“ Deep beneath the surface in a torch-lit ice chamber, a dark demonic force glowers at a pair of frozen-over niches in the wall. He looks a bit like John Malkovich, were John Malkovich ever to, you know, eat something already. ”
A two-hour season finale? For Charmed? They can kiss my ass. With the editing this double episode so desperately needed, the whole thing could have come in at half its eventual running time. Jackholes.
The usual clot of dot-bomb yuppies plugs up the entrance of P3. Down near the bar, Phoebe appears to be enjoying a blind date, cooing things like, "You're everything Elise promised and more!" I do hope you weren't tricked into believing she'd given up on Chronic so quickly, because this bit of misdirection is about a subtle as a posse of egregiously white North Shore gangsta-bitch cheerleaders smearing pig shit and paint on a gaggle of brain-dead simps while underage jock drunks tape the whole thing for FOX. Phoebe's actually trying to enlist this Evan person for a charity bachelor auction sponsored by her newspaper. By the way, Phoebe's hideous crimped hairdon't and ghastly overdone face make her look like Madonna, if Madonna fell into a K-hole and set up camp there for about thirteen years. After a bit of non-flirtatious non-banter, Joe Firestone accepts Phoebe's proffered pen and signs up to be "auctioned off like a side of beef." Don't flatter yourself, tool.
Meanwhile, Raige is having considerably less luck snagging a bachelor of her own, because her breasts have migrated to her waist and now resemble nothing so much as a protruding roll of belly fat. Or maybe she's preoccupied with the awful nightmares plaguing her sleep this week. Your choice. "Have you been having any end-of-the-world, fire-and-brimstone, doomsday dreams lately?" she asks her guy. He thinks she's some kind of Pentecostal headcase freak, and flees. Phoebe sidles over to chide Raige for frightening the bachelors rather than flirting with them, noting that despite Chronic's move to Hong Kong, she herself has still managed to sign up six guys. Raige whatevers -- God love her -- and tells Phoebe about her strange dreams of "ancient wars and weird magic." Phoebe wonders what gives. Raige doesn't receive premonitions, so why would she be worried about a few nightmares? Raige agrees that it could be a simple matter of "hormones," but stresses that it might also be her "subconscious trying to tell [her] something." Yeah, it's telling you, "Get the hell off this show before it ruins whatever hope you had of a legitimate career." Phoebe gifts her half-sister with A Look Of Concern.
The camera cuts to a shot of the glittering waterfront before scampering backwards beneath the Golden Gate Bridge and far out to sea. After pausing to take in the glimmering city in the distance, the camera super-speeds backwards again to landsomewhere else. There's an abundance of white stuff, and the camera was headed towards the southwest, so I suppose we're in Antarctica. Deep beneath the surface in a torch-lit ice chamber, a dark demonic force glowers at a pair of frozen-over niches in the wall. He looks a bit like John Malkovich, were John Malkovich ever to, you know, eat something already. After a moment, Brawny John kneels in the snow, unrolls a piece of parchment, and recites the following twice:
Emergo dormio
Libertas caeles dicio
“ Foreshadowing, already half in the bag even though it's well before noon, cracks open another Old Milwaukee pounder and lurches past the gals into the parlor. Foreshadowing's a 'hey, it's after five o'clock somewhere in the world' kind of guy, in case you couldn't have guessed. ”
You know what's absolutely horrific? After three years of listening to all the Craptin they spew on this show, I'm now fluent in it. In case you aren't, Brawny John just ordered the two ice-encased figures to "emerge from sleep, free from heaven's dictates." After a moment, the low-grade explosives the effects crew embedded in the set erupt outwards, and the concussion blast flips Brawny John over to the far side of the chamber. Two Xena refugees step out of the niches to take a look around. More on them in a moment, though, because Brawny John's way stoked. He rises to his feet, exposits that the Xenas were entombed in the ice for the better part of three millennia, and announces his intention to harness their super-fabulous powers so he can rule the Underworld. Xena Boy sporks Brawny John's presumptuous ass with a massive bolt of electricity from his left hand. Brawny John screams and flames off to The Waste Land, leaving behind a tidy pile of ash at the center of a black smear on the snow. "Imbecile," Xena Boy sneers. Xena Girl promptly horns up, purrs, "I love it when you smite so unexpectedly," and hikes her tongue down his throat. Xena Boy pushes her away to note they must "find Cronus" first. What, is this guy into threeways or something? "Do we have to?" Xena Girl simpers. "You know he'll be furious." "I. Am. Counting on it!" Xena Boy menaces before the two togaed twits vanish into the opening credits.
