Thanks this week to the Biscuit and Wing.
Fade up on Sanctum Dawsonorum. Dawson "Cracklin' Oaf Bran" Leery in his customary color-tipped J. Crew v-neck and so-'94 teardrop necklace stammers, "Come on, Jen, you're killing me," and meanwhile a voice from the TV whines, "You're not even trying -- you're taking the easy way out." As Porky Pig sticks his head through the Merrie Melodies sign and announces, "Th-th-th-th-that's all, folks!" -- oh, sorry, my mistake, as Jen reads Dawson's script and murmurs distractedly, "Hang on, hang on," Dawson watches "The Partridge Family." Dawson's hair looks a little less Muppety in this episode, but Jen's looks like a matted vegetable brush. Jen says, "All right. Dawson, you can unclench. I'm done," and Dawson makes a big old high-school-musical production of dashing over to sit to Jen and saying very intensely, "Okay. So." Jen stares at Dawson: "Wh-wh-what do you want me to say?" Dawson: "The truth!" Jen: "Okay, the 'truth' truth, or the 'what Dawson wants to hear' truth?" Ouch. Dawson says, "So in other words, you hated it," before burying his head in his hands, and Jen demurs, "No -- hey, Dawson, Dawson, no, I didn't hate it. I just thought it was, I don't know, for lack of a better word -- fluff." Ouch! Dawson can't understand this dismissal of his magnum opus, stammering, "Fluff? Fl-fluff? How could it be fluff, Jen, my heart and soul went into that script!" and pinching the bridge of his nose. Jen calls Dawson's portrait of "the lives and loves of these teens in a small town" naive, and Dawson splutters that "it's supposed to be naive" and gabbles on about "the age of innocence, sexual awakenings, the magic of first love," and Jen paddles furiously to keep her head above water in this torrent of triteness: "Dawson, look. Your script is good. It's funny, and it's timely, and it's smart, and it's well-written," and Dawson actually nods his head in agreement as she says all these things. Um, Dawson, why don't you go down to Book Barn, buy about twenty copies of William Goldman's Adventures in the Screen Trade, stack them up, climb on top of them, and get over yourself? Anyway, Jen goes on to say that Dawson's work "lacks relevance to today's society -- you go out of your way to comment on teen life, and you end up saying very little about it," and Dawson thunks his head against his Hook poster and makes a limp joke about the knife in his back, and Jen doesn't want to depress Dawson, but she thinks the script lacks "oomph," and that it needs more anger and passion and "that raw dark pain that comes with being young." Dawson objects, "I am raw and dark." No, really. He really said that. Jen, to her credit, laughs in his face.
Dawson wants to know what he has to do to prove that he has a dark side. Jen tells him to loosen up, "start writing from the gut, stop responding from such an adult perspective." Dawson asks how, and Jen suggests, "Teenage 101? Maybe it's time you start pretending that you really are fifteen," and Dawson and Sars both snort derisively as Jen says, "I think I could actually show you how to reclaim those missing years -- come on, Dawson, what do you say?" and Dawson stares straight ahead. I suppose this scene operates as a response to the critics who have complained that "real kids don't talk that way," but first of all, yeah, I do believe we get the point, and second of all, I can only think of one thing more absurd than Dawson having a mid-life crisis before he has even learned to drive, namely that the writers think we would have the remotest interest in Dawson's so-called problems. Great -- the episode has barely started and already I need to lie down for a few hours.
In the kitchen of the No-Fault Hacienda, Gail "Faithless Hussy" Leery sighs, "I'm sorry, Mitch, I just didn't know who else to call," and The Flash tinkers with the dishwasher. How about calling a plumber? Or the service department at Sears? The Flash, clad in jeans and a tight white t-shirt with one sleeve inexplicably rolled up '50s greaser-style, tells her that he has fixed it, but when Gail turns the dishwasher on, the door pops open and sprays water all over The Flash. Gail guffaws as The Flash peels off his t-shirt to reveal a Fabio-esque body and grumbles, "You think this is real funny, don't you?" Gail thinks "it's hilarious -- look at you," and The Flash flicks some water from his shirt onto her and says, "You're not so dry yourself," and Gail looks at his so-not-a-straight-middle-aged-man body and again says, "Well, look at you," and she sort of helps him dry off, and they stare at each other, and Gail literally starts panting, and she sort of moans, "Mitch," and this, boys and girls, represents a perfect example of Bad TV Corollary #121: when two people of the opposite sex get wet, sex must ensue. So, The Flash and Gail start kissing, and The Flash plunks Gail down on the butcher block table and peels her sweater off, and he carries her over to the dining room table and knocks a bunch of stuff off the butcher block with her legs and it all crashes to the floor, and didn't we see the "broken crockery = wild passion" motif before with Jen and Billy Budd? Anyway, as The Flash prepares to mount Gail, Dawson wanders in the back door, sees his parents going at it, and slinks out again with a hopeful smirk. Shudder. Sing with me now: "Alka-Seltzer to the rescue!"
