Roswell
The White Room (1)

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Cream-Filled Ding-Dong

A Psycho-rip-off close-up of Isabel's eye signals that she is now inside of Max's mind. More unspecial-effects mayhem ensues, tonight brought to you by the pre-Lucas special effects house Industrial Light and Pulling Rabbits Out of a Hat. Hey, you know what I'm really excited about? Do you know? You don't. I'll tell you. I'm just itching for that probing journalistic triumph of the Later Today interview with Katherine Heigl during the press junket tour for My Father, The Hero Part Deux when she talks about how Roswell really "challenged" her as an actor and how the "amazing cast" was "so supportive" of her acting "decisions." The saving grace of it all is that she probably won't believe a damn word of it, but she'll be awfully convincing when she cites the following scene in discussing her Stella Adler lessons and how they taught her how to "trust" her "method" when she would find herself "in the moment." And it goes a little something like this: Isabel is crawling around on the floor of the white room, crying out Max's name and acting ten kinds of utter lunatic. Through the haze, she sees Max in a corner of the room, and he's -- get this -- tied to the wall with his arms splayed and his head tilting to one side. No, really. Wow. Someone shoot a fax off to the WB's Overwrought Metaphor Department and let them know that their Christmas bonus comes early this year, okay? Thanks so much. Now I'm not religious by either nature or upbringing at all, but you have to admit this is curious. Whatever, he's God. He's even God-like. Of course he is. This is not blasphemous treatment of the crucifixion at all. Goodbye, 7th Heaven retention ratings. We hardly knew ye. Isabel begs Max to tell her where he is, and he tosses a few mental images her way: he's being wheeled into the facility on the death table, he's being tortured by Pierce, and from the sky falls the flaming wreckage of the alien Mother Ship filled with heaps of interplanetary blah blah blah. She wakes up, freaking. A somber, cooperative, wholly Max-like Michael calms her down and retrieves the following information: they're drugging him, they're hurting him, they're taking his wine and turning it back into water. But here's the good news: she knows where he is.

Cut to the completely closed UFO Center, where the five remaining disciples mysteriously stand around an abandoned display and talk quite loudly about where to find Max. Now I don't mean to nitpick here (oh, wait. Of course I do), but didn't the plot of an entire early installment of this show ("285 South") center around a renegade Michael getting caught, alone and completely silent, inside of a guard-dogs-and-barbed-wire-protected UFO Center even though his best friend had the keys? I guess Bania-the-Nick-Wechsler'd-Curator decided that one break-in attempt six months ago challenged his delicate constitution to such an extent that he would simply leave the front door swinging wide open at all hours of the night, just in case the displaced alien youth of the town required further investigation of their questionable galactic fate. Anyway, Liz again threatens to go to Porno with all of this information, but Michael claims that the three remaining aliens can go to the sealed facility in the middle of the desert and get Max out of there. Liz says that she's going too, and Tesla barely cloaks the collective sentiment of our planet, and any other planets they might know about, in telling her to just. Stay. Away. For Christ's sake. See what I did there? Tesla, Michael, and Isabel walk right out the open front door of the UFO Center, leaving the three remaining humans to bask in the cheesy neon glow of the latest confirmation of their absolutely incontrovertible superfluity. Translation for those just tuning in: They suck. Say buh-bye.

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Roswell

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