It was a dark and stormy night. No, seriously. Thunderheads rumble in from the Pacific Ocean as we fade up on the interior of a rehabbed garret with a fabulous view of the glimmering Bay Bridge arching across a rain-swept Treasure Island, and I have a confession to make. I've never been to San Francisco. Nope. Not once. Two years ago, I was invited to tag along with a gaggle of sensitive Chicagoans for the whole Pride thing. However, the prospect of being trapped in a strange city with half a dozen corporate status queens filled me with paralyzing dread, so I remained in Illinois. Anyway, the point of all this is to let you know that I'm not basing any geographic commentary on firsthand experience of Northern California. I've actually been using a seven-year-old Rand McNally road atlas. I know, I know -- the shame! So when I say the rehabbed garret has a fabulous view of the glimmering Bay Bridge arching across a rain-swept Treasure Island, I'm talking out of my ass. All I know is, there's a bridge, and there's an island, and judging from the maps, the only locations in the Bay Area that might have this kind of view are Point Richmond in Contra Costa County and a small promontory near the Naval Air Station in Oakland. What view do these places have in common? The Bay Bridge arching across Treasure Island. Get it? Good.
The camera scuttles towards a bed positioned directly beneath the windows, then hops the remaining distance to take in…oh, my God! There's a Ratbag on the pillow! No, Raige! Don't touch it! It's evil! Raige ignores me. Presumably naked and post-coital beneath the bedclothes, Raige reaches over to trace the outline of a tattoo on Slampiece Ratbag's chest. Ratbag's eyes flip open, and pillow talk ensues. Raige identifies the tattoo as "The Celtic Wheel Of Being -- the four elements all in balance, all connected to each other." Ratbag's impressed. "How'd you know that?" he asks. "Nobody knows that." "I just…read a lot," Raige stammers awkwardly, "about different…things. Magic things." With a touch of desperate hope shading her tone, she asks, "Do you ever read about…magic things?" "Nah," replies the Ratbag. "I just got it 'cause it looked cool." Raige nods her head a bit, trying and failing to hide her disappointment. "Kidding!" Ratbag smirks. Bastard. Fortunately, Raige's cell phone chirps. It's Piper, calling from the attic with news that the "Creeper" potion is done, and she needs Raige to return to the Manor immediately for a vanquish. Raige is all, "Your timing? Blows goats," but Piper's not having it. She babbles on and on about The Done One's "Wiccaning," finally guilting Raige into leaving the Ratbag's lair. Raige snaps shut her phone, modestly wraps herself in a burgundy-colored sheet that looks a hell of a lot better than most of the crap she normally wears on this show, grabs Ratbag's shirt from the floor, and excuses herself for a moment. She sprints for the bathroom and shuts the door.
Attic. Raige orbs in wearing nothing but the shirt, and I'm sorry, but whenever I see a woman wearing nothing but a man's shirt, I immediately think of Stella Stevens in The Poseidon Adventure, which makes me think of a sweaty Ernest Borgnine screaming, "LINDA!" which makes my skin crawl right off of my body and down the toilet because the sewer is a far cleaner place to be, all of which is a roundabout way of saying that women wearing nothing but men's shirts are never The Sexy. Ahem. Anyway. "Oooh," Piper smiles with an arched brow, evidently finding her half-sister's fornication amusing. "Sorry." Raige whatevers and asks for the plan. She's to summon the leader of the Creeper Demons, after which Piper will nail him with the potion. As with the Kazis and the LesBiGay Vampires before them, should the Creeper underlings lose their leader to a Glamorous Lady vanquish, they'll all lose their lives as well. Raige grabs a notepad and reads the following:
Demons who dwell
In slivers of night,
Uncloak your shadows
To witches' sight.
A giant who is not André because that guy is long dead rises behind them from a murky haze of black smoke to tower above the gals, clad in what suspiciously resembles the infamous holocaust cloak. Piper wings the vanquishing vial into his chest, and Not André howls and wails and disappears in a veil of fire. "We done here?" Raige snips. "Sleaze away!" Piper cheerily replies. "Yeah, well, at least I get some," Raige retorts before orbing on out of there.
Lair Of The Ratbag. The gentleman of the lair, enshrouded in the duvet, raps on the bathroom door while whispering Raige's name. Raige emerges, fanning away Creeper stench while nattering some excuse about not hearing him. Ratbag sniffs the air. "It's all right," he says. "You don't have to hide in there. I know what you're doing." "You do?" Raige gapes, believing she's been busted. "Yeah," he shrugs. "You smoke." Wah. Wah. Waaaaaah! I light my fourth cigarette of the morning as the opening credits clamor into the lair to smack Raige's delighted grin clear off her face.
