Previously on Charmed, Piper and the Dolt had suddenly appearing and completely asinine issues with their marriage just to set up their stupid subplot for this evening, Piper's redheaded bastard of a lippy half-sister met her deadbeat drunk of a genetic father three years ago, and The Retarded Bimbo related a tale of woe regarding a long-missing sister of hers that absolutely no one cares about.
Currently on Charmed, the unbearably lispy Retarded Bimbo lifts the lavender scrying crystal from the smoky copper potions pot up in the nonexistent attic and swings the thing over a map of the United States, starting over the Central Plains. There will be hell to pay if that fucking thing lands on Chicago. In fact, I'm almost certain I heard every single Midwestern viewer shout at the same time, "Oh, HELL no!" when this originally aired. All eleven of us. The Retard, incidentally, hasn't spackled on her usual amount of makeup for some reason and, rather than ironing flat her fried hair as has been her wont up to now, has chosen to allow her severely bleached-out locks to dangle around her face and shoulders. I think it's all meant to make her appear fresh-faced and younger -- in other words, the actress's real age -- but it actually just makes her look a hell of a lot worse. Stick to the dramatic Adriana eyeshadow, doll. It draws attention away from your maggoty neck. Raige, her hair in braids, ambles into the nonexistent room from the upper stairs clad in a purple t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and as each and every scene between these two women thus far this season has been absolutely toxic in its badness, I'll skip to the point, such as it is: Ever since The Retarded Bimbo realized her long-missing sister that absolutely no one cares about was in fact abducted by a demon, she's been focused on nothing other than searching for the absent brunette. Boring! Raige orders The Retard back to campus for the day. The Retard protests, wondering what the Glamorous Ladies will do if a demon attacks and The Retard's not there to defend them. Oh, I think they'll manage without you, Maggot Neck. In fact -- dare I suggest it? -- they'll fucking thrive. Raige gestures about the empty attic and mugs, "I don't see any demons. Do yoooou see any demons?"
We do now. Thanks for nothing, Raige. Answering that call-and-response transition, a dark demonic force sent from the flaming maw of Hell whose name we'll eventually learn is "Vaklav" locks himself inside an ancient storefront whose frosted glass door reads "otohP kciwdahC" and -- get this -- flips a little hanging sign around from "Open" to "Closed" despite the fact that, as I've just noted, the fucking glass is frosted so no one outside can see the stupid fucking sign anyway. Jesus Christ. Vaklav smirks to himself and rather menacingly paces over to an old storage cabinet. He slides open one of the drawers and lifts a large, yellowing print from the bottom to place it on a nearby easel. "Time to make room for anothah!" he narrates in a typically British demonic accent. We get a glimpse at the print to note that the collage contains the ghostly and sepia-toned images of thirteen people, each sporting a startled expression and attired in an outfit stereotypical of the decade in which he or she was evidently photographed (yes, I'm speaking primarily of that ridiculous Madonna Wannabe in the lower left, but there's also some greasy tool with a handlebar moustache and a leisure suit, a depressing number of smelly hippies, and a couple who look like they were yanked straight out of a Soul Train line circa 1973). The camera shoots in to focus tightly on the young man in the center of the lower line of images, a James Dean type whose name we shall presently discover is -- wait for it -- "J.D." Oy. Vaklav raises his hand in front of J.D.'s figure, then swirls it clockwise through the air. J.D.'s form glows yellow for an instant before winking out of the collage. At the same moment, a bright, white pinpoint of light bursts open at the far side of the room, disgorging the considerably shocked J.D., who staggers backwards against the wall. "What the hell?" he opens. "Where am I? What's going on?" Incidentally, the soap-opera himbo playing J.D. was apparently last seen slipping it to Shannen Doherty on the now-cancelled North Shore. You can thank me for that bit of trivia after you've finished vomiting over the repugnant associated mental image.
In any event, Vaklav, in response to J.D.'s questions, smiles, "You're out of time, J.D.," and I'm just going to assume the double meaning in that line was unintentional on the writers' part, because all evidence provided by the season thus far proves the typewriting crackmonkeys aren't that smart. "You're no longer useful to me," Vaklav continues as J.D. makes a couple of outraged noises over in his corner. Vaklav, ignoring him, calmly conjures a Flaming Ball Of Death atop his right palm. He allows the thing to hang there for a moment for maximum effect before flipping it in J.D.'s direction. J.D. instantly slides to the floor in a dodge, in the process wrapping his legs around Vaklav's ankles and toppling the demon to the linoleum. J.D. lunges across Vaklav's prone body and latches onto his neck in what I've since learned the Marine Corps refers to as a "blood choke." You know, when you pinch the artery in someone's neck closed until they pass out. I saw it on Law & Order once. I think. In any event, dark demonic forces sent from the flaming maw of Hell apparently possess circulatory systems identical to those found in human beings, because Vaklav's totally zonked in about three seconds. J.D. flips his lanky hair around, wild-eyed, before darting out of the frame.