Cut to Café E. coli, where Joey and Jack "Pinhead" McPhee make a pyramid out of single-serving creamers. Joey has made up her mind on the "up or down?" question and rolled her hair up into a messy bun. Jack has a chorus of angels dancing on his head. Joey quizzes Jack about where he got his clumsiness from and about his family, and to distract her from this line of questioning, Jack offers to clean the deep fryer, but he doesn't know how, so Joey will have to "stay late and help [him] with the proper procedure." As someone who used to work in a pizza parlor and spent a number of hours heaving a fifty-pound mushroom slicer in and out of a shoulder-height sink, I can tell you that washing commercial food-preparation equipment does not create the most romantic atmosphere, but whatever. As the two of them continue back-and-forthing about Jack's unwillingness to share, Abby and Chris walk in and seat themselves. Abby demands menus. Jack and Joey exchange a "whatever" look and Joey goes over to the table with the menus. Abby snarls, "Preferably a couple without yesterday's special rotting on them?" Joey wipes Abby's menu on her shirt and drops it on the table. Heh. Chris wants to know why Abby brought him "to this dive," and Abby says pointedly that they "have to discuss strategy in private, and you can always count on this place to be deserted." As Joey stalks back to the counter, Abby observes gleefully that "the service here is even worse than the food." Jack tries to talk Joey into running for class president with Andie. Joey doesn't deal with school activities, but Jack points out that she only got into art recently blah blah blah interests can change blah blah blah Joey's "amazing girl--door quality" blah blah blah fishcakes. He keeps trying to sell her on the "born leader" idea, and Abby pipes up, "More like 'born loser.'" Heh. Joey turns around holding a pitcher of water, and here we see Bad TV Corollary #48 in action, namely that any container of fluid present during a catfight must wind up cascading over someone's head by the scene's end. Abby tells Joey that she has no hope of beating her and Chris, remarking with her usual over-the-top sneer of hostility that "you throw the trash out -- you don't vote it in." Joey and Sars sort of say "whatever," but Abby barrels ahead, referring to Joey embarrassing her family even further and adding yet another disappointment to her "meager and depressing existence," and while on the one hand I admire Abby for having the stones to say such obnoxious things to people's faces, on the other hand I have to wonder why nobody has medicated her for an obvious case of Tourette's. Anyway, Chris smirks, and Joey dumps the pitcher of water over Abby's genie-ponytailed head as Jack's mouth drops open in delighted shock. Abby, not even that wet, narrows her eyes and snarls, "You're dead," gathers up Chris and the rest of her things, and storms out on her chunky little legs. Joey says to Jack in a grim tone of voice, "Tell Andie I'm in." Jack gasps with laughter. Okay, let's review. First of all, nobody in the history of secondary school education (with the possible exception of Greg and Marcia Brady) has cared this much about a school government election. Second of all, no voting for class officers has ever taken place in November, or December, or whatever godforsaken El-Niño-ized month the writers have assigned to this show. Third of all, Chris, wipe that face off your head and stop letting your mother cut your hair. Fourth of all, whatever.
Another Kevin Williamson movie. Ugh. A Tidy Cats ad with a really really cute kitten.
