Control

First of all, a massive shout-out to The Platypus Solution, who stepped in and saved my lame ass after a losing scuffle with TiVo threatened to derail this week's recap.

Previously: Jesse, on bended knee, asks Isabel to marry him; she says yes. Max moans about contacting his son and sees the spaceship in the storage facility; Joey and his gun deliver a message yet again; Max talks about the shape-shifter. Joey gets smoked, Cal Langley (slumming guest star Joe Pantoliano) strides into a restaurant, then confronts Max in the Paramount film archive, blows him against the wall, and starts a fire with his multi-purpose power-hand.

The episode begins with a way-too-long close-up of Max's closed eye. Eye, eye, and more closed eye, and then open eye, and we pan slowly away to see Max's face lit by flame. And then we pan even further out to reveal the fire, burninghalfway across the room. That shape-shifter really isn't too effective with the scary death-threat thing if he can only create a flame several feet away from his intended victim. Kind of a letdown, really; I'm ready to watch people (especially Max) burst into flame. I'll have to forge ahead through my haze of disappointment.

Cal Langley, in full bald glory, puts his foot on Max's chest and asks what he's doing there. Why, just searching for some old film stills so he can watch some real actors at work! Max says he's looking for the ship from the '47 crash. Langley smells a conspiracy, and asks with whom Max is working. The bottom of the barrel, Langley, the bottom of the barrel. Max insists that he walks alone; Langley growls that he'll kill him if he's lying. Looks like he'll kill him if he isn't. Langley asks how Max got to LA; Max rattles off his driving route. That's just too sassy and insouciant -- what balls, Max! Literalism in the face of death. Langley, like me, is not amused by this cutesy behavior, and calls Max a "prick." Words right out of my mouth. Max asks if Langley kills everyone who discovers he's an alien. Langley changes the subject, which for me means, "Why yes, I do," and wonders why Max thinks he knows where to find the ship.

Max tells him that he knew it was in Utah, which rings some sort of bell, since Langley then hoists Max up against the wall (he's obviously standing on a block here, since Joe P. can't be that strong) and demands to know who else possesses the Utah intelligence. Max complains about the smoke, and coughs a few times for annoying emphasis, so we know that we're still in California; Langley courteously extinguishes the distant fire. Max climbs off his block so they're face to face as Langley deadpans, "So, this is the mighty king of Antar, a low-rent Tom Cruise with a ten-dollar haircut?" This insider, self-referential, pat-ourselves-on-the-back twist, so prevalent in last week's Paramount fest, is really lifting Roswell to a new level of intelligence. Because nobody's ever done that before. It's really nifty. And that haircut cost at least $12.50 -- just look at the attention to highlight (the fire really brings it out)!

Langley -- emotive actorly intensity flaring -- tells Max he has no idea what he's getting himself into; Max responds that he's come all this way to find him, and that he needs his help. Langley is supposed to be his protector, for God's sake. Langley (and now we get a close-up of his expensive-looking, frameless, wussy designer glasses) informs Max that he does not wish to be called "protector." Well, yes, says Langley, I was indeed put on your ship to protect you, but that was fifty years ago, and I really don't appreciate you barging into my sweet LA producer lifestyle, full, I'm sure, of cocaine and hookers, and telling me I have to watch out for your sorry ass. Sort of -- this little expository exchange is so mind-numbingly boring that I must resort to poetic license or die. And then Langley puts out the fire with his special hand.

Max coughs again, politely, and Langley calls for his boys -- two beefy security types, who must have been lurking outside the door, listening to the whole film-endangering fracas. So they must know that Langley is an alien. So he must be about to kill them. Good. More death. Alas, it is not to be, as Langley tells Max to scoot his butt out of town -- or die -- and directs the bouncers to escort him "to my airplane," emphasizing the "my" so we know it belongs to him, and that he's a very powerful man. In case we hadn't caught that before. It hurts to be hit with a board like that, and we haven't even made it to the credits. A long, torturous experience spreads itself before me. The boys drag Max from the room, who protests like he's just swallowed five Vicodins.