Opening travelogue. As the sun rises over the city, some brain-damaged alt-rock ovary howls something about jogging naked through the park while she burns letters and yells out her heart before she finally wails, "I am extraordinary if you ever get to know me." No, honey. You're insane. Cram it. By the way, I became unnecessarily excited as the guest stars' names scrolled by at the bottom of the screen, for one of this evening's gentlemen callers is named "Will Kempe." "Oooh, baby," thought I. "It's that hot piece of ass from Swan Lake and Car Man and the Gap ads, right?" Wrong. The hot piece of ass is Will Kemp. Tonight's gentleman caller is best known for One Life To Live and Baywatch Nights. Dammit!
Over on Prescott Street, Phoebe clomps onto the sun porch to whine about the Manor's lack of air conditioning. Piper fans herself languidly and notes that, as the temperature in San Francisco rarely heads north of seventy-five degrees, they've never had need of it before. "Well, it's ninety now," Phoebe bitches, pouring herself a glass of iced tea, and as someone who's survived fifteen summers in Chicago without the benefit of artificially cooled air in any of my various apartments, I feel compelled to tell her to -- yep, you guessed it -- shut the fuck up. Speaking of shutting Phoebe up, Piper casually passes the latest phone bill over to her wildly verbose sister. Seems Phoebe's been racking up the international charges with constant calls to Chronic, and I'm not going to bother wondering why these charges would appear on the Manor's bill when Phoebe has a goddamned cell phone. Phoebe babbles an apology before noticing Piper's unnatural Zen-like calm regarding the whole thing. "Who are you," she squints suspiciously, "and what have you done with my sister?" Foreshadowing, already half in the bag even though it's well before noon, cracks open another Old Milwaukee pounder and lurches past the gals into the parlor. Foreshadowing's a "hey, it's after five o'clock somewhere in the world" kind of guy, in case you couldn't have guessed. "What?" Piper asks innocently. "I can't be in a good mood?" Well, I'm sure you can, dear, but considering what an unreasonable shrew you've been all season, I don't find Phoebe's question that odd.
“ Piper exchanges a supposedly light-hearted smirk with Mrs. Darryl, but you can tell she's wicked pissed, and I'm sorry, but she's got a hell of a lot of gall to whine about her husband's repeated absences in front of a cop's wife. Suck it up already or divorce him, Piper. ”
Piper exposits that The Rapidly Aging Done One's finally sleeping through the night, her "hormones are back in whack," and she and the Dolt are"Back in the saddle?" Phoebe leers before adding, "God, I miss sex!" Here's a nickel, you dingbat tramp. Get six more and you can call someone who cares. "I gotta tell you," Piper shrugs, "life is feeling pretty damn good at the moment." "Dare I say it?" Phoebe grins. "It's what they pay you for," Foreshadowing mumbles through a mouthful of beer as he flops sweatily onto one of the sofas. "Your life is almost normal," Phoebe finishes. "There is nothing normal about this heat," Raige segues awkwardly as she drags her sleep-deprived derriere onto the sun porch from the hall. Expository chatter ensues. Raige insists that her "fiery dreams" combined with the bizarre heat wave indicate something demonic is afoot. Piper and Phoebe stare at her blankly. Raige rolls her eyes and heads upstairs to "hit the books so [she] can figure out what the hell is going on." "Should we be worried?" inquires the Feebs. "I don't think so," Piper opines, "but I just wish she'd stop looking for trouble, because with our luck, she's gonna find it." "BRAAAP," belches Foreshadowing from the depths of the couch.