Cut to the gym, where restless sophomores listen to the campaign pledges of Kenny and his pencil-necked running mate, and of Andie and Joey, and of Chris and Abby. Montage of debate shots; Abby, kitted out in her best East Village poser-wear, comments, "It's about trust." Apparently, whether or not to allow Walkmans in study hall constitutes the primary point of debate at Capeside High. Chris calls himself "a man of the people," observing that "I've probably partied with everyone here at least once." This earns a glum stare from Jen, a snort of disbelief from Dawson, and an audible gag from Sars, because I hate people who use the word "party" as a verb even more than I hate Chris's hair. Oh, and shut up, Chris. Then Abby rolls in the big guns: "This all comes down to one simple question -- who do you want to run your class? Us, the geeks, or Little Miss Perky and the convict's daughter?" Joey blanches as Andie, super-flat hair neatly barretted, points out the irrelevance of this statement. Abby snarls, "You would say that, considering no one here knows your background. Just to bring everybody up to speed on an issue that is relevant, Andie McPhee, your prospective president, has a mother that's about, hmm, one shock treatment away from a permanent residence in the loonybin." Andie literally flinches. A worried Pacey sits up straighter in his seat, and the other members of the gang furrow their brows; Chris shoots Andie a totally fake "gee that's too bad" look, and Kenny and Pencil-Neck gape unabashedly at Andie. Andie looks at Pacey, her lip trembling, and Pacey gives her a thumbs-up. Sars yells at her TV, "Come on, Andie, grab the back of Abby's neck and slam her face down onto the podium! Bloody nose! Bloody nose!" Joey gamely takes the floor: "You know, for once, Abby, let's stick to the issues. You know, Andie's personal life has no bearing on her ability to handle the job as sophomore class president." But Abby in her so-not-appropriate-for-daytime eye glitter and fur-trimmed top has just gotten started, and as Andie's eyes turn red and she stares around the gym deer-in-the-headlights-style, Abby snaps, "Whatever. We have hard evidence that Andie's mother was responsible for the death of Andie's brother in a car crash less than a year ago." The faculty pile-on that would have promptly occurred at my school after a comment like this unfortunately fails to happen. Murmurs sweep through the gym. Pacey closes his eyes. Andie's lips move but no sound comes out.
Even Chris looks uncomfortable as Abby continues, in a voice strangled with inexplicable fury, "The fact of the matter is that Mommy McPhee is a wacked-out nut, and we all know that mental illness is hereditary, so -- you do the math." She smiles smugly as the ancient teacher in charge of the debate tells her, "Abby. That's quite enough," like, NO KIDDING. Abby explains, "Hey, I was just trying to ascertain the truth for the safety of my fellow students." Pacey stares daggers at Abby as she shrugs innocently and says in a little-girl voice, "Andie?" Andie hasn't moved; she just stares straight ahead as tears roll down her face. Everyone watches her. She tries to respond, saying, "I, um," and then "I," and then she leaves the podium and first walks, then runs to the door, and as Joey looks miserably at Pacey, Pacey watches Andie take off, then follows her with his Clinton campaign book in hand. Good acting in this scene, especially by Meredith Monroe -- I found it difficult to watch, and I actually mean that as a compliment.
As Jen pushes some clothes back and forth in her closet, Dawson intones somberly from behind her, "You were right. I do have a perception disorder." Jen, sorting clothes, wonders, "What brought this on?" Dawson begins blabbering that he doesn't respond like a typical adolescent, but that emotionally he does, and that emotionally he acts his age, maybe even younger, and nothing he has just said makes any sense, but that only matters if you give a crap what Dawson says, and since Jen doesn't seem to, why should we? Dawson flings himself around Jen's bedroom like an extra in Damn Yankees, flapping his arms, holding his head, twirling around whenever he has a non-revelatory revelation, and rambling, "My feelings are in constant conflict with my overachieving self-aware brain, and it's this constant battle, and that's what's driving me crazy! Am I making any sense?" Jen, as if she actually listened to one word of this indulgent hoo-hah: "Yes. Completely." Sars: "No. Shut up." Jen goes back to alphabetizing her clothing, Sars goes back to reading a book, and Dawson goes back to gazing at his navel and blithering, "Okay. Thank god. So I keep on waiting, for my feelings to catch up, so that maybe, you know, I can finally grow up, and I can finally get over Joey, or accept that my parents may or may not work things out," and -- HOLD on, WAIT a minute. First of all, for your feelings to catch up to what -- your record-setting self-absorption? The size of your head? Second of all, never mind getting over Joey -- why don't you start by getting over yourself? Third of all, everyone has problems, so get in line. And fourth of all, could you please please please give some thought to SHUTTING UP?
Well, I get an answer to that question when Dawson KEEPS TALKING about how he has it "backwards" and how he has to change his actions in order to change his feelings, and excuse me, but modeling one's behavior on The Flash probably won't get you anything but bigger biceps. Jen says, "You're too smart for your own good, Dawson," and Dawson turns a chair around and sits in it backwards, remarking in a world-weary tone, "Right now, Jen, I feel incredibly stupid," and Jen walks over to Dawson with that weird hands-in-pockets cowboy-swagger she has and asks if she can do anything to help, but before she can borrow a needle and thread from Grams and sew his lips shut, Dawson says, "I think I need a sponsor. I need to go out and indulge in some incredibly appropriate teenage behavior." Jen, rubbing Dawson's shoulder, laughs, "That sounds like something right up my alley -- did you have anything specific in mind?" Dawson says portentously, "Just something nonsensical, completely spontaneous, the good, the bad, the ugly -- you're the expert, I will follow your lead." Well, it looks like they've got the bad and the ugly well in hand, doesn't it? Jen smirks, "Let the revelry begin," and I celebrate by yelling, "That's-a one-a spicy meat-a ball! All-a except for-a the spicy part-a!" and dropping another six Alka-Seltzer into a glass of water.