Darryl, my man! Long time no see.
Unbearably perky opening travelogue. "I UUUUUUsed to carry the weight of the world!" trills an overexcited ovary. "And now all I wanna do is spread my wings and fly-YIII!" Shut up, ovary. I'm assuming the lyrics reference Phoebe's Issue Of The Week, by the way, because everything's All About Her, but we'll get to that later. Over on Prescott Street, the Feebs herself has invaded the Bridal Boudoir to swipe some of Piper's lipstick. She blithers endlessly about the contrasting merits of "Woodmist" and "Rouge Sensation" before turning to ask The Done One for his opinion on the matter. Wait a minute. Who the hell is that kid on Piper's bed? Shit. Just when I'm finally able to distinguish one goddamned Done One from another, they go and throw a new baby into the mix. What's more, this one's at least eight months old, so I suppose it's curtains for the Achingly Cute Doltine Cracker, Quasimodo, and Wyatt-San. Something tells me they're keeping The Precious Done One Log on the payroll for now, though. An unintentionally hysterical bit follows wherein Phoebe rattles out instructions regarding proper Grams-meeting etiquette while The Rapidly Aging Done One just stares up at her blankly all, "I see your lips moving, so I know you're talking to me, but you're such a complete and utter moron that refuse to process a word you say, you terrifying hag."
Raige enters to chat with Phoebe about Chronic The Hedgehog making some sort of international booty call to the Feebs from his corporate jet, but I'm not listening, because The Rapidly Aging Done One is completely ignoring his trampy aunts in favor of pushing himself up from the pillows, shoving his pacifier into his mouth, and playing with one of his little black sneakers like he's about to lace the thing up all by himself. And this is why you should never work with babies, ladies. They're focus-sucking monsters. The camera finally cuts away from The Rapidly Aging Done One in time for Raige to wonder if anyone's ever utilized the truth spell from the Book of Shadows. Phoebe confirms that The Late Lamented once did, with predictably wacky results, and warns Raige not to try it out on Slampiece Ratbag. "It could hurt a lot," she cautions. "You never know what you're gonna get when you cast that spell." Raige's response indicates that she's going to go for it anyway, but I'm no longer paying attention to her because The Rapidly Aging Done One is throttling Phoebe with her own necklace. Atta boy. Before he can choke the life out of the dimwit, however, Piper bellows from below.
Down in the main hallway, Piper and the Dolt arrange a group of lit candles in a circle on the carpet while fretting about Grams's imminent arrival. They eventually stand off to one side, and Piper recites the following from memory:
Hear these words -- hear my cry,
Spirit from the Other Side.
Come to me. I summon thee.
Cross now the Great Divide.
A swirling cloud of glowing golf balls materializes amid the candles and gradually coalesces to form a decidedly spectral Grams, who's chosen a sleek, concealing, and terribly smart deep-red outfit for this evening's festivities. She gushes and steps towards Piper. As she moves out of the circle of candles, a whitish gold flare races up her body from her spectral foot, and she corporealizes in time to give Piper a hug. Grams then proceeds to ignore the Dolt entirely. Ha! Phoebe and Raige descend the stairs to introduce The Rapidly Aging Done One to his dead great-grandmother. Grams makes with the WASPy kvelling as she gathers the kid up in her arms. "Meet Baby Wyatt!" Piper enthuses. Grams gets this delicious expression of bemused disdain on her face as she airily yet acidly repeats the name before chuckling and noting that Wyatt is "a silly name." Of course, she adds the entirely unnecessary "for a girl" to that assessment, but she could have stopped where I did and been just as right. Phoebe duhs that The Rapidly Aging Done One is of the male persuasion. "You didn't know?" Raige asks, and to tell you the truth, I've got to wonder how the kid's gender escaped Grams's notice before now. I mean, this is the woman who made an art out of interfering with her descendents' lives from beyond the grave, and we're supposed to believe so vital a piece of information somehow slipped past her? Pull the other one. "Well, no," Grams stammers. "I mean, I just assumed," she continues before trailing off. Finally, she blurts, "What went wrong?" Bwa! "I don't mean wrong wrong," she covers, not meaning a word she's saying. "It's just that we've always had…girls." Her smile faltering, Grams shoots an accusatory glare at the Dolt and a suspicious side-eye at the antic infant in her arms before passing the genetic defect off to its useless father. Hee! Jennifer Rhodes rules.
