This is the first full recap I've written since returning from up north, and consequently the first chance I've had to thank Wing and Glark in a public forum for their ridiculously comprehensive digital cable -- er, I mean "hospitality." Also, hi Sars. Just because.
Fade up on a nighttime shot of O Little Town of Roswell, the jaunty, Christmas-themed soundtrack, lighted wreaths hanging from newly-emergent Dickensian lampposts, and unsettling absence of the expression "we have to do something, Maxwell" within the first twelve seconds all conspiring to alert us that this is a stand-alone holiday episode, and we should abandon all hope of continuity, ye who enter here. Panning across Main Street, we see only half of a green banner advertising "Roswell's 23rd Annual" something, the rest of which I suspect reads, "Half-Assed Stab At A Cheesy Theme Party Somehow Involving Maria DeLuca SingingThis Month ALONE." Down on street level, a thirtysomething Dad prototype hitches a Christmas tree to the roof of a respectable, dark-colored SUV and turns to his impeccably dressed blonde daughter holding her pink teddy bear and politely requests she "go grab that bag of mistletoe." Holy domestic bliss, Batman! When did "the societal construct of Suburbia" get its own product-placement department? Anyway, Cherubic Near Orphan looks adoringly up at her father with that all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-my-two-parent-family-my-two-parent-family-yes-my-two-parent-family gaze, before obeying his request and running off to complete the errand with as much "I love you dead guy -- er, I mean 'Daddy'" emoting as she and her small, near-orphaned frame can possibly muster.
On her journey, she runs through an outdoor Christmas tree vending locale and right past Max "Have Your Pecs A Merry Little Pecs-mas" Evans and his non-right non-hand non-man Michael "That Shook When He Laughed Like A Bowlful Of Jelly" Guerin. Michael, hunched over and shaking and doing his overall best impression of Acting Cold For Dummies while standing on a toasty LA soundstage representing an even toastier desert southwest, clutches a hot cup of Weather Channel and reports to Maxwell that "it's freezing out here" and begs him to "pick a tree." Max responds that it's "not so simple," adding that the tree needs to fall within "certain parameters," indicating an elaborately-drawn diagram starring a tree and reading "Douglas Fir" across the top to illustrate this point. He adds, "You know how Isabel gets this time of year." Michael makes like Basil Exposition's helmet-wearing cousin Rupert, who's spent most of his non-expository life locked away deep in the Exposition family's attic, as he garbles in response, "The Christmas Nazi, driving everyone insane while trying to have the perfect Christmas."
Hmmmm. Maybe I'm not the most appropriate spokesman for political correctness in everyday speech (see recent, indefensible "helmet-wearing" reference for a bit more on this. And I can't even count on two hands how many "make the yuletide gay" nicknames I kicked around for Max for this holiday-themed episode), but "Nazi"? Won't the statute of limitations barring cavalier use of that word not expire for, like, another five thousand years? Especially when used in reference to The Most Aryan Woman In Show Business? I guess I missed the evolution in language when that word shifted in meaning from "one of Hitler's minions who willfully assisted in the systematic annihilation of eleven million people during World War II" to "a little controlling and stuff." Ah, well. Semitic, semantic. Around the holidays, it's all the same. Whatever. Sorry. A choir of children just appeared outside my window singing "Away In A Soapbox" in delightful harmony. I threw them down a quarter to go fetch me the biggest Christmas turkey there was in the whole market. So I guess I'll get back to that whole "recapping" thing now. Now that we're alone again. ["For the record, I -- who recently got voted one of the ten biggest WASPs on the Web -- found that a little offensive too. You don't put 'Christmas' and 'Nazi' together. Hi. Kristallnacht. Look it up. Okay, we're done here." -- Sars]
Here we go: Michael warns Max not to play into the Isabel's controlling wiles, warning, "You gotta fight her. You gotta fight the Christmas Nazi." Sigh. As Max pulls out a tape measure to survey a nearby tree, Michael takes a healthy gulp of his steaming All-About-Me-O-Chino, changing the subject accordingly: "C'mon, I gotta get to the hardware store before it closes. I gotta get Maria her present." Max volleys a wacky quip about Michael buying Maria a "ratchet set" (accidental viewers of Home Improvement will remember that tool-oriented humor is just about the least satisfying topic for comedy since, well, genocide), and Michael purses (no, really) his (no, REALLY) lips (ah, forget it) and claims that he's under "a lot of pressure." Why? Michael continues, "She's been busting my ass for weeks about this present." Busting his ass, eh? The whole thing? And only for a few weeks? Man. She's gonna need to hire a team of specialists if she wants to cover all that ground in time for New Year's. Of 2017. Ha. Duh. Anyway. Michael continues, "She says it's gotta be significant." Max warns, "Then you might want to steer clear of the hardware store." And also steer clear of the point of this entire episode, while you're doing general steering-clear-type things. Oh, wait. You're already doing that. Awww, thanks, guys. Merry Christmas, me.