Pan across a brick wall to the window of Andie's bedroom; Andie looks out the window (open, of course. In November. Or December. Or whatever damn month) while rocking slowly. A guitar-picking Lilithite warbles in the background. Jack wanders in with non-casual studied casualness and says, "I finally got Mom to bed." Andie doesn't respond. Jack sits down on the bed and says, "It really scares her to see you so upset," and when Andie still doesn't answer, Jack adds, "Look, Andie, this hasn't been an easy year for any of us. But we all do what we have to to hold it together, to cope." Andie looks down, listening, but she doesn't say anything. Since when does Jack, who barely deals with their mother at all, have any right to talk down to Andie like that? Like, shut up, Jack. Jack swallows and looks, pained, up at the ceiling before saying, "Your highs and lows are becoming really intense lately," and this gets a reaction from Andie: "I'm fine, Jack." Jack snaps back, "You're not fine, Andie! I mean, one minute you're laughing, and the you're in tears!" Andie tries to put him off with, "Please, just leave me alone, okay?" but Jack says softly, "I think it's time you went back on your medication." Wing, you may now take your bow for calling that one. Jack goes on, "It might make things a little easier for you and for everyone." Jack really has a diplomatic and sensitive way about him, doesn't he? Well, all except for the "diplomatic" part. And the "sensitive" part. Andie curls up farther into the rocking chair and says without turning around, "I said I'm all right, okay? I just had a rough day. That's all. I don't need any medication," and Jack sort of rolls his eyes and stares at her in frustration as she says again, "I'm fine." After looking at her some more, Jack finally gets up and leaves the room, glancing over his shoulder. Memo to the writers: please try knowing at least one thing about bipolar disorder before attempting to work it into a plot line. Thank you.
Cut to some underbrush, through which Jen and Dawson run giggling. Oh god, I don't think I can talk about this, but I'll try to get through the whole thing without speeyacking. Okay, Dawson has a roll of toilet paper in his hand; presumably, he has just taken a typically adolescent and liberating outdoor crap. Oops, no, he has just toilet-papered someone's house, and he finds that very exciting, and Jen congratulates him. Whatever. Dawson asks what comes on his whirlwind tour of stereotypical immaturity, and after asking if he feels "bold," Jen tells him, "Drop your pants." Dawson: "What?" Jen points out that the presence of clothing makes skinny-dipping somewhat difficult. A bit of non-witty badinage ensues, as Jen implies that Dawson has something to hide in the penis department; Dawson denies this and accuses Jen of thinking that he won't do it, and she admits that no, she doesn't think he'll do it. Dawson says he won't do it alone; Jen says she "never intended" for him to do it alone. Jen strips down behind Dawson's back while Dawson worries aloud about getting caught, drapes her bra over Dawson's shoulder, and splashes into the water, and Dawson turns around and splutters, "Jen, you're --" and she finishes, "-- naked, and all wet," as she wallows in the water. "Dawson, come on in, the water's great," she says, and giggles enticingly. Oh my god, I really have to lie down for a few weeks.
