Vancouver, British Columbia. I mean, "Greenwich, Connecticut." A small, dark-haired little girl stands at the end of the driveway of a white Colonial house, hugging a stuffed bunny. A man and a woman, all bundled up and out for their jog, slow their pace when they see her shivering all by her lonesome in her little hot-pink shorts. "What's she doing there, by herself?" Jogger Woman asks. The two of them trot across the street and approach the little girl, who looks scared and cold. "Teena?" Teena just looks up and hugs her bunny. Jogger Man and Jogger Woman ask Teena first where her jacket is, and then where her father is. Her father, Teena sniffles, "said he needed some time to himself." Jogger Woman rubs little Teena's arms, to warm her up. "Well, his time's up," Jogger Man says, all machismo, and strides into the yard to find Mr. Teena, sitting with his back to him on the swing set. He's gray. I don't mean his hair is gray. I mean, he's all gray. Jogger Man touches Mr. Teena's shoulder. And Mr. Teena's head tips over, revealing two puncture wounds in his neck. His eyes are completely rolled back in his head. He falls out of the swing. He's very dead. Teena screams. Jogger Man puts his Nikes to work and jogs into the house to call 911, like, dude, good luck with that. I think when you're gray, it's pretty much the end of the road. Jogger Woman tries to shield Teena from the horror (the horror!) of her father's dead body, but Teena's little mouse face peeks out from between the strands of her stringy brown hair. "Daddy?" she says, quietly.
And...roll credits. The comforting, glorious old credits. As comforting and familiar as a warm old sweater, fresh from the dryer on a rainy winter day. Or, because it's twelve thousand degrees here today, as comforting and familiar as sticking my head in the freezer, wearing only my bra and some cut-offs.
FBI HQ. Lush Basement Office. Scully and her Glamour Fashion Don't bangs look over the Medical Examiner's report on Teena's poor dead dad, Joel Simmons. This is a great episode, but Scully's bangs are a crime. In one shot, they're neatly combed over her forehead. The next shot, they're all ruffled back from her head, parted in the middle. "Death by hypovolemia," she reads from the report, adding, "75% blood loss." Mulder listens quietly, looking over all his pretty, pretty slides. "That's over four liters of blood," Scully says. Forget the bangs. What is she wearing? There's a vest...and some kind of ascot thing? The shoulders on this suit are so padded that they make her head look way too small for her body. It pains me to see Scully dressed this way. I swear, whoever finally put his or her foot down and stopped the unjust uglifaction of Gillian Anderson deserves a medal. Mulder makes some snarky "running on empty" comment, and fiddles around some more with his slides. I always wondered why Mulder got slides of crime-scene photos, rather than photographs like every other investigator. I can just imagine the poor slobs down in the photo department of the Bureau: