14 Juni 2000
By Terri L. Heard
| Felicity (9 pm/ET, WB)
Felicity - the character and the series - has taken some loopy turns this season: Sean's dizzy Docuventary sequel, the dippy Javier-Ben smooch. And let's not even discuss the hair! But none were more manic - or more satisfying - than this deliciously chilling Twilight Zone-inspired repeat. Weighted by the agony of her conflicting feelings for Ben (Scott Speedman) and Noel (Scott Foley), a morose Felicity (Keri Russell) takes the advice of an eerily Stepford-like coffee-shop customer and visits the mysterious Clinic. There, the Doctor promises to cure her heartache. But Felicity's doubts become full-blown fears when he refuses to tell her exactly what the treatment entails. And just as he approaches her with a huge hypodermic needle, she flees. Once safe behind her dorm-room door, Felicity believes she's put the episode behind her. But, of course, weird happenings follow. A shell-shocked man accosts Felicity in the library to tell her he's had the treatment and urges her to back out before it's too late. But when she assures him she did, he insists the procedure has already begun. Horrified, Felicity tries to get more information but the man disappears before she can ask. And when she shares her fears with Julie (Amy Jo Johnson), she's stunned to learn that her trusted friend is also an alumnus of the Clinic. With this paranoiac thrill ride through Serling territory, series creator J.J. Abrams, who penned this script, does what is verboten for TV producers. He sends up his characters' sometimes plodding earnestness by pitching his leads into a completely alien genre. It's an innovative and courageous risk. The fact that Felicity pulls this off with credible suspense and visual flair is just plain admirable and a credit to director Lamont Johnson, a Twilight Zone veteran. Other series have done it before with mixed results. The best examples include any musical Drew Carey episode (instant classics) and Ally McBeal's recent attempt at musical theater (What was series creator David E. Kelley thinking?). But while those experiments celebrated Carey and McBeal's trademark raucous humor, Abrams pokes fun at the very quality that endears Felicity to its fans and occasionally annoys the heck out of its critics. Abrams invites the audience to laugh with, not at, his characters and manages to preserve their dignity. It's a tricky maneuver that risks killing the audience's affection for Felicity and friends. But it works because Abrams is so clearly the first to laugh at his own creations. And it looks like he had a blast doing it. The series effortlessly re-creates the mannered tone of the 1960s TV drama. The show's typically soft thirtysomething lighting is replaced with stark, sharp-edged planes of light and shadow on a background of film-noirish black and white. Russell's usual hip gear is replaced with quaint pedal pushers, bobby socks and skirts. Dewy-eyed, yearning close-ups are supplanted by less intrusive camera work and paranoia-inducing overhead shots. Although Russell's performance is a bit too modern (she's still wearing her emotions on her sleeve), the rest of the cast slips comfortably into the more restrained retro groove. And Foley delivers a creepy, pitch-perfect modulation from soothing blandness to frenzied co-conspirator. The ending, which, by the way, finally reveals what's in Meghan's box, will give first-time viewers something to ponder for months. And those who caught the original January broadcast will get a second chance to catch an instant TV classic. Rarely is a show's homage to the "golden age of television" so satisfying. |