After regaining her composure, Grams elegantly changes the subject by expositing, "We've got a lot of work to do before I perform the Wiccaning. I'm going to be calling every matriarch in our family since the Witch Trials, and we've got to make sure the Manor's safe." Piper and Raige insist they've seen to all that, as they've destroyed any dark demonic force that would threaten the Glamorous Grandladies' spirits. "The Zombies, the Rigors, the [pre-credits] Creepers," Piper enumerates. "What about the Necromancer?" Grams demands. "The who?" Piper and I wonder aloud together. Phoebe rolls her eyes at this complication and bolts to go get her some Chronic at a sleazy airport hotel. Self-centered slut. Raige bails as well, for wacky hijinks with pestilential slampieces wait for no plot twist. Grams gazes after them fondly and sighs, "They'd be better off with a dog -- [they're] more loyal, and they die sooner." The Dolt is outraged. Well, as outraged as his weeny little brain allows. Grams waves her hand around dismissively and reminds him, "You know I never had very much luck with men." "But you've been married four times," the clueless Dolt responds. "Exactly," Grams lockjaws, clearly remembering each and every one of those hideous mistakes she called husbands. Whee! Also, congratulations to whomever finally got that bit of Grams's backstory straight. Grams pulls herself out of her irritated reverie to pedeconference up the stairs with Piper. "The last time [the Necromancer] attacked was at your mother's Wiccaning, and we can't take any chance on that happening again, so chop-chop!" The Dolt watches them go, then tells The Rapidly Aging Done One, "Now you know why we don't summon her more often." Blow it out your ass, Dolt.
Meanwhile, the man who was once both Prince Humperdinck and Susan Sarandon's husband -- though not necessarily in that order, of course -- broods while pacing back and forth in a dusty, candlelit chamber. Meet the Necromancer. Chris Sarandon's spectral for the first half of this scene, which means he can brood while pacing through objects as impressive as those shattered urns that litter the floor. He's also aging very badly, though as he's pushing sixty from the other side, I suppose I should cut him some slack. Then again, Jennifer Rhodes is roughly the same age, and she looks fantastic. So, what the hell is wrong with you, Chris? Huh? Not only is he aging badly, but he's sporting a goatee, a single gold hoop in his left ear, and ruffly cuffs on his white shirt. He's a geriatric pirate, for Christ's sake.
A dork who looks like Martin Short and sounds like Andy Dick materializes with that goddamn fairy queen from "Once Upon A Time" screwed into a Mason jar. I hate Martin Short and Andy Dick almost as much as I hate that goddamn fairy queen. The fairy queen, however, rather agreeably drops dead while Martin Short and Andy Dick live on and on, sucking up precious oxygen from other, more talented comedians. The dead fairy gives up her ghost, which Spectral Chris promptly consumes by zapping it with a few bolts of blue electricity from his index finger. In some sort of magical transference, the ghost of that goddamned fairy percolates through Chris's spectral form until he corporealizes to his Short-alike flunky. The two boys then get frisky with the exposition, with Corporeal Chris the far more entertaining of the two, mainly because he's an honest-to-God actor and not some hapless Short-alike loser who's resume consists of one worthless "Waiter" role after another. "I was a powerful demon!" Corporeal Chris rages, relishing every shard of that scenery he's devouring. "A ruler! ALIVE!" Short Dick snides something that I'll ignore, mainly because I want him dead, but also because Corporeal Chris really can handle all of this on his own. We learn that Chris gains fleeting moments of solidity by eating magical beings, but his ultimate goal is to resurrect himself, which he promises to do at some point in the very near future. And…scene.
Sleazy Airport Hotel. Phoebe's finished her nooner with Chronic and now stares out the window at all those jetliners spreading their wings and fly-YIII-ing. Will the poor Feebs ever stop carrying the weight of the world so she, too, can fly-YIII? Girl, please. Like Phoebe's ever carried anything weightier than a tampon-stuffed handbag, and like I give a rat's ass anyway. Chronic emerges from the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel, and I had a joke about his wet hair that involved oral sex and Phoebe's anatomical quirks, but I vomited all over myself before I could finish typing it. Also, Chronic's wearing a robe, like, hello? If you want the audience to embrace the character, you'd best be slinging Eric Dane's himbo ass into a scanty little towel, you nitwits. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Recapping a tedious scene made all the more boring by the complete lack of exposed male skin. Chronic's relocating to Hong Kong for six months, and wants Phoebe to join him. He's even bought her a "Chinese-American" dictionary so she can translate her Amurrican into the local lingo. Tool. Phoebe phrets.