Out on the Paramount backlot, J.D. bursts through the photography shop's front door and staggers up to the sidewalk just as the camera cuts back inside to reveal that Vaklav's recovered rather quickly from the death pinch. Meanwhile, J.D.'s flung himself heedlessly into the street -- we're just outside "Columbia" "University" again -- and for his trouble gets a faceful of windshield. No, seriously. Some grey Toyota Camry comes out of nowhere to slam into him, and Jay Kenneth Johnson's stunt double goes headfirst into the glass before tumbling around in the air and eventually landing directly on his skull on the asphalt. Youch. An instant crowd of gawkers appears as the driver of the car and a passerby kneel at J.D.'s unconscious, battered, and bloody side. Vaklav, who'd silently joined the others on the sidewalk, orders someone to call 911 before scowling his way into the opening credits.
Manor. Raige, running late for a job interview, barges into the kitchen to ask of Piper, "Can I borrow your car? Mine's running on fumes." "So orb, you dim bitch," Piper does not instantly snot back, though I'm pretty sure everyone in this show's rapidly dwindling audience handled that task for her. No, Piper -- directing what follows more at her Dolt of a husband than at Raige -- instead rather rudely snipes something back about the Grand Cherokee being out of gas as well, and this exchange exists simply to establish that Piper and the Dolt's suddenly appearing and completely asinine issues with their marriage from last week still exist to annoy us all. Phoebe enters at this point sporting a mind-bogglingly fugly long-sleeved button-down knit that's more of a little cape than an actual sweater. It barely grazes the tops of the Fun Bags, for Christ's sake. Ack. Fortunately, the latter are obscured by some sort of shapeless, strapless white top she must have hot-glued directly onto her skin to prevent the thing from dropping to the floor, or something. While I was thus distracted, the Manor Morons had been babbling on about their Issues Of The Week, and I'll be frank, here: None of these subplots are of any interest to me whatsoever, because each and every single one of them is a retread of an Issue we've seen play out in episodes. Piper and the Dolt's marital strife? "Siren Song" with the body swapping, "Cat House" with the first attempt at counseling, and "Oh My Goddess Parts One And Two" with the second. Raige's troubled relationship with her genetic father? "Sam I Am." Phoebe's time bomb of a biological clock? Every single fucking episode since she embarked upon that goddamned Vision Quest in "The Legend Of Sleepy Halliwell." Or so it seems. So I think I'll be ignoring most of them tonight. This might be the shortest Charmed recap ever. By the way, apropos of entirely nothing, I had an incredibly disturbing dream last night in which Brian Krause kissed me. And I liked it. Yeah. Chew on that horror story while these tedious fuckwits babble at each other for another five minutes.
Eventually, Phoebe stumbles across something relevant to her uterine issues in the Sports section of that morning's All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me, and races off. No, I am not kidding with that. Meanwhile, Piper and the Dolt passive-aggressively tangle with each other over a puddle of literally spilt milk until he gives up on all the bullshit non-drama and charges into the dining room. Raige, who's going to be late for that interview of hers at THE BLACK HOLE OF SOCIAL SERVICES if she doesn't fucking orb over there already, chases after her troubled brother-in-law for a chat. And as the chat involves the suddenly appearing and completely asinine marital strife I've chosen to ignore this evening, I'll be skipping ahead past the point where Raige convinces the Dolt to enter counseling with his vicious shrew of a wife -- again -- to get to the bit where Raige's deadbeat drunk of a genetic father orbs into the foyer from points unknown to barf all over his estranged daughter's Jimmy Choos, promo-style. Oh, I'm sorry. My bad. That was actually a plot point from three years ago. It's also pretty much the only Raige-related plot point from that episode that they didn't recycle for this one. Ass. This show is ass. "It's good to see you," the deadbeat drunk opens. "Sam?" Raige splutters. "Don't you mean 'Dad'?" he replies, genially enough. Yawn.
