Unless her Lifetime series tanks and the crackheaded hacks who write this show figure out a way to drag the character back into the original reality, that is.
P3. Cell Block Piper strolls through the detritus, quizzing Raige on the club's success in the alternate -- you know what? Screw it. Nothing in this scene adds to the plot, despite what I must admit are lovely performances from Holly Marie Combs and Rose McGowan, so let's just cut to the chase. Maximum Security Dolt, Cell Block Piper, and Raige determine that Cole's reverted to Colethazor form, and Raige reminds them of the piece-of-flesh vanquish in the Book of Shadows. Cell Block Piper slides a huge bowie knife from her belt and deadpans, "All right, then. Let's go hunting." Scene.
Manor. Up in the rearranged Bimbo Boudoir, Prison Bitch Phoebe macks with the rapidly-aging underwear model upon a frilly four-poster over by the bay window, and oh! Hello, tuna salad sandwich I had for lunch! And the Wheat Chex I had for breakfast! How are you guys doing? And what's this? It's last night's cheesesteak, accompanied by my small intestine and pieces of my kidneys! So nice of you all to drop by! Cole thankfully barges through the door and hurls a Flaming Ball Of Death into Michael Bergin's chest before every single internal organ I own migrates to the carpet at my feet. What follows begins promisingly enough as a campy send-up of those notorious and numerous trampy-wife-versus-cuckolded-husband scenes from Dynasty's glory days. Regretfully, within seconds it degenerates into a by-the-book shrieking match of the sort we've all seen far too many times between these characters in the past. Cole gave up everything for her, and she still doesn't love him! No, Phoebe gave up everything for him, and it wasn't worth it at all! Blither bicker babble battle blah. Shame, really, because McMahon is acting the hell out of this, and even Milano's getting in a couple of good moments. At this point in this particular storyline, however, I simply can't care. Phoebe announces, "The only reason I'm still here is to make sure that what happened to Prue never happens to Piper, and you know it." Oh, honey. If you don't want what happened to Prue to happen to Piper, don't call your mother to have her call your agent to have him call Aaron Spelling to have him fire Holly Marie Combs. It's that simple. Cole launches into a tearful tirade about love lost and wah, but it's all over for the Feebs. "Maybe it wasn't meant to be." And with that, Prison Bitch Phoebe collects herself and exits the room in silence.
After a bleak beat, Cole pulls himself together and darts off into the hallway. What he intends to do or say, we'll never know, for Cell Block Piper launches a surprise attack from a hidden alcove and deploys her Hands Of Discontent. Their explosive force sends him flying backwards through the hallway, and he vanquishes the built-in glass-front cupboard with his back. "Now!" Cell Block Piper screams as Cole crashes to the floorboards in a shower of shattered glass. Maximum Security Dolt orbs in with Raige, who's been entrusted with the bowie knife. Cole, winded and in apparent pain from Piper's attack, remains on the floor as he seethes, "You!" "Surprised?" Raige seethes back at him with a hard glint in her eye. She lunges towards him, latches onto his wrist, and gouges a thumb-sized chunk of flesh from the heel of his hand. Youch. As Raige retreats into Maximum Security Dolt's arms with Cell Block Piper, Prison Bitch Phoebe races in from the stairs. "Piper!" she gasps. It's supposed to be A Tender Moment, but it only serves to break up the action. Shut up, Phoebe. Cole finally pulls himself from the floor and conjures a Flaming Ball Of Death with which to fry the interfering in-laws. Prison Bitch Phoebe throws herself on him, giving Maximum Security Dolt enough time to orb out with the others. Cole roars and, twisting at his waist, backhands Phoebe with a mighty pimp-slap. Prison Bitch Phoebe goes down like a French prizefighter. A French prizefighter in a pair of slingbacks and a tacky red dress. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Play. Pause. Rewind. Slow-forward. Prison Bitch Phoebe cowers on the floor as Cole howls for a pair of suddenly-appearing demonic underlings to kill the interfering in-laws "on sight." The underlings squiggle out. "[Raige] was telling the truth?" bleats the Feebs. "I didn't go through all of this to lose you," Cole menaces through the searing pain shooting up from the gaping wound in his palm. "If I'm going down, you're going down with me." Into the commercials, that is.
Over in the ruins of the club, the gals have jury-rigged a small cauldron atop the remains of the bar. After a bit of sisterly bonding between Cell Block Piper and Raige, Maximum Security Dolt orbs in with one last ingredient for the vanquish. Raige suggests they all take a few steps back, then flings the raw chunk of Cole's hand into the pot. The expected minor explosion follows, but why didn't they recite the spell? No matter. We've less than five minutes to go, so let's get this over with already. As Raige fills a handy vial with a bit of the potion, Cell Block Piper announces that she intends to have Maximum Security Dolt orb Prison Bitch Phoebe away from the Manor for safety's sake while she and Raige confront Cole. "Ready, sis?" she asks. Raige grins.