A gorgeous shot of the fog rolling over the Marin headlands carries us up to The Ratbag Lounge. Okay, fine. That could be a shot of Fort Frigging Bragg for all I know. Leave me alone. Raige hesitantly enters to find her current slampiece chatting with a supplier on the phone. He quickly ends the call and rises to offer her a drink. Raige declines, then whips out a slip of paper and quickly reads the following:
For those who want the truth revealed,
Opened hearts, and secrets unsealed
From now until it's now again,
After which the memory ends.
Despite the fact that she doesn't complete the fucking spell, a swirl of twinkly white lights dances around Ratbag's chest. I mean, fine -- I get that she couldn't have read the remaining two lines as originally written; otherwise, Raige herself would be subject to the spell's effects. But couldn't someone have whipped up a closing couplet appropriate to the situation? Like this:
The Raige who reads this will unleash
The wacky truth from her slampiece.
See? How difficult was that? Stupid show.
Anyway, Ratbag bats at the lights with his hands for a moment before Raige drops the witch bomb. Ratbag, of course, thinks she's joking until she orbs over to perch on the piano. Ratbag's momentarily stunned, which Raige instantly interprets as disapproval. He asks her to give him a second to process the whole thing, then enthuses about the wicked amounts of cool inherent in dating an honest-to-God witch. "My wife is gonna love this!" Raige, who'd been beaming with joy, drops her jaw in shock. "'Scuse me?" she bleats. "Um. Did I just say 'wife'?" Ratbag wonders. "You're married?" Raige spits. "You didn't tell me you were married." "Yeah, well, I didn't tell you I had children, either," Ratbag shrugs. "Did I just say 'kids,' too?" No, Ratbag. You said "children." But I'll let it slide. Ratbag claps a distressed hand over his mouth. Raige prepares to castrate his flea-bitten ass.
Back at the Manor, Piper's opened the Book to Chris Sarandon's entry. I'll skip ahead a bit to transcribe it: "The Necromancer is not a demon but the ghost of a demon who was vanquished. Mostly dwelling in the sprit realm, he has dominion over the dead, although he has been known to escape to the land of the living. He no longer possesses powers of his own, but feeding on the souls of the magical dead imbues him with temporary life. The length of his empowerment depends on the strength of the blah blah illegible but we get it already." Piper notes with a bit of surprise that Grams has appended the main entry with personal scribblings such as "enjoys Clark Gable movies" and "favorite dinner: lamp chops with mint jelly." Had she half the brain she used to, Piper would immediately recognize what's up with Grams and the demon of the week. Unfortunately, childbirth appears to have destroyed her memory, so she placidly follows Grams's lead. Grams intends to smack Corporeal Chris back into the spirit realm to prevent an attack on the Glamorous Grandladies during The Rapidly Aging Done One's Wiccaning. She crosses to the table to begin work on the appropriate potion. While futzing with various ingredients, she too-casually leads, "You know, I'm still surprised you had a boy." Piper reminds Grams that there's always fifty-fifty chance as far as these things go, but Grams shoots back, "Not in our family. Three hundred years and not a male in the bunch." Just as I'm about to remind her of her own damn brother, Grams qualifies, "We've never had a male witch, and men are just so…" "Evil!" Raige pouts as she clomps in from the stairs. "They're just evil!"
Raige gives them the skinny on Slampiece Ratbag's lovely wife and children. Sympathetic cooing noises all around. Grams sashays over to the Book while purring, "There's no wrath like a witch scorned, I always say." And I always say that Grams would correctly reference a quote like that, Idiot Hack Who Wrote This Episode, so I'll pretend the line was "Hell hath no fury like a witch scorned," and keep moving. Grams swings the Book around on its stand. "Care to take it out on him?" she smiles at Raige, indicating the watercolor of Corporeal Chris. The camera pulls in on the image before the shot cross-fades to…
…Corporeal Chris reclining on a bier. An unearthly bluish light glows off to one side of the frame. Chris, assuming that Short Dick has returned with another unfortunate, wearily sighs, "What measly crumbs have you brought me this time?" "Nothing you're gonna like," Grams sasses from across the chamber. Corporeal Chris bolts upright on his slab and perks, "Penny!" "'Penny'?" Piper howls. Grams ignores this outburst from her bitchy descendent in favor of striking a jujitsu pose to shoot massive amounts of telekinetic energy from her fingertips into Corporeal Chris. Corporeal Chris flies through the air to vanquish a stone urn with his antiquated behind. "What are you waiting for?" Grams snaps. "Throw the damn potion!" Raige tosses the vial onto Chris's chest, and he instantly disappears in a rather impressive billow of flame. Grams grins, then turns to face her granddaughters with a look of studied innocence on her face. "What?" she asks. Shocked into silence, Piper and Raige glare and gape, respectively, before dropping into the commercial break.