The Only Hospital In San Francisco. Up on one of the wards, a nurse in pink scrubs reads the following from J.D.'s chart: "Multiple abrasions, bruises, and concussion, yet no internal bleeding." "He's a lucky kid," she continues as the camera swings around to reveal that Vaklav's gone undercover as a physician to keep tabs on his victim, "although we haven't been able to ID him yet, so for now he's a John Doe." "Have the authorities been notified yet?" Vaklav rather stupidly wonders. The nurse is all, "Uh, duuuuuh, like, an hour ago," her tone clearly indicating she's beginning to think this guy in the white coat is a complete moron. Vaklav does recover from his idiotic gaffe rather nicely, however, and suavely instructs that the patient be moved into a private room until they've determined his identity. Evidently pleased with this smooth display of competence, the nurse smiles, "All right, Doctor...?" "Vaklav," he finishes for her before adding, "I'm filling in for Doctor Winfield," and you just know they cut an immensely entertaining scene wherein Vaklav surprised and destroyed this Doctor Winfield person with a Flaming Ball Of Death -- and for what? So we could trot after Phoebe The Amazing Dipshit on her wacky visit to a fucking sperm bank? This stupid show. Oh, oops! Was that sperm bank thing a spoiler? I think it was a spoiler. Oh, fuck it. In any event, the perky pink nurse promptly horns up and pretty much drools all over the dark demonic force sent from the flaming maw of Hell, before the scene cuts abruptly...
...back to the Manor, where Sam's filling Raige in on the purpose of his visit. Seems J.D. is actually "Jonathan David Williams," Sam's charge and future Whitelighter who disappeared in 1955. Sam hadn't heard a thing from J.D. in the fifty years since until that very morning, when J.D. got smacked up by a cheap import outside of "Columbia" "University." What's truly bizarre about the situation, however, is that J.D. is "the same age as he was then -- he hasn't aged a day." "I don't understand it," Sam admits, "but I gotta believe that whoever or whatever made him disappear fifty years ago doesn't want him found now." "Which," he adds a bit tentatively, "is why I need your help." Raige is confounded. "What do you want me to do?" she asks, though Rose McGowan places the emphasis on entirely the wrong words in that sentence, because she is a lousy actress. Just pretend she said it like I typed it out above, okay? Sam was wondering if Raige could help him get J.D. out of The Only Hospital In San Francisco without anyone noticing, of course. Sam can't orb the guy out himself because of the risk of exposure, evidently. Raige has tremendous problems with all of this, mainly because she hasn't seen her deadbeat drunk of a genetic father in three years and now here he is expecting her to drop everything else she has going on in her life for him -- and she's got a point, but it's a point that interests me not in the least. Raige does, however, offer to enlist Phoebe's aid.
Or not, because Phoebe's tangled up in her insulting sperm bank subplot at the moment. Yes, "sperm bank subplot." Phoebe's apparently decided that, since the whole Vex Pexter thing was a total washout, she's going to purchase a donor's...you know what? Fuck this. Phoebe makes it disgustingly clear in two or three lines that she's using this as an alternative to dating, and it's all so dimwitted and wrongheaded and annoying and offensive and dull that I'm going to ignore it entirely to move on to Raige striking out with Piper as well, for the Dolt's dragged his unbearable shrew of a wife across town to "some magical quack" -- her words, not mine -- of the Dolt's acquaintance for counseling. Piper does suggest, though, that Raige speak to Agent Murphy about the whole thing. "If he had enough clout to get our identities back," Piper argues, "he should be able to help you out with this." Raige frets about her job interview for a bit, but it's clear she'll have to postpone that. No one cares one way or the other, honey. Raige angrily snaps her cell phone shut and glares at Sam. "Shall we go?" he wonders rhetorically. Raige heaves a tremendous sigh, but exits with him for the hospital.
Back in Piper's aggravating retread of a subplot I never cared about in the first place, I find I can't pay attention to a single thing they're shrieking at each other as they stomp through an anonymous city park, because I keep flashing back on Brian Krause kissing me in that awful, evil dream. And me liking it. EW! The two eventually wander over to tonight's version of The Magical Black Man, who happens to be a middle-aged Latino gardener. So, you know, he's more of a Magical Mexican, but whatever. I think about Brian Krause's soft yet manly lips and then I cry a little for my damned, doomed soul while The Magical Mexican does something stupid with a bed of roses, and the thing I know, we're over at...