“ I guess any of the bulbs determined to be unfit for Christmas are removed from the house and forced at gunpoint to dig their own graves in the backyard with tiny shovels. ”
But steering clear won't be part of anyone's Christmas this year (viva la segue!), as a car and a small pick-up truck nearly collide on the non-icy thirty-miles-per-hour street just beyond. Cherubic Near Orphan stands in the direct line of impact of one of the skidding cars, throwing her pink teddy bear up in the air and looking the very picture of innocence. Seeing the oncoming collision, Dad pushes his daughter out of the way (NB: a frame-by-frame of her hitting the ground yields much unintended Saget-esque hilarity), and the squealing wheels head right for him. Skidding on dry pavement. Wheels. Windshield. Dad. Smoosh. He sails onto the roof of the car and then slumps onto the ground. Near Orphan screams a plaintive "Daddy!" or two while a crowd quickly gathers, murmuring phrases of the "Call an ambulance!" and "He's still breathing!" and "Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb" variety. Max stares and stares. Michael ups the dramatic ante with his full-name usage: "Maxwell, let's go." What would the Christmas Nazi have to say about this sad turn of events? I know he was downed in the process of buying a tree and all, but we can at least hold out hope that he was at least half Jewish.
My Roswell Christmas stocking was stuffed with tertiary characters this year, as we cut to Chez Evans to join Diane "She Bangs" Evans and Mr. "The Ghost Of Christmas Why-Won't-You-Just-Get-In-The-Past-And-STAY-THERE" Evans, flanking Max on either side while Bangs regards a newspaper heralding, "Father of Two Dies Heroically in Tragic Accident." The cutaway is too quick to know for sure, but I think the smaller print just below the headline trumpets, "Autopsy determines no numbers found tattooed on upper forearm; townsfolk instructed to be saddened by death after all." Bangs recaps for our short-term convenience, "This man gave his life to save his daughter. This man is a true hero." Mr. Evans, momentarily relieved that mid-season contract negotiation didn't leave him the dead "father of two" in question, at least for the time being, takes pains to establish himself as an essential component of the episode, asking Max, "Where's the Christmas Nazi?" Oh, you're so in, Mr. Evans. Max responds that the Christmas Nazi was outside examining the Christmas lights for "errant bulbs." I guess any of the bulbs determined to be unfit for Christmas are removed from the house and forced at gunpoint to dig their own graves in the backyard with tiny shovels. This goes for the red lights, the yellow lights, the ones shaped like pink triangles, and especially -- ESPECIALLY -- the black ones. It will be a white Christmas for the Christmas Nazi, snow or no snow.
And finally, she appears. The Christmas Nazi, a.k.a. Isabel "God Chest Ye Merry Gentlemen" Evans tears into the kitchen, dragging the tree Max bought behind her and sniping, "Max, this is by far the most pathetic Christmas tree I have ever seen. Did you even refer to my diagram?" He grouses that "something came up" and that he had to get the tree that very morning instead of last night. She berates further, preaching that she could have "squeezed in time to get it [her]self between the hunger drive and Christmas dinner at the nursing home." So mean to him she is! Way to slice up the fruitcake, Isabel dear. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.
Bangs vamps that Joe Dead Guy's family lived four blocks from them, and the spacey jams kick up and Max looks across the room to spot Joe Dead Guy sitting on top of the washing machine with his hands clasped together and looking very, very blameful. Creeeeeeepy. Max stands up and approaches, as Isabel spots him walking away and fumes, "Oh, great, he's doing laundry now." Because the dual concepts of "Christmas" and "laundry" are so mutually exclusive. More staring. Max speaks: "I'm sorry." Max's newly acquired, external, ghostly conscience speaks: "How could you let me die?" Shut up, loser dead guy. Shut up, Jacob Gnarly.
Opening credits: Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat. Please to put a penny in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do. If you haven't got a ha'pennyyou can still afford to double this show's F/X budget. Nice green wall, Good King Pecs-ceslas.
The Djb Store has sold out of "my last nerve," so much have I already had it with the kitschy soundtrack, which greets us upon triumphant return from commercial with a ditty by the Barenaked Ladies' non-union counterpart "The Clothes-Free Females," or whatever, who let us know that they want "an alien for Christmas this year." Maria is behind the counter at the Crashdown, and Michael rings the bell from behind the short-order window and beckons his good woman over. She calls him "spaceboy" to remind the viewing audience that Michael is, in fact, an alien, seeing as nothing else in this episode has thus far fulfilled that task. He comes clean in telling her, "We got three days till Christmas," and politely requests that they wait until after the holiday to exchange gifts. He's working every day? Well, I guess after the nine-week sabbatical he just wrapped up a few weeks back, it makes sense that's he'd have to string a few days together. Maria asks if he needs "a little wiggle room." Gack. Not in those jeans, Puffy. And for the love of Jack Frost, I don't ever want to think about Michael Guerin joined with the words "wiggle room" ever, ever again. Either way, Maria thinks she's cloaking her sarcasm marvelously, at least through the line, "How about the second week of January?" She guilt trips about Christmas being "the birthday of our Lord and Savior," and tacks on a classically in-the-spirit-of-said-Lord-and-Savior rider with the galling threat, "You give me that damn present on December 25th or I'll never speak to you again." She smiles wanly and walks off, to