Manor. Up in The Prue Halliwell Memorial Bimbo Boudoir Of Paisley Tit Slings And Other Fashion Atrocities -- currently occupied by Phoebe -- Piper and Raige voice their suspicions about Grams and Corporeal Chris while Phoebe tosses "appropriate" Chinese expressions into the conversation. By the way, Phoebe looks good tonight. Fresh. Youthful. Neither fresh nor youthful enough to comment upon further, but certainly not as stale and wizened as she was in certain recent episodes. Just thought I'd toss that out there in case one of Eilish's minions is reading this. Phoebe's about to dish the dirt on Chronic's Hong Kong proposal when the Dolt enters with both the cordless and The Rapidly Aging Done One. Darryl's on the horn, "pissed" about Raige's "boyfriend." "Ex-boyfriend," Raige sneers, snatching the phone from the Dolt's hand and barreling out of the Boudoir. Piper wonders why Grams isn't busy spoiling The Rapidly Aging Done One rotten. The Dolt suggests that Grams might want nothing to do with the kid. "Grams doesn't like the fact that [My Cracker's] a boy," the Dolt snits as Phoebe casts a worried eye on the proceedings. "And she makes no bones about it."
Cut to Short Dick arranging -- yep, you guessed it -- bones in the shape of a pentagon on the dusty floor of Corporeal Chris's chamber. He rises to chant some Craptin while sprinkling pixie dust around. A vortex opens at the pentagon's center, and Spectral Chris presently materializes above it all. Spectral Chris arrives love-struck, and he's pretty damn amusing about it, too. He calls Grams "the witch who stole my heart" and, enraptured, practically sings, "Ah, the glint in her eye! The way she held up her hand and sent me hurtling into that wall!" Short Dick winces in sympathetic pain. Just die already, Dick. "Didn't hurt as much as the potion, though," Chris admits conspiratorially. "I could tell she made it herself. The flames. Were. Excruciating! She was furious with me, which can only mean one thing: She still feels the passion! The heat!" Heh. It's nice to see a demon of the week reveling in Charmed's campiness. Far too many of these guest losers take themselves far too seriously. Spectral Chris wonders why Grams has returned to San Francisco, and upon learning of The Done One's birth, orders Short Dick to fetch him an elf. "I'm going to need all my energy if I'm going to take on Penny Halliwell, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Rrrwoar." Or maybe he shuts up after saying her name.
Manor parlor. Grams lightly strokes the embroidered triquatra on one of The Done One's blankets and looks grim. Piper slowly descends the stairs behind her, spoiling for a fight. Grams, of course, doesn't disappoint. She bemoans the fact of The Done One's gender, and claims that "tradition" and "destiny" dictate that women lead the Warren line. "Something went wrong -- terribly wrong," Grams pleads. "This is not the baby you were meant to have." Now, I could be glib about this and make a snarky remark, likely involving Alyssa getting Shannen fired because that one never gets old. However, I've a sinking feeling that Grams's suspicions are correct, and that The Done One's true origins are going to play an important role in year's storylines. Then again, this is a show that barely manages to keep a storyline running coherently through two episodes, much less across two seasons, so maybe I'm just buying all of this because Jennifer Rhodes is selling it so well. In any event, a stricken Piper argues that the ill-fated Melinda was part of a future that included a living Late Lamented, and that "things change." "Not this," Grams insists. She ruefully admits that she can't perform the Wiccaning Piper wants for her son. Not under the current circumstances. Piper blinks, a little misty-eyed. Nice scene. It would have been nicer had Holly Marie Combs not been phoning in most of her half, but whatever. She's had a rough year. We all have.