...The Only Hospital In San Francisco, where we find Raige and Sam disembarking from an elevator car onto the trauma ward's floor. Raige is on her cell, thanking some personnel department minion at THE BLACK HOLE OF SOCIAL SERVICES for rescheduling her interview for later that afternoon, but that's not important. What is important is that Sam bitches, "I don't understand why we couldn't just orb here. It would have been a lot faster." "You want my help, we drive like everybody else!" she hisses at him. "We're not like everybody else!" Sam howls, and dear, drunk Whitelighting man, if that quite sane assertion of fact didn't work on these miserable, ungrateful wretches when their own grandmother used it on them repeatedly in the past, you're simply wasting your time and ours pulling it out on Raige now. In any event, they're presently greeted by the delightful Agent Murphy, but to my immense distress, I find myself still thinking about Brian Krause. I need help. Long story short, Raige gives Murphy the bullet on the whole J.D. situation just as Vaklav rounds a corner at the far end of the hall with J.D.'s stretcher, wheeling the unconscious greaser into a private room. We get Murphy's point of view of the proceedings as he darts his eyes down to Vaklav's suspiciously filthy footwear. "Doctors don't wear dirty boots," he squints at Raige and Sam. The thing we know, Murphy's crashing through the door of the private room to yell, "Freeze!" with his automatic pointed at Vaklav's head. Vaklav, who'd been preparing to immolate J.D., instead shoots Agent Murphy a foul grimace as he conjures another Flaming Ball Of Death atop his right palm. Vaklav lunges to fling the thing at Murphy's chest, but the agent plunges to the floor, leaving the FBOD to zip harmlessly through the air until it blows a torso-sized hole in the wall. Murphy quickly recovers to squeeze off five rounds that explode into Vaklav's gut. There's a decided lack of gore, and the wounds in fact glow rather than bleed, knitting themselves up along with the holes in Vaklav's white coat. Agent Murphy gapes. Vaklav glares at him once more before squiggling out of there. Raige and Sam finally stumble into the room, wondering what happened. Murphy's speechless with shock, so Sam just darts out of the frame towards J.D.'s side, in the process falling right into the commercial break.
Manor Sun Porch. Sam eases the still grievously injured and unconscious J.D. onto the wicker love seat. Which has got to be the most uncomfortable place possible for the poor guy, like, there are at least three overstuffed and full-length sofas not twenty feet from where you're standing, you worthless drunk, and anyway, couldn't you have orbed him onto a bed up in one of the boudoirs? These people are assholes. Aren't you happy they're all that stands between us and some sort of demonic Armageddon? "Why would a demon take him out of 1955, only to try to kill him now?" Raige wonders. Honey, I've seen this episode twice already, and I still don't know. I can guess, but that will have to wait for the appropriate moment, I suppose. Raige and Sam strain their weeny little brains over plot points of which the audience is already aware until Raige finally demands, "Just heal him! Maybe he'll know something." Sam immediately nixes this idea. He's worried that J.D.'ll "freak out" if he wakes up "fifty years in the future," you see. "He'll take off," Sam asserts. "I know him -- I barely got him to trust me before he disappeared." And because this endless chatter is boring me, I find myself wondering whatever happened to the delightful Mitchell Haines, Raige's future Whitelighter who had trust issues of his own. Now that was a fun episode. Can I just recap that one again and call it a day? Hmmm?
I can't? Dammit. Fine: Long story short, Raige reveals that she's surrounded the sun porch with a protective circle of Mystical Crysticals, and suggests they consult further with Agent Murphy on the matter, as the good agent mentioned numerous other cases of people vanishing under mysterious circumstances. Which...couldn't be more vaguely related to the issue at hand if it tried, could it? What, they're going to chat about Jimmy Hoffa? D.B. Cooper? Who? Pity they finally found Judge Crater back in August. That would have made for a delightfully obscure reference to toss into the recap at this point. Anyway, at the mention of Murphy's name, Sam warily asks -- about four scenes after he should have, mind you -- "What part of the government does he work for again?" "The super-creepy part," Mugs McGowan twitches, and I'd be inclined to agree with that assessment, if by "super-creepy" Raige had of course meant "abominably incompetent," which she didn't, so whatever, and moving on: Sam remains seated by J.D.'s side while Raige rises to head over to the incompetent federal department's San Francisco bureau. And...scene.