Thank God that's over. Or maybe not, since Isabel's on the screen. At a wedding-to-be. Having a conversation about her desire for a country wedding -- something simple, just like her -- with a wedding planner. Ewww -- a very scary wedding planner, who looks like the spawn of Reese Witherspoon and a conehead. This woman is all about pointy angles, which probably well equips her for wedding planning. She uses the word "brainstorming," and refers to Isabel's mother as "Mom," without any pronouns, like that's her actual name, both of which immediately mark her for elimination in the universe where I reside. Isabel's mother pops in to deny that she's has any part in planting the country wedding notion in Isabel's addled mind, adding that she can hardly get used to the idea of Isabel getting hitched. Isabel takes umbrage, reminding Mom that she promised to be supportive. Her mother replies with a shrug and a throwaway line that says, "Like hell I did," and the wedding planner delivers some prim, patronizing response that I'm sure they include in the training manual, before spouting some hooey about languishing lilies and galloping off to be officious elsewhere.

Isabel stays pissy with "Mom," scolding her for being too negative. Her mother (let's call her Eunice, just for kicks) replies that she's still in shock, as she can barely get used to the idea of Isabel graduating from high school, even though she's clearly pushing thirty. Sad -- a decade in high school with nothing learned. Isabel reminds Eunice that they "have been discussing this for forty-eight hours straight," and that she was the one who hired the annoying wedding planner. Right on about the wedding planner, Isabel, but you're smoking some serious crack if you think that forty-eight hours of marathon sharing is nearly enough to assuage a mother who had no idea you were even dating Jesse, let alone planning to marry the guy. Grow up, Miss Snivel. On another note, Eunice is so not flattered by my VCR's pause button. She's definitely a woman who has been through the wringer. Anyhooch, Eunice defends the decision to retain the Wedding Freak because "if" Isabel is planning to go through with this, she needs to have a plan -- and because clearly neither Isabel nor Eunice is capable of making anything happen smoothly. Isabel gets upset about the "if," and WF reappears, apparently after delanguishing her lilies. Isabel starts yammering about her country wedding again -- freshly mown field, pond, barn, blah blah blah -- and WF systematically dismantles Martha's -- er, Isabel's cutesy-poo idea. There's insects and stuff out there in the country. She recommends the lobby of the Springfield Inn (great -- so Marge and Homer can attend), saying she's done a whole bushel of great weddings there, but Isabel gets huffy (her apparent specialty -- the whole, entire, mean and ugly world just hates you, Isabel, don't they?), and says she wants her own wedding, not someone else's. I suppose she has a point -- I wouldn't want to get hitched in a hotel lobby either. But then again, I don't want to get hitched, period.

Jesse shows up, and says something stupid about lighting the barn with torches, er, not tiki torches, er, or maybe not torches at all, since maybe torch isn't the right word. Perhapscandles (both a novel idea and a difficult word to remember, Jesse). WF mentions that old barn equals firetrap; Isabel quips that that's why there will be a pond, then introduces Jesse, adding "fianc," since it wasn't completely obvious who he was the second he appeared. WF asks when the big day will be, Isabel says "this spring," and Eunice has a conniption about the accelerated timeframe. "Why wait?" simpers Jesse, to which Eunice responds, "This is not a race. You two just got engaged." Word to your mama. Isabel, wounded again, tells Eunice to be happy, because this is what she wants, and they're planning her wedding, which will be "fun" and "great." And neat and cool and swell, too. WF smirks about young love, and Eunice looks like she'd rather be enjoying a root canal, since her daughter is falling into the age-old conundrum: stupid women, stupid choices.

Champagne glasses clink, and we're back in La-La-Land, at a swanky party complete with sprawling mansion, expansive pool, and approximately four guests. It's Cal Langley's, of course, and the producer extraordinaire is walking and talking with some blonde hair and very fake boobs shoved into a bandage dress, and a guy wondering about Tiffany -- "did she walk?" No, says Cal (we're on a first-name basis now -- eat your hearts out, little people); he bumped up her per diem, got her a bigger trailer, and got Brian (who looks like he stepped out of a Banana Republic catalog back when they were all safari, and is wearing an ascot. An ascot) to rewrite the part. "My finest hour," quips Brian, shoving canaps into his mouth. "Now the hooker is a part-time yoga instructor." Which tells me that Tiffany is really stupid, since part-time yoga instructors don't win Oscars.

