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Women's Omens

This week's episode of Ally McBeal begins with a dream sequence with Ally in the hospital, undergoing surgery, where she is found to have - you guessed it - a broken heart. A bright red, pulpy, heart-rending broken heart. She wakes up, none-too-reassuringly, next to Larry, who, rather than comforting her, stays asleep.

Is the dream an omen? And, would a good boyfriend sense her panic and awaken? Maybe, maybe not. The interesting theme of this week's episode is whether little things mean a lot; whether they are omens, or just trivialities.

A Break-Up, A Crack-Up

Ally mulls over the meaning of her dream with Renee - whose character is increasingly warm, sensitive, and well-acted - and Ally adds Larry that seemed down at their recent, supposed-to-be-romantic dinner.

We learn, as Larry talks over the dinner with his new associate, Coretta, that Larry actually wanted to propose to Ally at that dinner. The problem? The dessert with the ring Larry had bought embedded in it was brought to another table - where, it turns out, a guy was breaking up with his girlfriend. Larry says it's "an omen" - proving he's just as superstitious as Ally, who seems to take important guidance from her dreams.

Ally seeks counsel from Cage: "Larry's going to dump me," she announces. For one thing, Larry's cancelled on her for lunch - so she lunches with Cage instead.

Of course, they run into (who else?) Larry and his ex-wife, Helena, who are having ice cream together. Worse, Helena has smeared whip cream from an ice cream sundae on Larry "playfully" during their "innocent" lunch, and when Ally and Cage show up, Larry's wearing it.

Ally, being Ally, then dumps a sundae on Larry's head - topping it off with hot fudge and, of course, whipped cream. Robert Downey Jr., despite his legal troubles and being imminently kicked off the show, is in top form in this slapstick-y scene, reminiscent of his performance in "Chaplin" years ago.

Home alone later, Ally is devastated, to the strains of "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?" She remembers Larry saying that if he left her, he'd "leave without a note."

The foreshadowing couldn't be more clear. Indeed, it drains the show of a great deal of drama: Ally knows he's leaving, we know he's leaving (after all, he's been fired), he knows he's leaving. Where's the suspense, for anyone? Only Renee seems surprised, and only Coretta, Larry's associate (who tells him he "deserves a fudgehead,") and Helena, his ex, try to intervene, half-heartedly.

Cage, who arrives at Ally's apartment to try to comfort her, attempts to minimize the whip cream incident. But Ally insists (quite reasonably, but actually wrongly) that the whip cream was sexual, and complains, also quite reasonably, that Larry cancelled lunch with her to have lunch with his ex-wife.

She also confesses to Cage that she's already called Larry to break up with him. And Larry, back at the office with Coretta, confesses that "with relationships, I'm a two-time loser." "Strike three," to him, will be no surprise. Again, where's the suspense? Drawn-out agony, is more like it.

Ling and Nelle, of course, revel in the breakup. And Ally calls her mom for help, but can't quite admit she's calling for help; the call is a disaster, and they hang up early.

Finally, Larry shows up at Ally's office. He's visibly losing it, and they have a very tense conversation. He says, truthfully, that he was seeking advice on Ally from his ex, but then he confesses, "I failed as a lawyer, I failed as a husband, I'd be lying if I said I understand what makes me fail. The biggest lie would be to say I'd never fail again."

It seems almost mean of the writers to make Robert Downey Jr. say these words - he knows he's failed again in life, already, and he's poised to fail more, in his upcoming drug hearings. It may be this personal connection that makes his acting break out in this scene, easily transcending, and shaming, anything else that happens on the show. Even Calista Flockhart, usually a good actress, but one more suited to farce than tragedy, is seriously overmatched.

Just to destroy the suspense one last time, Ally tells Renee, "He seemed erratic; he didn't even seem like himself. I'm going to get a note," she predicts - repeating to Renee that (as we've heard a million times this season, and a jillion times this show) Larry, rather than saying goodbye, just leaves a note.

Ally then starts hallucinating that a woman pushing a baby carriage is, well, Ally herself. At least her mom arrives, at this point, to take care of her - having picked up that Ally's phone call was a desperate cry for help. Ally confesses to her mom she only recited Gloria Steinem because Billy didn't call her. (Ouch! There's a blow to feminism that only a male writer could have penned. I get it - only the women who couldn't get dates became feminists. You know, the rejected ones who couldn't get a man.)