Marriage subplot, and hello, uncomfortable flashback to Brain Krause kissing me! It really was rather sweet, I have to admit. For some bizarre reason that made perfect sense at the time, we were sitting on the floor of the set with me on one of the small throw rugs that litter the Manor, and at some point during the rather affable yet tension-filled conversation -- and yes, I do mean that kind of tension -- he playfully reached over to tug on the carpet, in the process sliding me across the floorboards, and then he just...sigh. Also: AUUUUAAAAUAUUAGH. Why didn't they cancel this shit last May? I'M HAVING DREAMS ABOUT BRIAN KRAUSE KISSING ME AND I'M LIKING THEM, PEOPLE. ANY-way, I was supposed to be recapping this tedious scene, wasn't I? Right. The Magical Mexican babbles some incomprehensible bullshit for a very lengthy period of time until Piper gets a text message on her cell phone about retrieving The Retarded Bimbo and returning to the Manor with same, as there are demonic doings afoot in the city of San Francisco. Again. Some more. She immediately clomps off towards the Grand Cherokee, with the dangerously scruffy-looking Dolt loping along after her while offering an amiable farewell to The Magical Mexican. The Magical Mexican surreptitiously crushes a few rose petals in his hands, transforming them into twin streams of glowing red mojo that plow into Piper and the Dolt's backs, and why neither of them notice what's happened until after they get back in the car is beyond me. I mean, as I noted, the Dolt is trailing behind his vicious shrew of a wife when all of this happens, so when (spoiler!) they switch bodies, Piper-In-The-Dolt should notice she's walking behind herself, right? Whatever. This show is ass. And speaking of ass, Krause's jeans are clinging quite nicely to his, and AAUUUAUAUAUUUGH. ANY-way, Dolt-In-Piper slides behind the wheel of the Grand Cherokee and can't figure out why his feet no longer reach the pedals. He also, presumably, can't figure out why he's suddenly wearing bell-bottomed pants and a pair of decidedly feminine cowboy boots; nor, presumably, does he know why his luxuriantly glossy mane of absolutely fabulous hair is suddenly obscuring his vision. God, I hate this show. Long story short, Piper-In-Dolt squishes herself into the passenger seat, and the two, to their immense horror, eventually realize what must have occurred. Their subsequent exaggerated screams echo into...
...the following scene, which I will be ignoring, because it's Phoebe in the sperm bank and...yeah. Ew.
Manor Sun Porch. Sam paces the floor, grumbling about how long Raige has been gone, as J.D. groans and mumbles himself into something approaching consciousness. Sam anguishes when he realizes how much pain his charge is in at the moment, and eventually allows his Whitelightery empathy to get the better of him as he instructs J.D. to close his eyes. Sam then reluctantly applies the special healing tingly touch, J.D.'s wounds promptly vanish, and oh, crap. J.D.'s one of those future Whitelighters who know nothing about the magical world for some idiotic reason, and Sam's not about to spill any relevant details, so this is going to suck. J.D. pulls himself into sitting position on the love seat and, at Sam's prompting, relates what he can remember of what are, from J.D.'s time-addled perspective, recent events. J.D. was at a drive-in watching -- wait for it -- Rebel Without A Cause, and when he headed over to the concession stand to buy a Coke, "some creep scared the hell out of [him], took a flash photo," and "blinded [him]." The thing J.D. knew, he was "inside somewhere," and that's all we get out of J.D. for now, because Diper and the Polt have chosen this moment to return to the Manor with The Retarded Bimbo. Sam orders J.D. to remain on the sun porch and ambles into the main hall in time to hear the bickering marrieds piss and moan at each other about the body swap before they vanish upstairs, leaving Sam alone with The Retard. There follows a pointless scene in which The Retard tries to charge Sam her regular babysitting fee while Sam goes off in search of Raige, or whatever, and it only ends when J.D. slouches against the doorframe to smoove, "Hey, baby, what's shaking?" And it only ends there because my brain exploded at the anachronous slang pouring from the greaseball's mouth and by the time I'd recovered, the camera had already scuttled over to...
...Agent Murphy's office, where he and Raige flip silently through various files until Sam orbs unannounced into the room. Murphy's predictably surprised at Sam's sudden appearance, but as we've seen the exact same sort of shock from the non-magical on this program God knows how many times in the past, let's skip ahead to the point where Raige connects the pertinent detail of J.D.'s mysteriously menacing shutterbug to one of Murphy's missing persons cases. "Wasn't one of the last victims seen with a photographer?" she realizes. Murphy wiggles his eyebrows around, and the thing we know, the three are exiting the building onto the sidewalk outside, and fucking hell. They filmed this bit at the "Columbia" "University" façade on the backlot, which they already used this season as a low-rise police station, so the building must have magically sprouted another forty goddamned stories at some point in the last month to give Murphy that stunning view he's got through his office windows. GOD! This show SUCKS. ANY-way, as the three wordlessly book off down the street, the camera dances between them to get all up in Vaklav's face. Vaklav glowers for a moment, then slides off-screen to follow them into the commercial break.