And then, it's Max, all suited up (open collar, thank you, for that certain quelle temps fait-il) with a new, short, spiky haircut. "Sorry I'm late," he says, with a canaps-devouring flourish, "I was on the phone with Variety." Sure, stick Freak-Boy in a suit and pretty him up a bit, and suddenly he's moved from auditioning for a bit part on Enterprise to gabbing about his new idea with industry rags. Cal's wearing different designer glasses, but he's still bald, and he still looks annoyed. And he thought that Max was on an "aeroplane." Nope. Discussing his new "project." Max gets all schmoozy and introduces himself -- "Max Evans. Antar Films." Safari Brian looks confused, Blonde Boobies smiles, and Cal looks like Max smells of dung.

Liz and Maria in the kitchen, where Liz removes her first batch of "M&M Tabasco Swirl Cookies" from the oven. She's pumped that she came up with the recipe all by herself, which is a load of bunk, since my Joy of Cooking has a killer one -- it's a huge hit a family gatherings. She's making Max a care package. Maria, dropping a photo of Liz into what looks like a hatbox decorated by a preschooler, disapproves. I'd disapprove too, except that I really don't care. There must be a whole lot of nothing to do in Roswell. Maria says that Max is spoiled, that he hasn't even been gone a week. Liz blushes and tells Maria to let her finish, since Max "is calling in less than an hour." Maria asks if they're actually going to speak or just "breathe heavy into the phone" or perhaps "repeat each other's names back and forth and back and forth." I like Maria -- she's making my job much easier. Liz, excited, grabs Maria's face and kisses her lips, and just when things look like they might get interesting, in walks Isabel to rain on the Sapphic parade.

Isabel drops the wedding bomb, Liz and Maria pretend to care, and then Isabel, Filofax in hand, starts blabbing about stupid wedding traditions, like the garter toss, the chicken dance (can someone help me out here? What the hell is the chicken dance? The "I feel like chicken tonight" dance? When did that become a wedding must-have?), and bridesmaids. And since "you guys are the closest thing I have to girlfriends, I was wondering if you would be mine." Well, geez, Isabel, how could they possibly refuse, when you sell it so well? Especially since being in a wedding is so much fun. They agree with about as much excitement as Isabel seems to feel about the wedding, and I'm feeling like I've missed some details crucial to a full understanding of this scene -- and of Isabel's plotline -- and then I realize that I don't give a rat's ass. Isabel checks "bridesmaid" off her to-do list, wonders if the package is for Max, seconds the notion that he's spoiled, tells the ladies that Max doesn't know about her engagement and that she'd like to keep it that way, and then says, "Maria, I'm gonna need you tell Michael for me. Okay, see ya." And then she disappears, leaving Liz, Maria, and me with virtual whiplash. If Isabel's so jazzed about her impending nuptials, why is she so petrified to tell anyone? Loser. Maria turns to Liz and asks, "Did that just happen?" Yes, Maria, it did. I saw it. Unfortunately.

At Cal's party, Max is presenting his new "project" to a rapt audience -- it looks like each and every guest has gathered to listen attentively, which I'm sure is exactly what happens all the time at producer parties when some first-timer starts ranting about his latest idea. "An alien, stranded on Earth, tries to find his way back home," says Max, as the camera pans past a table littered with Emmys. Points for subliminal suggestiveness -- I'm sure Emmy voters will awake tomorrow with a strange compulsion to bestow awards on a scrappy little show called Roswell. "Like ET?" breathes Blonde Boobies. Sort of, except this one sucks. "Yes," replies Max, "but think Tom Cruise." Okay, this is about the twentieth reference to Tom Cruise since I started watching last week. What gives? If being in-the-know is the goal, why are the writers being so lame and obvious? Oh, I forgot. Because they're lame and obvious. Brian opines that it would be more like Starman, demonstrating his familiarity with the classics, and Cal says that Starman didn't open, leaning over to light a cigar in a candle. While doing this, he sticks his pinky finger into the flame (he's holding it out like some British matron drinking tea) and doesn't flinch or burn. Max stops pitching to watch Cal, which should inspire the other people in the room to follow his gaze toward Cal's miraculous finger. Even if Max knows why Cal isn't burning, you'd think someone else might point out the fact that a very powerful producer is risking injury by sticking his hand into the fire. But they don't, of course. Maybe Cal is such an asshole that everyone secretly hopes he'll burst into flames.