Trudeau Memorial, formerly Andy's House Of Beef, formerly The Loneliest Precinct House In The World. Slampiece Ratbag cools his heels in one of the holding cells, ranting all the while about the nasty things he's going to do to Raige once he gets out. Darryl, furious, pulls Raige off to the side to berate her for orbing an errant slampiece into jail. "Get him out of here now!" Darryl begs. "Listen to the doughnut hog!" shouts Ratbag before shoving a pillow into his mouth to prevent further outbursts. Heh. "The man has constitutional rights," Darryl groans. "Constitution, schmonstitution," Raige blithely replies, and I had no idea she was such a big Ashcroft fan. I think I'll start hating her now. I'm sure the three people who think I'm too nasty to the Feebs will be relieved to hear that some of the heat's off their darling. "Cheating is immoral," Darryl reminds her, "not illegal." Not if that sanctimonious, scum-sucking, bible-thumping fuckbat Rick Santorum has anything to say about it, Darryl my dear. And I did try to determine the State of California's current position regarding the legal status of adulterers, but my Yahoo searches on the topic kept shunting me off to Christian Coalition-sponsored websites, so some lovely forumite will have to answer that question for us. Raige clues Darryl in on the whole truth-spell thing, leading the long-suffering Darryl to wail, "This is so not my problem!" Raige begs to differ. Should she release the slampiece while he's still under the influence, he'll blab not only about the Glamorous Ladies, but also about their "special friend, the cop who helps [them]." Raige tries to convince Darryl to hang onto Ratbag for another twenty hours or so. Darryl whines all, "What do I tell the other cops?" Ratbag starts grunting like a pig. Heh. "Tell them he's insane," offers Raige.
"You're crazy!" Piper howls. See what they did there? Yeah, I hate it too. Piper and Grams are still arguing about the Wiccaning, and it becomes increasingly clear that Grams's anti-male bias is the real reason she's refusing to perform the ceremony. Which is a total cop-out, because it gives the writers plausible deniability should they decide to drop the potential Suspicious Done One plotline, and it's also frustratingly out of character, because Grams has long since passed from the physical world and should have the same sort of advanced understanding she's displayed previously, but whatever. I like Grams far too much to quibble, especially after the disaster we endured with those assy nymrods. And those damned leprechauns. Hell, with most of this godforsaken season. Whatever. Phoebe enters and tries to claw her way into the argument, because it's not really a proper plot point unless it's all about her, but Piper just shrills something ugly and clomps towards the stairs. Short Dick flares onto the landing and nails Piper with a dagger of orange electricity that sends her flying through the sitting room to slam face-first into a mirror mounted on the opposite wall. Short Dick flings another bolt of energy at Phoebe, but the Feebs yodels and dives out of the way. Grams prepares to flip Short Dick through the wall with a massive burst of telekinesis, but Corporeal Chris, who's silently materialized on the sun porch, flings out a little mojo of his own that drags Grams backwards into his arms. Piper, whose face has not been sliced to gory ribbons by the shattered glass, deploys a single Hand Of Discontent, and Short Dick detonates on the stairs. Smell ya later, Dick. Phoebe and Piper glance into the sun porch just in time to catch Corporeal Chris pulling a flare-and-smoke combo out of his bag of tricks to teleport himself into the commercial break with Grams.
Manor parlor. Aftermath. Raige has returned from Trudeau Memorial to help puzzle out a Necromancer vanquish. Phoebe examines the Chris entry in the Book of Shadows and remembers what Piper did not -- namely, her own scrawled notes on Cole's various entertainment preferences. "Oh. My. God," she mugs. "Grams was the Necromancer's lover!" Raige is all, "Ew!" but Piper realizes Phoebe's on to something. They bang their heads together and knock loose from the dim recesses of their minds the ghost vanquish last used on the Tasty Brothers Mandylor. Phoebe abuses the Book in search of the rhyme.
Meanwhile, back in the chamber, Chris gazes longingly at the unconscious Grams, then flicks out a jazz hand with the command, "Awaken!" Grams gasps and leaps to her feet to smack Chris up with a little telekinetic mojo. Chris stops her dead in her tracks with another jazz hand. "I covet your spirit," he reminds her, "and any spirit I covet, I control." Now that's a goddamned power, people. Can you imagine what you could do with that? Why isn't this guy ruling the Underworld? Or saddling Grams with his laundry, for that matter? Questions for another time, I suppose, as Corporeal Chris chooses to blather about the deep and abiding love Grams still feels for him. "You're crazy!" she hisses, leaping backwards exactly like a furious cat. "I hate you!" Chris whips out that tired "you only hate the ones you love" line, and Grams, for some reason, melts a bit. "You used me," she sighs pathetically, unable to resist Chris's many dubious charms and hating herself for it. She should. Did I mention that he looks like a damn pirate? "You preyed on my affections to get to my family," Grams continues. "I never intended to fall in love with you, but I did," he swears, gently taking her hands in his. "Armond," she starts delicately, before steeling herself once more when he suggests that she summon the Glamorous Grandladies so he can suck up their combined essence, somehow resurrecting both Grams and himself in the process. He plants a sizzling wet one on her lips, and Grams swoons. "You're going to help us both to live again," he claims, "forever!" Grams looks miserable, yet strangely excited at the same time.