Manor Sun Porch, and Jesus Christ. The scene that follows basically involves The Retarded Bimbo failing to convince J.D. that it's still 1955, but it's so gratingly stupid in reaching that point, that it's practically impossible to recap. Examples: He wonders where the rabbit ears are on the TV; she doesn't know what antennas are. He uses the word "boss," in the sense of "Dude, that is quite the boss car you and your equally attractive brother own"; no one used that word that way in 1955. ["THANK you. I came in at this point in the episode, heard him say 'boss,' and assumed he was from 1984. Fucking show." -- Sars] He lights a filtered Chesterfield, she condescends about cancer, and he doesn't know what she's talking about; people have been calling cigarettes "coffin nails" since the 1880s. His cigarette, lit for all of thirty seconds, sets off the smoke detector; cigarettes do not, in fact, trigger those things. It goes on and on and on like that and it doesn't end until he sits on the damn remote and the death metal it sparks up on the TV sends him fleeing into the side garden through one of the sun porch doors. Awful. Just awful. The Retard screams for backup from the bickering marrieds above, but ends up chasing after J.D. alone. Scene. Foul, wretched, wicked, evil, and utterly useless scene.
Meanwhile, over in a charming brownstone -- which, as we all know, San Francisco positively teems with -- Raige, Agent Murphy, and Sam Sam The Whitelighting Man have arranged themselves upon various pieces of furniture to listen to Spelling Productions veteran John Brandon (his credits include stints on Dynasty and Melrose Place, among others) relate a sorry tale of woe regarding his daughter, who went missing thirty years ago. Well, his character's daughter went missing thirty years ago. I don't know that John Brandon even has any children of his own, actually. Oh, whatever. They never give his goddamned character a name tonight, and you knew what I was talking about anyway, and shadow images of Brian Krause kissing me are still dancing around in my head, so all of you people can just shut the fuck up and leave me the hell alone. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah: Unfortunately, John Brandon's garbled version of the daughter's disappearance makes absolutely no sense, as it seems to place him in the presence of the demon involved as well. Specifically, Murphy notes, "You mentioned in the police report that you saw a flash of light -- any idea what that was or where it came from?" "The camera, I assume," comes the reply. "She was having her picture taken for her mother's birthday." And Vaklav let you witness all that and then allowed you to live...why, exactly? God, I hate this show. In any event, Murphy rises to see if he can find out anything about the photographer, or something, allowing the still-grieving elderly gentleman to describe his daughter in a manner that makes it sound as if she, too, is a future Whitelighter. "She wanted to be a teacher," he confesses before adding, "She had such a good heart, always helping others." I mention that only because they're leaving the audience to string together the various clues as to Vaklav's motives in all of this, apparently. Either that, or they had to hack out massive bits of explanatory dialogue from the shooting script in order to accommodate the asinine sperm-bank and marital-strife subplots this week. You decide. I'm inclined to believe it's the latter, because this show always -- always -- spells things like that out. And because this show sucks, of course.
Out on the street, Murphy gets off a call with his office just as Sam and Raige emerge from their meet-and-greet with the elderly recluse, and this is as disjointed and senseless as everything else this evening. Basically, Murphy's learned the now-defunct Nob Hill photography studio where the elderly gentleman's daughter disappeared thirty years ago was a couple of blocks away from where J.D. got whacked by a cheap import that morning. And from that bit of non-information, Raige realizes the demon responsible is back in business. I...can't figure that one out at all. Fuck you, you atrociously written show. Long story short, Raige tells Murphy to go blow, as "firearms and fireballs don't mix." She and Sam will handle things on their own from here on out, thank you very much. Murphy protests, but the three eventually head their separate ways. Vaklav emerges onto the brownstone's patio below the sidewalk to smirk for a bit before he, too, squiggles away.
Elsewhere, we get what I have to admit is a nicely integrated effects shot of a 747 soaring above the city before the camera, in one single swoop, pans past the digitally inserted TransAmerica Pyramid to land on J.D. and The Retarded Bimbo standing on one of the Paramount backlot's sidewalks. And that's about the only compliment I have to give this poorly written and executed piece of crap. Especially when what follows is yet more bullshit about J.D. adapting badly to life in the twenty-first century. Police officers on Segway scooters are involved, despite the fact that the City of San Francisco banned the fucking things from city sidewalks three years ago. I want to die. Eventually, J.D. spots the date on a newspaper's banner and races off to...find his father? The hell? Where are you going to find your stupid father after fifty years, you fucking idiot? My God. This stupid, awful, evil show.