Antarctica. The Xena Twins natter about all the wicked, wicked things they intend to do once they free this Cronus person from his pillar of ice. Xena Girl, henceforth known as Boobarella for what should be obvious reasons, vanishes to "get the Whitelighters" while Xena Boy, now known as Bogtrotter, morphs into a crappy CGI tornado that rises into the sky to blast the ice pillar with a couple of lightning bolts. Well. That was dull.
Speaking of dull, Piper's joined the Dolt and The Rapidly Aging Done One in a park for Darryl's son's birthday party. Darryl pulls a quarter from behind his son's ear, leading the Dolt to snark about Darryl's feeble sleight of hand. Drop dead, Dolt. The stunning Mrs. Darryl joins the group to chat for a bit until the ever-useless Elders ring the Dolt's bell. Piper and the Dolt glance uneasily at Mrs. Darryl, who simply flashes them a dazzling smile. "She knows," Darryl stage-whispers. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me," Mrs. Darryl beams, all shiny and pretty. "Argue away!" Please don't encourage them, Mrs. Darryl. Piper and the Dolt whip out the therapy-speak, all, "I think you should know that I feel as if you're abandoning me," and "I accept that you feel as if I'm abandoning you," and "I appreciate that you accept my feelings of abandonment," and blah blee blither zip it, because David and Keith mastered this schtick months ago on Six Feet Under. Darryl and Mrs. Darryl snicker about the bickering marrieds' use of "The Tools." "I think I hate The Tools," Piper admits. "I'd rather just snipe later than be open and honest about my feelings now." This is news? The Dolt darts off to find a private spot to orb on out of there. Piper exchanges a supposedly light-hearted smirk with Mrs. Darryl, but you can tell she's wicked pissed, and I'm sorry, but she's got a hell of a lot of gall to whine about her husband's repeated absences in front of a cop's wife. Suck it up already or divorce him, Piper. Millions of men and women deal with situations similar to yours without shrieking about it every five goddamned minutes, you tedious, peevish shrike.
ANY-way. P3. Elise Rothman, Girl Editor joins Phoebe at the bar for some last-minute auction preparations, a bit of leering at the construction crew setting up the stage, and a small amount of Chronic gossip. I doubt we'll ever again enjoy the pleasure of the hedgehog's company, so let's skip ahead to the point where Raige orbs onto the dance floor in plain view of the twenty-odd people in the club. Idiot. Phoebe agrees with me, and skitters across the room to hiss, "Are you out of your mind?" "Turns out I'm not," Raige retorts. She's studied "tarot cards, the I-Ching, runes, and tea leaves," and they've all told her the same thing: Something monstrous is brewing in the supernatural world, and that something is affecting the natural world's weather patterns. Raige believes the magical disruption might even lead to hurricanes and plagues and earthquakes and whatnot. Just go with it. Raige scried the globe for evil, and passes a windbreaker to the Feebs before grabbing her hand to drag her out of the frame. "We're going on a trip," Raige announces as the screen flares white.
By the time the image returns, Phoebe and Raige have reached the pre-credits Antarctic ice chamber, and no, I have no idea why the entire area's suddenly flooded with sunlight when it was dark enough to require torches mere hours ago. I hate this show. Raige orders Phoebe to force a premonition off the black smear left by Brawny John's abrupt departure. Phoebe does so, but chooses not to share it with the audience, and I can't remember the last time we saw one of her black-and-white visions. I also can't remember the last time I cared. Phoebe finishes giving Raige the short version of earlier demonic events just as the ground beneath them rumbles and shakes. The two gals disappear beneath a cascade of quake-loosened snow as the shot cuts to the crappy CGI tornado finally freeing this Cronus person from his ice pillar, and wow. Cronus really needs to put down the needle and back away from the steroids. Bogtrotter returns to earth in time to witness Bitch Tits hurling dark threats of vengeance at an unspecified "Them" in the sky. We're twenty minutes in, and the word "Titans" has yet to be uttered by anyone onscreen.
Back in the chamber, Phoebe and Raige splutter as they dig their way out of the snow. "An earthquake!" Raige enthuses. "Did I call it or, what?" Phoebe shoots Raige a wicked side-eye and snits, "Did I mention this sucks?" Blow it out your ass, Phoebe. This crap is nothing compared to the endless nonsense that follows. Two hours. Why me? Raige ignores the Feebs while the Feebs herself slouches glumly into the commercial break.
