Take a defunct D.C., add Ally McBeal-ers as wet-behind-the-ears associates, stir rapidly, hold your nose, drink and vomit up this newest NBC creation. Maybe I should have gone to law school, because being a lawyer is clearly all about sex, non-witty non-bon mot repartee, sex, huuuuuge offices, sex, crying in front of a judge, burping contests, sex, and talking all about sex. Samantha Mathis says "panties" five times in fifteen seconds and I puncture my eardrums with a fork. "They Call Me Miss Tibbs" is gorgeous and has the only semi-interesting storyline, but she's dating some doofus who thinks that The Beatles shag cut is still hip. There's another guy who looks so much like Plasticman
Oh, lord, wait, I have to get this. (Rewinding…play.) "Tonight, first-year lawyers will discover that the best years are the first years." How original.
Two scoops of Urban Jumble with whipped cream and cherries to Mr. Totalot for his legalese, Mr. keckler for his unfailing patience and laundry detail, and to the rest of the jury on the First Years forums for posting more rigorously than this show really deserves.
Early morning sunlight filters through a stained glass door. The door flies open, and an aged Samantha Mathis walks into the lavender foyer, shouting, "Just because you don't open your mail doesn't mean you don't have to pay your bills." God, I can't believe we're two seconds into the show and I'm already having issues. Point of order: if the mail were sitting outside, it's fairly safe to hazard that it's just been delivered, and if it's just been delivered we can conjecture that the receivers aren't yet aware of its existence, and if the receivers aren't aware of its existence, there is no proof they weren't going to leave the mail unopened or unpaid…do you see where I'm going with this, Your Honor? Sigh. Besides, isn't taking someone else's mail a federal offense? Some lawyer she's going -- oh, I give up already. I mean, really, how many times can you predict I'll be saying that in each recap? Sydney Poitier comes tripping down the stairs. "Anna, you're here. Good, good, good, good, good!" she says. "Yes, Riley, I got your message, I'm here," Anna tells her. Okay, do we know who's who on the docket? Poitier is Riley and Mathis is Anna. Riley leads Anna into the kitchen, and Anna complains about all she has to do: "You know I have to clean my bathroom, write a three-hundred-page summary, find a husband because I don't know when I'm going to have another day off again, and I think my ass is beginning to fall, so this may be my only window of opportunity." Probably thinking the only way to shut up that whining maw is to get it drunk, Riley says, "Beer?" and holds up a cold one. Mmmm, a cold one…
The side door opens and Exposition walks in, helping a bearded Andy Moffat (because I'm sorry, but that's who Mac Astin's always going to be in my eyes) haul something heavy. "Actually, I met him at Jeffrey's," Andy Moffat is saying, and then he sees the two lawyerettes. "Oh, good morning, Anna," he says in precise tones. "Warren," Anna says, surprised. "How's it going?" "Ah, moving day," Andy Moffat comments vaguely, as if that answers her question. Anna turns her attention back to Riley, who's fidgeting with a bottle of Dos Equis. "Warren's moving in?" she asks. Riley tells her they needed another roommate. "You know, we have an extra room to rent," Riley offers hopefully. "So those were Warren's friends?" Anna states, staring after the men, the Light of Prospective Sexual Conquest dying out of her eyes. "Top floor, nice view --" Riley continues. "No, I don't want to live with friends," Anna tells her, chewing on an apple. "Right, only men who steal your credit cards," Riley says as Exposition takes the Dos Equis out of her hand and swigs long and hard. Anna turns around and makes a threatening fist. "I love you," Riley says sweetly, and they both chuckle. "You know," Anna continues, stepping on Exposition's foot, "just because they are Warren's friends doesn't mean they can't be straight." Yes, yes it does. It says so in the Gay Guy's Guide to Being a Lawyer. Right there in chapter eight, paragraph five: "Straight friends are strictly not allowed if you are to achieve the pinnacle of lawyerly gaiety."
"Five minutes," mutters Mr. keckler, grabbing the stain stick, "and I already object to this whole show." Overruled. The jury will watch the show because the cats need shoes!