A beautiful, slow-moving shot of the nighttime skyline from the bay takes back over to the Manor. From the kitchen doorway, our intrepid heroines scan the main floor for demons, then cautiously edge over to the stairs with Maximum Security Dolt in tow. Prison Bitch Feebs flies down from the landing in a burgundy-toned negligee, begging her sisters to leave before Cole and his lackeys murder them. Ooops. Too late, Feebs, for here comes Cole now from the depths of the sun porch. He conjures a vast Flaming Ball Of You Will Move Two Feet Backwards And Be Unconscious Now, Yes? that whacks Piper, Raige, and the Dolt into a bar assembled at the foot of the stairs. The three face-plant at Prison Bitch Phoebe's feet, with the vanquishing vial clattering across the floor from Raige's limp hand. Cole flicks a little mojo at the potion, and it whisks through the air into his fist. He then leans casually against one of the internal archways connecting the rooms, all pouty lips and alluring eyes and attractive backlighting, and while God knows I'm not going to miss the crap storylines he's had to endure, I will miss looking at him every week. Raige comes to as Prison Bitch Phoebe kneels by Cell Block Piper to hag at her husband. "I don't know how you got here," Cole coolly admits to Raige, "but if it's any consolation, I know exactly where I'm going to bury you. Right to yourself." Raige grabs the still-unconscious Piper's hand and calls for Phoebe to do the same. The moment Phoebe completes the physical link, the chandelier above shudders on its moorings as if the Manor were caught in an earthquake, and the reconstituted Charmed Ones are bathed in a bluish white glow. Cole hurls another Flaming Ball Of Death at the three women, but it ricochets harmlessly off the cone of light that floods the hallway, and flies out of the house through one of the sun porch doors. Well, that's new. Prison Bitch Phoebe rises to her feet and intones, "The Power of Three." Raige stands and immediately summons the vanquishing vial from Cole's fist with her orbing telekinesis. "I do hate long goodbyes," she quips, and draws back her hand to hurl the vial into Cole's chest. "No!" shouts Prison Bitch Phoebe, snatching the potion away from her sister. Oh, just KILL HIM ALREADY.
But no. First we must listen to the following from Cole and Phoebe. As it includes Julian McMahon's last little speech ever on this show, I'll transcribe it for you. Feel free to act along at home.
Cole: [shoots Raige an icily triumphant sneer] She's not gonna throw it. [gazes at Phoebe, who gawks wordlessly in return] Are ya? [more gawking; he continues with regret beginning to color his voice] We've been through so much together, haven't we? [gawking; self-doubt creeps into Cole's tone] Our love's so strong, nothing can destroy it. [gawk -- Cole no longer believes what he's saying, but he soldiers on] Not even this. [Phoebe stops gawking long enough to smirk; Cole despairs, lost] We're meant to be together. Prison Bitch Phoebe: I don't think so.
Phoebe finally whips the vial at him, and Cole explodes in flame. They take their time with this vanquish, making with the Very Special Hundredth Episode effects by showing us Cole's skull beneath his screaming face. However, in the end, he goes just like they all do, disappearing in a billowing gout of fire. Poor Cole. You deserved better, and you in fact received better, once upon a time. But then that fucking idiot Brad Kern had to go and pick up your option for the fifth season, and everything went to hell. Sniff.
The room begins to spin around Raige as a fast-moving supernatural fog washes across the city skyline, brightening the lights considerably. When the whirling stops, Raige finds herself exactly where she began in the hall, only the various antiques and carpets have been restored. Piper waddles out from the kitchen, scarfing down ice cream straight from the carton. "Where have you been?" she asks mildly. Far too mildly, if you ask me, for we learn that time moved forward at the same rate in both realities. So, Piper watched Raige orb out the evening in the club's office, never saw her orb back in, didn't see her again for an entire day, and not once had the Dolt orb off in search of her? Whatever. Raige flings her arms around Piper and her distended belly and vows never to move from the Manor. Phoebe enters and wonders why Raige is so perky. "What did you do?" Phoebe side-eyes suspiciously. Raige grimaces all "Busted!"
Casa De Los Muertos. The Glamorous Ladies emerge from the elevator to find the shattered French doors banging against each other in the wind from the bay. Piper and Phoebe cautiously enter the darkened living room, Phoebe calling Cole's name. Raige casually strides over to the French doors and locks them while insisting that Cole's gone for good. "It just seems far too easy," the unconvinced Piper states. "I don't know how I feel about that." "We don't have to look over our shoulders anymore," Raige claims. "It's over." Phoebe retrieves the saccharine photo of herself and Cole from the carpet, where he'd dropped it way back in the pre-credits sequence. She runs her fingers over it and shrugs, "I guess it just wasn't meant to be." Piper quietly suggests that they leave, and turns to reenter the elevator. Phoebe restores the photo to its place on the entrance table while Raige hangs back for a moment. She glances around the apartment one last time and breathes, "Happy birthday, Cole." Oh, please. "Happy birthday! I'm sorry I killed you three minutes ago, but I hope you have a good one, doll!" Stow it, you dingbat. Raige follows her sisters into the elevator, and the doors silently slide shut as we fade to black.