Max insists that the story gets better, and barrels ahead. Seems that our alien hero hunts down another alien, also trapped on Earth, who's the only one who can help our hero on his quest. "How?" asks a fellow named Scott; Max answers that there's a ship (Max flashes a big Tom Cruise smile here, and Cal giggles), and this alien might know where to find it. This other alien is a "big Hollywood producer," and suddenly everyone's eyes light up, because now Max is talking about them! Cal loves it but, heating up this polite, subtext-laden war of words, says he doesn't like "feel-good science fiction flicks" -- they're only interesting if somebody dies. Max makes a stymied face, and shuts up.

Isabel, wearing some darling blue PJs and brushing her hair, walks into her bedroom to find Michael sitting at her desk. She's annoyed that he didn't ring the doorbell (to her room?); he just says that he got her message, and optimistically asks if it's a joke. No way, Jos, says Isabel, I'm goin' to the chapel! Michael (is Brendan Fehr Canadian?) reminds her that they agreed not to bring anyone else into this, whatever that might be. Isabel says she doesn't want to put her life on hold (as if fifteen years of high school didn't do just that) and that this is her one chance to be happy, to love someone and have him love her back, without all the garbage that has made them miserable for their entire lives. Then she takes a breath. Get this girl a Prozac! Then, in her wise, knowing way, she says that, after much thought, she sees no reason that Jesse needs to know the truth, which is such a positive way to start your life as a wife. Michael replies, "Well, knowing what I know about alien sex, he's gonna have major questions after the honeymoon." A nice, deflating rejoinder that nonetheless conjures some very unpleasant images, mostly involving Isabel and Jesse as humans. Isabel tells Michael to get out; he rises, with much fanfare of hair, and asks what Max thinks of this whole debacle. Isabel says she'll tell him when he gets back, and then pleads with Michael to congratulate her. "On what?" he growls, and leaves the room.

The guests are leaving Cal's party, and Safari Brian hands Max a card, telling him to call tomorrow. What, they're not going home together? Bummer -- I want to see some of this alien sex Michael mentioned. Max winks at Brian, and then Cal comes up and tells Max to stay to discuss the pitch. "I've got something I want to throw at you," says Cal. Brian takes his leave, hops into a car with Foreshadowing, and speeds off into the night. Cal follows Max back into the house, closes the door, and then swings around and puts the power-hand into action, hurling Max halfway up the carpet-covered marble staircase. Max comes tumbling back down and turns to looks at Cal, who's channeling Joan Crawford-does-bad-sci-fi: constipated, demonic look on face, claw-like hand outstretched. Cal is justifiably furious that Max came into his home, taunted him in front of his friends, and threatened to expose him. Justifying himself, Max says, "I have a son," which, though that nugget excuses him from nothing in my mind, shuts Cal up. His little mental wheels whir, and he says, exasperated, "You made him with another alien hybrid." Max, getting all intense, explains that his hybrid-spawn is back on Antar, and in trouble; this, apparently, explains his need for the ship "and one of its pilots." Cal says the Air Force reassembled the ship, and it will never fly. Max insists that Cal is the only person that can get it to work; Cal grabs Max's neck in a stranglehold and says, "I told you I would kill you." Max, looking suddenly old, puffy, and generally Kevin Spacey-like, retorts, "You're gonna have to." So, Cal drops Max to the floor, raises his mighty hand, and directs a burst of explosive power towarda large vase, which shatter and falls. Letdown! Max realizes that Cal can't kill him, that he's had so many chances but could never do the deed, because Cal is Max's protector. Flush with his new sense of power, Max tells Cal to get as mad as he wants, but he's not going anywhere until Cal helps him. Cal, seriously pissed, body-slams Max as he leaves the foyer, treating us to yet another close-up of Max, a determined look etched on his face.