“ 'Oh! My! God! Tell me that's just a really good likeness of [Raige].' I'd love to, darling, but I can't, because it's not a terribly good likeness at all. It looks more like Lauryn freaking Hill, for Christ's sake. ”
Raige tosses a vanquishing vial into Boobarella's right one. Boobarella barely flinches before training her stony gaze on hapless, foolhardy Raige. Phoebe breaks the connection momentarily with a vanquishing vial of her own, but Boobarella simply TKs the Feebs across the room into a table. As Phoebe lands -- and lands hard, mind you -- a glowy cloud of orbs materializes above her, and every goddamn gaydar in North America blares simultaneously when a tousle-haired twentysomething with berfag sunglasses emerges form the cloud to scream, "Don't look at her!" This terribly sensitive young man whips one vial after another into Boobarella's torso until Boobarella wordlessly concedes defeat and spins away. If there's a joke to be made about Boobarella's most prominent assets having little effect on the new arrival, you'll have to make it yourself. Once Boobarella has left the building, the sensitive young man gallantly helps Phoebe to her feet, asking if she's all right. Phoebe just gawps at him for a moment before turning to discover Papier Mch Raige, petrified on the carpet. "Oh, my God," Phoebe breathes as the camera tracks in on the tacky replica of Rose McGowan before cutting away to commercial.
Attic. Aftermath. "Don't worry," the sensitive young lad tells the Feebs, who's gazing with dismay upon the tacky replica of Rose McGowan. "She's all right," he adds, before amending, "Well, she's not completely all right, but she's not dead." Phoebe remains speechless, so the sensitive youth continues, a bit conspiratorially, "Frankly, you see this sort of thing a lot -- in museums, universities, town centers. Most of those statues? Aren't really statues. They're people like your sister here who've been turned into stone." Phoebe, still gaping, finally manages to choke out, "Who are you?" "Chris Perry," comes the answer. "I'm from the future," he admits a bit reluctantly, understanding how unlikely that sounds. At this moment, I'd like to remind you all of the prominent mid-'80s survey that determined forty-two-percent of all gay men were named Chris. Of course, that survey was conducted by HBO's Not Necessarily The News, but to this day, I find its conclusions remarkably accurate. Piper stumbles into the attic at this juncture to gasp, "Oh! My! God! Tell me that's just a really good likeness of [Raige]." I'd love to, darling, but I can't, because it's not a terribly good likeness at all. It looks more like Lauryn freaking Hill, for Christ's sake. Phoebe crosses to Piper's side as Big Gay Chris and his dangerous eyebrows get frisky with the exposition. He was sent back to alter the past by a person or persons who must remain anonymous for the time being. You see, prior to his time-hopping intervention, history showed that Raige died when Boobarella attacked the attic. In fact, Raige became the Titans' "third Whitelighter victim." This, of course, meant the destruction of the Power of Three, and with the Charmed Ones out of the way, the Titans went on to rule the earth, the moon turned the color of blood, cats lay down with dogs, yada, yada, blah. You get the picture. Piper absorbs Chris's story, then bellows for the Dolt, who orbs in immediately. "How many Whitelighters are missing?" Piper demands. The Dolt confirms that a second one dropped off the supernatural radar since last he spoke with the wife. Big Gay Chris wiggles his eyebrows. "Believe me now?" he asks. Before anyone can answer, a vase shatters in the house below. Piper, Phoebe, and the Dolt head off to investigate, leaving Big Gay Chris alone with Tacky Raige. I suppose I could mention that in the original script for this episode, Big Gay Chris correctly predicted what the Manor Morons would find downstairs. For some reason, that line was cut.