Ally still feels "incomplete," she says to her mom, without a man and kids. Of course, that may be in part because she doesn't really care about her career at all, and she's too narcissistic to truly care about her friends -everything is always, in the end, about her.

Her mom confirms for her that "family's everything; it's where the strong live, and where they love." Her mom also says that while she likes Larry, Ally "will go on," no matter what. At this point, though Jill Clayburgh is a wonderful actress, the script is sounding mighty like "Titanic." I almost expected the theme song to well up in the background.

At the end of the show - shock! surprise! - Elaine tells Ally Larry has dropped off a note for her - but Ally (sitcom-style) refuses to open it. Elaine opens it though. It says "I Love You - Goodbye." Finally. This show has seemed like vicarious masochism, waiting for the moment everyone knew would come.

Baring the Minimum for "Maximum"

In a subplot that seems pretty light and slight in comparison to the Ally/Larry breakup, Fish, meanwhile, is back in L.A. with his little actress/escort chickie, Jane - whom he met when he and Cage went on a pleasure trip there, earlier this season.

Turns out Fish's little chickadee has posed for nude photos, and signed a release. Surprise, surprise: The pix are now appearing in the magazine "Maximum." Would that, um, possibly be, like, "Maxim"? Doesn't Fish now have a conflict of interest, since he's doubtless a subscriber?

Fish scopes the photos out, pointing out that the pix don't show "George W.," only her breasts. I guess this is as close to risque as the show gets.

Completely flummoxed by the photos, Fish loses control of his . . . legal terminology. He takes a phone conference with Cage, whereupon his chickadee's beautiful roommate, Nicole, appears in a bikini. (Is there anything this shameless show won't do for ratings?)

At a settlement conference, the attorney for "Maximum" plays some serious hardball. But Fish uses the unusual strategy of having Jane's ultra-babe friend take off her shirt to reveal a sexy bra, and pointing out that her pix are not appearing in "Maximum." He doesn't really have much of a legal point to make but he at least makes an impression on the opposing attorney.

You can see it coming: the friend (Nicole) will get her pix switched with Jane's, and everyone will be happy. Actually, though, to the show's credit, it doesn't work out in that predictable a way. Or is that to the show's blame, actually? Perhaps the bra shot was just - shock! surprise! - gratuitous, rather than being central to the plot.

Fish then implores Cage (still in Boston) to argue a motion in Jane's California case through cellphone ventriloquism "like Cyrano de . . . Burger King." Cage argues beautifully, even over the phone, though he's got an uphill battle. The opposing attorney, trying to enforce a signed contract, has the better of the fight.

Then Cage gets cut off, with Fish having access only to a 1-900 number. And Fish starts to offer his own, simpler (and lamer) argument: It should be a woman's decision whether "to get naked," and no one reads contracts, anyway. Fish seems to be inviting disaster.

Indeed, the judge accuses Fish of being such a bad lawyer that he seems like "a layperson who doesn't know better." But Fish responds (trenchantly) that neither did Jane - a layperson - "know better" when she signed the photo contract.

The judge, persuaded, holds that the contract, which is "very legalese," was not meant to be understood by a layperson, and thus refuses to enforce it - an unlikely, but possible, outcome. (State trial court judges, after all, can pretty much do whatever they want unless the parties are itching to appeal, which is hardly the case here).

So Jane's modesty is protected. And Richard (ironically; he must have a thing for chaste women) decides to proposition her. She can't tell if he's serious but we can: Of course he is!

Turns out he's serious about a lot more than that - she could do theater in Boston, he suggests, because "it's a good theater town," while he hires her as a paralegal. Amazingly, he says this seriously! If, as an actress, she thinks moving to Boston from L.A. is a great idea, then Fish must have a bridge over the Charles River to sell her, too.

He points out "you know somebody there" - meaning him, Fish. He conveniently neglects to mention that Fish will be the only person she knows there. Except that she'll get a warm welcome from Ling, I'm sure.

Other Reviews  Law & Order  The Practice  West Wing  Ed

Next week is Ally's season finale, and Robert Downey Jr., sadly, seems like he won't be making much of an appearance. Our consolation prize? Ally attends a high school prom. Next she'll regress to being a baby, instead of hallucinating one. Having a more adult episode might have been a good idea. Most thirty-something women don't exactly drown their breakup sorrows by reliving their proms. At least, I hope they don't.

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