Cut to Capeside High, with the presidential candidates doing some sort of Crossfire thing over the school PA system. Chris says something which I won't even dignify by repeating it; I will, however, tell him to shut up. Shut up, Chris. And take off that stupid pendant. And for god's sweet sake, stop letting your mother cut your nappy-ass hair! Thank you! Anyway, Abby grabs the mic almost before Chris stops talking -- thank you, Abby -- and refers yet again to the "losers" running against the Dorkardly Duo. Abby has some sort of Shirley Temple-on-a-coke-bender pin-curl fiesta going on on her head, and while she strafes the competition with below-the-belt insults, Joey whispers to Andie that they can still withdraw from the race without shame if Andie wants to. Andie says, a little too calmly, "I'm fine. I can do this," as Abby winds up her speech with, "So get off your butts and vote Chris and Abby. You'll enjoy the ride." Switching off the mic, Abby remarks, "It's as locked up as Joey's father. [Heh.] Schedule says the cuckoo bird and the convict's daughter are up ," as she gets up to leave. Andie repeats, "I can do this." She and Joey sit down at the microphone, but when the mic is turned on, Andie opens her mouth and nothing comes out. Joey gives her a concerned look and Pacey chews his lip. Then Andie says, "I can't do this, I'm sorry," jumps up from her chair, and pushes her way out of the room. Joey goes after her as Abby simpers, "I hope it wasn't something I said." If looks could kill, the one Pacey lays on Abby would put her six feet underground on her back in a box as Abby comments, "I mean, it was just good old-fashioned politics." Chris says, "I'm outta here. I'm gonna go kiss some babes," and when Abby snaps, "It's 'babies,' you idiot," Chris answers, aiming for suave and taking a wrong turn at Larry from Three's Company, "My way is a lot more fun," and ducks out of the room, sniggering. Pardon me while I escort Chris to the cafeteria, where the kitchen staff has baked the world's largest sheet cake and written the words "SHUT UP, CHRIS" on it using two-and-a-half miles of pink icing. Abby rolls her eyes.
Pacey wanders over to the chairs to the mic and sits down in one, subtly switching on the PA system and asking Abby why she bothers "slumming as vice president for [Chris] when [she is] so obviously the brains behind this campaign." Abby seats herself to Pacey and unwittingly reveals herself to the entire school: "Well, I'll let you in on a little secret there, sport. I'm just using that walking penis for his popularity, and ultimately, I'll destroy him, just like I destroyed your little girlfriend. It's just so easy, and victory is so much sweeter when you have to walk on top of other people to get it. I'm gonna rule this school, and you and all those other halfwits are too stupid to stop me." Reaction shots of Dawson and Jen and their fellow students in biology lab, dissecting frogs and listening to Abby crash and burn, and shots of speakers in the hallway blaring Abby's political demise. On the one hand, go Abby for the "walking penis" comment, but on the other hand, um, Abby? Sophomores never, but never, "rule" anything. Seniors do that. Reread your handbook, and shut up. Pacey smiles gently and says, "Yeah, you're probably right. I mean, I'm so stupid I didn't know that when I pressed this button on this little thing, that your annoying nasal whine was broadcast over this entire school. Oh, no -- god, wait a minute. No, that's exactly what I meant to do -- sorry, my bad," and he departs from the room in triumph, informing an overjoyed Kenny, "School's yours, pal," and giving him a high-five. Meanwhile, Abby stares down at the little red light on the mic in defeated horror. First of all, go Pacey. Second of all, memo to the writers: since I use that rhetorical device all the freakin' time, shouldn't I get a "tm" on that line? [Seems to me someone down at the WB has been doing a little research. -- Wing Chun]
Over at Jen's, Jen does homework or something on the kitchen floor. No evidence of Grams anywhere; apparently she has moved to New York to live with Jen's parents or something. Dawson comes in without knocking, which shouldn't surprise us, really. Jen asks what he's doing there, and Dawson announces without preamble that his parents are getting a divorce. Halt in thy tracks, o world, and acknowledge Dawson's pain! Dawson slumps down on the ground to Jen, whose hair has somehow gotten even more snarly, and says, "I guess I just needed to talk to my sponsor."
Jen looks uncomfortable, probably because she knows she should care but, like us, she doesn't; like us, she just wants Dawson to shut up, but does Dawson shut up? Nay. He says something like, "All this perception and psychobabble has left me with quite a dilemma," and I may have missed the exact wording since I had to concentrate on jamming a sharpened dowel into my eardrum, but basically Dawson doesn't know what to do with this news: "I knew it was over; all the signs pointed to it. I guess I just kept hoping that -- they wouldn't go there. And now they have. So now, um, do I have a self-aware, adult reaction to it, or, or should I allow myself to feel the, the hurt and the, and the shock that a kid in my position would feel? You know, I mean, should I --" and here James Van Der Beek does a very unconvincing imitation of starting to cry by snuffling and tightening his voice -- "what, what should win here, my head or my heart, my emotions or my brain, what'll win out?" and Jen says softly, "What always wins out, Dawson? Dawson?" and Dawson makes this little snurfly chewing noises and starts crying on Jen's shoulder, looks up briefly to say, "Thanks for being there," and Jen says, "Thanks for letting me," and makes "come here" and "it's okay" noises to comfort Little Lord Flashleroy, who begins bawling in earnest after the disappointing discovery that the world doesn't revolve around him, and Jen looks like she would rather spend a week in a sensory deprivation tank than spend one more minute with Dawson, and I can totally, totally understand that.