Allow me a moment, if you will. Jennifer Rhodes and Chris Sarandon had criminal amounts of fun with that scene -- so much so that I was very nearly able to forget I'd already seen the same fricking thing replayed endlessly between Phoebe and Cole in countless episodes spanning two and a half seasons. So, I'm torn. On the one hand, I'm irritated that they're attempting to legitimize Phoebe's questionable decisions over the years by revealing that a character as beloved as Grams has made and continues to make the same mistakes. On the other hand, I'm wondering if what I just saw was a balls-out parody of an imposed-from-above storyline that had the writers tearing their hair out in frustration well before the halfway mark of the fourth season. First of all, you've got two geriatrics (sorry, but they are) acting like a pair of idiotic, hormonally hyperactive teenagers, and doing a damn entertaining job of it, too. Secondly, "Armond"? Bwa! So, which is it? A shameless attempt to redeem the Feebs? Or a sly rebellion by the writing staff against Brad Kern and the hateful suits at the WB? Quite frankly, I can't decide.
Over in the attic, Piper, Phoebe, and Raige prepare to summon Grams back from the cavern just as the doorbell rings below. Phoebe peers out the window to find a heavily stoned hedgehog on her front porch. Feebs abruptly drops the Hong Kong bomb and glides out of the room as Raige gapes and Piper starts rooting around the attic for Prue's Enormous Bitch. I think it's still in the basement, hon.
Downstairs, the Dolt tries to get rid of Chronic, but Phoebe jiggles over to handle the situation. Chronic's still not flashing any significant amount of skin, by the way, so I'm already bored. Long story short, Phoebe doesn't want to end up aged and embittered like Grams, so she agrees to fly to Hong Kong with Chronic the following morning. Chronic's delighted. Scene.
Attic. Phoebe bursts into the room to bubble cheerfully, "How do you feel about intercontinental orbing?" Piper, who hasn't had time to fetch Prue's Enormous Bitch from the cellar, simply deadpans, "We'll talk about that later," and hands Phoebe the summoning spell. As the Feebs reads the lines aloud in the attic, her voice carries over to the chamber, where Grams valiantly fends off the force of the spell. "Don't try to fight it," Chris croons in her ear. As he strokes her cheek, he continues, "You have no choice but to do as I wish." Grams shudders and sighs and vanishes into a swirling cloud of glowing golf balls that whisks her back to the Manor. The gals lead her over to the Book, which they've opened to the appropriate vanquishing spell. Grams attempts to explain her predicament, but Chris, still coveting that soul of hers, hits her with a searing telepathic migraine. Grams can do no more than apologize for what's about to transpire. Chris finally pirates into the room. "Read the spell," Piper shouts. "Don't bother," Chris sneers at her. "She's with me now." Chris crosses to Grams's side and whispers, "It's time, dear." Grams utters not a word, but you can tell she's thinking, "Right about now would be a perfect moment for the earth to crack open and swallow me whole." Piper makes a mental note to keep Prue's Enormous Bitch strapped to her body at all times as Phoebe and Raige allow their eyes to pop out into the commercial break.
Attic. Raige suggests that Piper deploy the Hands Of Discontent. Piper reminds Raige that she can't blow up something that's already dead. Hey, now that you mention it, Piper, riddle me this: Why didn't Chris disappear into The Waste Land a century ago after his first vanquish? You can find my email address in my staff bio. I eagerly await your reply. Grams intones the opening lines of the Glamorous Grandlady Summoning Spell. The Current Ps freak. Piper rashly orders Raige to hit Grams with the Truth Spell. Raige, frantic, does so, but again neglects to complete the damn thing. Pretend she added the following:
The frosty WASP who hears this rhyme
Will hurry up and end this goddamned episode already.
Oh, shut up. Like proper scansion ever mattered on Charmed.