“ If the Dolt starts up with the homoerotic subtext, I'm stabbing myself in the neck with a pair of nail scissors. ”
The Manor Morons hit the stairwell landing, and are greeted by that goddamned fairy queen from last week. Why couldn't she have stayed dead? The Manor Morons follow the goddamned undead fairy queen with their eyes to discover a menagerie of just about every stoopid magical creature from this season's episodes mingling in the main hall. Yep, the gang's all here -- Snow Raige's Seven Ethnically Diverse Dwarves,Freaky Tiny Iguana Woman, theC.S.I.leprechaun, andthose assy Nymrods, among others. Lead Dwarf steps over to apologize for the broken vase. "We'll pay for that," he assures the Manor Morons, "as long as you stop the world from ending." The Manor Morons gape.Down in Antarctica, Bitch Tits rails about Boobarella's "incompetence," which, he argues, "has compromised [them] all." Boobarella takes offense and gets shrill. Bogtrotter steps up to vow that he'll not leave Boobarella behind in Antarctica. Bitch Tits gets far too close to Bogtrotter to assure him that he won't have to. Why, you ask? Because Bitch Tits is going to fry Boobarella's incompetent implants straight to Hell, silly! Boobarella shrieks and wails and vanishes in a veil of flame. If you ask me, Bitch Tits just wanted Bogtrotter all to his freakishly muscled self. I should leave it at that, because God forbid I inadvertently encourage an influx of HoYayers ontotheCharmedboards. And yet, I can't. Once Boobarella's gone, Bitch Tits croons threatening noises in Bogtrotter's ear. Bogtrotter's all, "I have to bottom, don't I? Damn."Manor. Piper and the Dolt corral all of the Stoopid Magikal Kreatures from the main hallway onto the sun porch, and slide shut the doors I never knew were there. That goddamned undead fairy queen briefly gets caught in said heretofore-unseen sliding glass doors, and while I'm tempted to urge Piper to squish the goddamned zombie like a bug, I know the creepy thing will just resurrect itself by the end of the second hour. Phoebe, meanwhile, leers at a shirtless male "oracle" who's gayer than thatspell-addled porn star she screwed in Season One. Dude. What happened to this episode? It's like Big Gay Chris orbed in, and now I'm seeing everything through his berfag sunglasses. If the Dolt starts up with the homoerotic subtext, I'm stabbing myself in the neck with a pair of nail scissors.
Piper once more makes with the rudeness and the bitchery, and just as I'm about to hurl a brick through the television set, Freaky Tiny Iguana Lady toddles in from the kitchen with a piece of cold chicken from the fridge. She explains that the Stoopid Magikal Kreatures sensed the Titan threat long before the Glamorous Ladies did, and so journeyed to the Manor to offer their assistance. Upon hearing The Woefully Neglected Done One's miserable sniveling pouring down the stairs from the Bridal Boudoir, Freaky Tiny Iguana Lady volunteers herself for nanny duty, and flares upstairs in a hyperactive haze of green. Piper's momentarily outraged by Iguana Lady's sassy audacity, but suddenly remembers that they left Big Gay Chris alone in the attic. She intends to "see what Future Boy is up to" herself, so she orders the Dolt after Freaky Tiny Iguana Lady and sends the Feebs to tend to the Stoopid Magikal Kreatures on the sun porch. Heh. I want to type something like, "Upon Phoebe's arrival, the already overstressed sun porch collapsed under the massive weight of the collective stupidity bearing down upon the floorboards. There were no survivors." And I guess I just did. That's a whole lot of stoopid on the sun porch, kids.