Nonexistent Attic. Diper and the Polt are still screaming at each other, and neither Krause nor Combs is doing a particularly good job of imitating the other, so I'll be skipping through this trash as well. Especially because that wicked dream just popped back into my head. Mmmm. Krause. AAAUAUAUUAUGH. And then Phoebe jiggles in, and she's talking about insemination, and why, God, WHYYYYYY? The only thing of relevance is that Diper -- or maybe it's the Polt, and I so do not care either way -- freaks when he/she/it learns that J.D. and The Retard have left the building. Scene.
J.D. comes barreling out of a very modern-looking building -- a very modern-looking building that is, in fact, the out-of-town resort hotel featured in National Lampoon's Doormat Vacation during last season's finale -- to reveal to the loitering Retard that the people inside just informed him his father died a couple of days ago at the age of 93, and where do I begin? First off, way to recycle your fucking exteriors and not even try to hide it, show. Secondly, the out-of-town resort is clearly meant to be a nursing home in tonight's episode, so how did J.D. know to come to this particular care facility when there are two hundred and forty-four such facilities listed in the San Francisco yellow pages? Third, why did I even bother asking that question when I know the answer to that, and any other question I bring up, is always, "Because this show is ass, and I want to die, but before I die, I want to know why was this shit not cancelled last May?" And finally: Fuck you, Charmed. The only other detail of importance in this scene is that J.D.'s father was his last surviving relative. Tuck that bit of information away so that together we can puzzle out Vaklav's motivations for this godawful mess at the end of the episode. Oh, and The Retard finally drops the bitchcraft bomb on J.D.'s head. I guess that's sort of important, too. Not. Yawn.
otohP kciwdahC. Raige and Sam have apparently broken into the locked storefront with no one reporting them to the police. Whatever. They're rather torpidly searching the place for clues when Sam senses something from Vaklav's demonic filing cabinet, and whoops! Totally forgot about this bit, where Sam senses the pain of Vaklav's victims and correctly surmises that the demon's after future Whitelighters for whatever reason. So, we've taken care of that little bit of the motivation puzzle. And...that's really all we need to take away from this slice of the scene, actually, because the rest of it involves Raige and Sam screaming at each other over issues they resolved three years ago. !
Raige stomps out, leaving her deadbeat drunk of a genetic father alone in the darkened studio. Vaklav presently arrives to sneer about how daughters tend to outlive their fathers and thus will grieve longer, and it makes as little sense as everything else in this godforsaken episode, and then he conjures a large, antique flash-bulb of the sort Weegee used for his gruesome crime scene photographs sixty years ago. Vaklav clicks the shutter and the resulting flash instantly transforms Sam into a black-and-white shadow of himself that hangs in the air for a second before vanishing. Vaklav dematerializes the camera and pulls the rolled-up collage from his jacket pocket. When he spreads the thing out on the shop's counter, we can see that Sam's taken J.D.'s place in the lower row of images, between the Madonna Wannabe and some birdbrained cheerleader. Um. DUN!? Totally not feeling it, here, but that's probably because this episode's so numbingly stupid. Pity. Not.
Nonexistent Attic. Non-Aftermath. And what I mean by "Non-Aftermath" is that what follows has nothing to do with Sam or J.D. or Vaklav, and so I don't care. Basically, Phoebe jiggles in, gives the still-bickering marrieds a pep talk, and The Magical Mexican's mojo reverses itself once the bickering marrieds realize they need to communicate better, or some such bullshit. Whatever. Once Piper's back in her own body, she sets to scry for The Retarded Bimbo's current location, but The Retard bounces into the nonexistent room at that very moment to inform Piper that scrying won't be necessary. Also, J.D. needs to talk to Sam. Yeah, good luck with that one, greaseball.
otohP kciwdahC. Okay, I just watched this scene three times in a row, and I still can't figure it out. Basically, Raige enters the darkened studio while learning that J.D.'s been caught up to speed on the whole bitchcraft thing via her cell. She also can't find Sam, of course. Vaklav squiggles in, the two confront each other, and Vaklav admits he feeds on others' pain so, you know, taking that bit of information and combining it with the fact that he pulled J.D. from the collage only after J.D.'s last living relative had died must mean that he keeps his victims ensnared only until those closest to them are gone and he can no longer benefit from the associated agony. That all makes sense. What baffles me is that Vaklav then proposes a trade: Sam for J.D. Why?