A swirl of twinkly white lights dances around Grams's bosom. Once the lights have dissipated, Piper orders her grandmother to tell Corporeal Chris "how [she] really feel[s] about him." Grams turns to face him and, beaming, breathes, "I love you!" "Got any other brilliant ideas?" Raige snots. Heh. But wait! Grams isn't finished. "But the truth is," she adds, caressing his cheek, "that our love isn't nearly as powerful as the love I have for my family." Piper and Raige practically clap their hands with glee while Phoebe's all, "Hey! Was that a slam? 'Cause I can fire you, too, you old bag." Grams spins back to the Book and recites the following:
Ashes to ashes,
Spirit to spirit --
Take his soul,
Banish this evil.
By the way, she turned around to stare him down with a mixture of defiance and remorse as she recited the final line. Grams rules.
Drained, Grams addresses her granddaughters. "I am so sorry," she states, more to Phoebe and Piper than to Raige. "I never realized how much my anger -- my bitterness -- affected my life, or yours." Grams gets WASPily verklempt and directs this specifically to Piper. "But I'm most sorry for what I did to my great-grandson, and you. And if I wanted a second chance, it would be with him," Grams concludes. Piper brushes a tear from her eye and crosses to embrace her dead grandmother. Then Grams ruins the moment by blithering some crap about never giving up on love. Whatever, lady.
The following morning, Raige returns to Trudeau Memorial to give Ratbag a final piece of her mind before the spell wears off. With Darryl at her side, she confronts him through the bars. "I thought you would have a problem with magic. I didn't think you would be a problem on some basic human level." Yeah, I know. It makes a lot more sense when you read it out loud. The twinkly lights reappear on Ratbag's chest, indicating that we have at long last reached "now again." "What am I doing in jail?" Ratbag guhs. "Why don't you ask your wife?" Raige spits before flouncing off. Darryl releases Ratbag with a stern warning never to contact Raige again. Aw. Ain't he the butchest thing?
Airport To Whatever. Chronic waits by his jet for the Feebs. He's still not naked, so long story short, she jiggles on over and dumps him. Scene.
Are you ready for a Wiccaning? I said, ARE YOU READY FOR A WICCANING?! Well, too bad. You're getting one anyway. Raige, Phoebe, and Grams wait near the Book as Piper and the Dolt enter with The Rapidly Aging Done One. Piper's slung the kid into an old-fashioned christening gown of the sort that promises dire and crippling repercussions as far as his gender identity is concerned. She's also wearing a hideous pair of brown go-go boots with a matching above-the-knee skirt. Piper, baby. Where did our love go? Grams steps up to the plate and begins to summon the Glamorous Grandladies:
I call forth from space and time
Matriarchs from the Halliwell line --
Bright points of white light burst in the air above and behind Grams to swirl about with comet-like tails as Grams continues:
Mothers, daughters, sisters, friends,
Our family spirit without end --
The various lights arrange themselves in front of the bay window and coalesce into the spectral forms of a dozen women as Grams finishes the spell:
To gather now in this sacred place
And help us bring this child to grace.
The Glamorous Grandladies have now joined the group in the attic. For some inexplicable reason, Charlotte, Melinda, Teeth!, and Prue are not among them. Okay, fine. Prue's not there because Alyssa had Shannen fired, but where the hell are the other three? Also, aside from one biddy in knockoff "Puritan" attire, the Glamorous Grandladies all wear long, pastel-colored dresses vaguely reminiscent of fashions from the first two decades of the last century. Either someone transferred vital funding from the costuming budget to cover the costs of that entrance effect, or everyone in Heaven dresses like Norman Bates's mother.
Grams takes The Rapidly Aging Done One in her arms, faces the Glamorous Grandladies, and offers the following benediction:
The generation has been born into our family: Our legacy. We pledge to be with this child -- this beautiful boy -- always. Apart, but never separate; free, but never alone. He is one of us, and because of that we will bless him with all the goodness that we are. Welcome to the family, [You Rapidly Aging Drag Queen]. Blessed be.
The various Glamorous Grandladies echo the "blessed be" bit. Likewise, the Manor Four. Grams passes The Done One back to Piper with, "Take good care of my great-grandson." She backs up with a warm smile on her face to join the other Glamorous Grandladies. As she crosses some unseen border, Grams decorporealizes. The other Grandladies flare up white and shoot upwards through the ceiling, followed presently by Grams, who does the same. The camera cuts back over to Piper, the Dolt, and The Rapidly Aging Drag Queen for a moment before we fade to black.