Up in the attic, Big Gay Chris leafs through the Book. Piper enters to shriek, "What are you doing?" Big Gay Chris is all, "Chill out, Mom. I'm just trying to find a way to free Stone Cold [Raige] over there." Or maybe he just says that second sentence, but when Piper insists that he "step away," Big Gay Chris is all, "Mom, please. Like I haven't looked at this before?" Okay, so he didn't say all of that, either. Shut up. Piper just stares him down until Chris relinquishes control while tossing his hands in the air and pouting, "What-ever!" "But you should update the Goblins entry," he dishes as he takes a seat. "'Cause trust me: It's gonna get ugly!" Piper clenches, and I'm never going to make it through this scene if I highlight every clue they're tossing out regarding their relationship and his sexual orientation, so just assume this: Every time Big Gay Chris opens his mouth, a subtextual "Mom" pops out, followed by a cunning Kate Spade handbag. Big Gay Chris explains that the Glamorous Ladies can't vanquish the Titans with the Power of Three, and then proceeds to lay a little history on Momma's behind. The last time the Titans posed a threat to the natural world, the ever-useless Elders had to infuse a group of mortals "with a hell of a lot of power." These enhanced humans were able to imprison the Titans, but after the powers bestowed upon them drove them somewhat insane, "they declared themselves gods and forced the world to worship them," and the ever-useless Elders "swore they would never let that happen again." "Hang on a second," Piper tells him. "I'm having a ninth-grade flashback. Are you talking about the Greek gods -- Zeus, Athena, Aphrodite?" Big Gay Chris nods his big gay head and adds that the missing mortals-and-Elders connection "is not the only inaccuracy" in the old myths. Damn. Drew Fuller's got some nice eyes. Now if he could only do something about his iffy line readings.
“ Were there actual scenery to chew up there on the sparse Heaven set, Brian Krause would be munching on it at this very moment. Big Gay Chris orbs in and convinces his enormous ham of a father to unleash The Mythological Mojo on the Glamorous Ladies. ”
Whitelighterland. Were there actual scenery to chew up there on the sparse Heaven set, Brian Krause would be munching on it at this very moment. Big Gay Chris orbs in and convinces his enormous ham of a father to unleash The Mythological Mojo on the Glamorous Ladies. Scene.
Back in the attic, the assembled Stoopid Magikal Kreatures combine the zombie dust, the trouser nuggets, a Phoebe potion vial, and an axe to free Raige from her tacky fiberglass prison. Phoebe races over to drag Raige downstairs for a processing summit with Piper. "You're welcome!" Lead Dwarf shouts at their backs. Oooh. Snap!
Parlor. Oh, dear. Piper's in another one of her moods. The gals natter about their Issues for a bit before Lead Dwarf toddles in to say goodbye. The Stoopid Magikal Kreatures have received orders to protect the few ever-useless Elders who managed to escape to earth before Bogtrotter and Bitch Tits arrived in Whitelighterland. Freaky Tiny Iguana Lady's to remain in the Bridal Boudoir with The Woefully Neglected Done One, but everyone else is out of there. Phoebe's all, "Who gave the order?" Piper breathes, "[Dolt]," before screaming her husband's name at the ceiling.
Whitelighterland. The Dolt emerges from some super-secret vault with a carved alabaster urn. His first impulse is to return to the Manor, but Big Gay Chris lays it on the line -- someone has to remain upstairs to coordinate the counterattack, and that someone is the Dolt. The Dolt pouts. Shut it, Dolt. Big Gay Chris orbs back down to San Francisco. The Dolt plants himself on some heavenly stairs and reads the following from the side of the urn:
Ekre o gee
Akman minento.
No, I don't know what it means. Thank God. The Mythological Mojo spills out of the urn and dives down through the floor as Piper's voice echoes through Whitelighterland.
Parlor. Big Gay Chris orbs in, to be greeted by nothing but rampant bitchery and unreasonable demands. The Mythological Mojo soon arrives to shut the Glamorous Ladies up. It swirls down from the ceiling to form a whirlwind around the Ps that quickly obscures them from view. When The Mojo finally dissipates, Raige, Phoebe, and Piper are revealed in the white goddess costumes familiar to anyone who caught the promos that ran for three endless weeks on the WB: Raige, hair up, trident in hand, breasts just barely glued into her bodice with what I'm certain is a budget-busting amount of toupee tape; Phoebe, showing far less skin than usual, but with a ludicrous and lengthy blonde wig; and Piper, looking fairly normal, actually, in a single-shouldered sheath with her hair down. Alyssa Milano mugs shamelessly with her wig, chasing her tresses in a circle like a dog trying to catch its own tail. "W-what happened?" Raige stutters. "What are we?" "You're gods," Big Gay Chris shrugs with smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes. The camera pans across a confused Raige, a horny Phoebe, and a "You're kidding with this shit, right?" Piper before cutting abruptly to black.
up: More of the same.