Not answered, as the scene cuts back to the Manor, where Piper's rather impatiently reminding her lippy bastard of a half-sister that they don't make deals with the demons. Except when they do. I hate this show. The upshot of the nattering that follows is that the Glamorous Idiots have no idea how to resolve the current situation. J.D. enters at this point to volunteer his services, as he owes it to Sam for Sam's having turned J.D.'s life around, and...Sam really did that? If you say so, dude. I suppose. The ladies strenuously object and retire to the attic to consult with the Dolt, leaving The Retard to guard J.D. Oh, this is going to work out well. Not. Long story short, J.D.'s come to the conclusion that he doesn't belong in 2005 at all. Perhaps, he argues, the only reason a demonic "twist of fate" dumped him here was so that he could save Sam -- and maybe, just maybe, so he could also convince The Retard not to waste her life searching for her sister the way J.D.'s father wasted his own searching for his son. It would be touching if I hadn't wanted this episode to be over with about a half an hour ago. The Retard opens her mouth to object, but J.D. pulls her into a snog to get her to shut the hell up. Also, to hit her with a blood choke, which is another way of achieving the same end, I suppose. Though you'd think he'd go straight for the chokehold. God knows I would have. J.D. eases the now-unconscious Retard onto one of the parlor sofas and slinks out of the Manor.
otohP kciwdahC. J.D. arrives and almost immediately gets sporked by Vaklav, who never had any intention of letting Sam go, like, duh. Vaklav retrieves his camera from the countertop and squiggles into the final commercial break.
Kitchen. The lispy Retard stands by the sink in the darkened room, and Phoebe enters in that ridiculous half-sweater thing of hers to remind The Retard that they can't save every innocent that crosses their path, and I saw this scene with Prue, and I saw this scene with Piper, and I saw this scene with Phoebe, and I saw this scene with Raige, and I never needed to see this scene again, so let's head back up to...
...the nonexistent attic, shall we? And that, actually, was a lousy idea, because I hate what happens . Piper and the Dolt -- Krause. Kissing. Mmmm. AUAUUUUUAAUGH! -- convince Raige that she'll be able to summon Sam to the nonexistent room by calling for him as her father, rather than as her fellow magical entity. And it works. Despite the fact that Raige clearly isn't into it at all, and despite the fact that this entire bit of contrivance gives lie to Phoebe's claim down in the kitchen that they can't save every innocent who crosses their path because, obviously, had Raige done this four scenes ago, J.D. would still be alive. I hate this show.
So. Anyway. "Dad?" Raige calls out. Sam immediately rays into the room, followed quickly by the other twelve people from the collage, and if this collection of losers represents the intended future of Whitelighterdom, it's no wonder witches are always getting blown up by demons on this show. Vaklav immediately squiggles into the nonexistent room with his now-empty sheet of photography paper and his camera, conveniently enough. After raging for a moment, Vaklav hurls a Flaming Ball Of Death in Raige's direction, but Piper deploys her Mighty Hands Of Discontent to set off a mid-air explosion that sends the FBOD ricocheting back into Vaklav's chest. Vaklav crashes to the floor -- after apparently taking the time to place his camera down carefully on the table in the middle of the room. This hateful, hateful show. Raige races over to retrieve the thing and, perking, "Smile!" snaps the shutter, sending Vaklav into the collage. Well, what would be the collage, were he not the only person in it. And that was a rather unsatisfying vanquish, wasn't it? Though after the last hour of crap, I don't know what I was expecting. Raige picks her way across the carpet to retrieve the sheet from where it had fallen earlier and, displaying the Vaklav's image for the benefit of Piper and Sam, twits, "I think I'll have this one framed!" No, moron, you should have that one destroyed. If you never want the demon in question to escape, that is. Whatever. "What about them?" the Dolt wonders, nodding his head in the direction of the dozen stupidly dressed future Whitelighters in the corner of the attic. The camera spends far too long gazing at the idiots in question before the shot cross-fades into...
...the Closing Travelogue. The sun eventually rises over the city, and we hoof it over to the top of the Golden Gate Bridge to wrap up Raige's Issue Of The Week with her deadbeat drunk of a genetic father, and as they already had this conversation three years ago, we'll be zipping right over to...
...some anonymous cemetery, where The Retarded Bimbo carefully brushes some fallen leaves from the headstone J.D.'s family erected in his memory fifty years ago. She gazes mournfully at it for a moment before placing a single white rose across his name. The camera spirals up above her head, pulling back towards the sky, as we finally fade to black.
week, something about a battle of the sexes that requires The Retard to dress like a hooker. Again. Happy Dolt dreams, everyone!