I found last week's episode of "Poker Face," featuring Judith Light and S. Epatha Merkerson exacting revenge in a nursing home, to be an absolute riot. It was side-splitting and daring, with characters so intricate that deciphering their motives was as challenging as unraveling the crimes they were entwined in. The series meticulously crafted these septuagenarian troublemakers into characters you could alternately admire and despise, enriching the hour with a crazy and contentious edge—even if it meant sacrificing some screen time for Natasha Lyonne.
In this context, "Exit Stage Death" emerges as an intriguing experiment: Could an episode of "Columbo" still satisfy when Columbo himself barely stars in it? "Poker Face" exhibits a remarkable openness, with its lead character structurally absent for at least the first third of each episode and, recently, seeming to fade almost entirely from the narrative. This week, she wasn't even the first to crack the case! It's procedural television that grants itself the liberty to reimagine the formula, and for this, the show is thriving. For instance, it's been weeks since Benjamin Bratt hotly pursued Charlie in the closing scene. Moreover, the episodes strike me as livelier and more vibrant, thanks to Rian Johnson discarding the signature coda just as it began to feel tired and expected.
Yet, if Charlie isn't the focal point of a show centered on her life on the lam, then who is? This week, the spotlight falls on Ellen Barkin and Tim Meadows as the aging stars of a vintage TV series, "Spooky and the Cop"—and how I yearn for Johnson to unveil a few grainy clips from the show! Barkin, resplendent in head-to-toe white, portrays Kathleen, while Meadows stars as her on-screen partner, Michael. They were once beloved co-stars of a long-running buddy-cop series, but behind the scenes, their animosity was palpable. Perhaps they were artists and even mutual muses once, but that was eons ago. Their starring roles have vanished, along with their finances.
Michael, ever resourceful, has found a new source of funding in his much younger wife, Ava (Jameela Jamil), who amassed a fortune with SheTrade, an online discount brokerage catering to women. This is precisely the kind of whimsical, culturally resonant detail that Johnson excels at. Another example is the cause of Michael and Kathleen's estrangement. Kathleen told a glossy magazine that Michael was illiterate, a rumor he took as seriously as Lea Michele would (i.e., not at all).
But Kathleen has cooked up a scheme to rejuvenate their careers. A one-night-only revival of "Ghosts of Pensacola," the indulgent Southern Gothic play that garnered them accolades three decades ago. With Ava's backing, an ailing Michael—suffering from some blood pressure issue or another—agrees to star alongside his lifelong frenemy once more.
It is immediately evident that this was a dire decision. To begin with, it scarcely qualifies as theater; it's merely a regional dinner theater. Rebecca (played by Audrey Corsa), the third wheel in this minuscule production, hasn't even memorized her lines by the time rehearsals commence for the trio. Furthermore, Kathleen obstinately refuses to acknowledge that three decades have elapsed since their last performance of "Ghosts." She persists in her desire to conclude the show with a thrilling 15-foot plummet through a trapdoor, a demand that Phil, the theater's overtaxed stage manager, ultimately capitulates to. To drown his sorrows at being bossed around by this fading diva, he stealthily blends a splash of whisky into his thermos.
However, it is the colossal egos that are truly sabotaging the production. Michael and Kathleen are locked in a bitter feud. She warns that she'll expose his infidelity to Ava. Michael retaliates by threatening to pen a tell-all memoir. Yet, the show must soldier on (lest Michael incur a $200,000 cancellation fee). And opening night presents the ideal opportunity to deal with one's adversaries. Mid-performance, Kathleen scales the rafters and loosens a spotlight suspended above the mark for Michael's pivotal monologue. Michael, in turn, replaces the bolt securing the trapdoor with slow-melting dry ice and removes the cushions meant to cushion Kathleen's descent.
What initially appears as frenetic, albeit ingenious, retaliation transpires as the ultimate murder. The spotlight narrowly misses Michael but precipitates a cardiac episode. His devoted wife, Ava, leaps from the audience to rush him his medication, a trajectory that leads her straight over the trapdoor. It gives way. She plummets. She perishes. The supposed adversaries then reveal themselves as lovers. This has been the performance of a lifetime, indeed. Now, all Kathleen and Michael need do is lay low for a spell. A year hence, they can unveil to the world how Ava's tragedy united them, and they can commence spending their SheTrade fortune.
Yet, money is no longer sufficient for Kathleen. Six months prior, she was a relic of the past; now, she's trending on Instagram. Michael agrees to one final performance, a tribute to his late spouse; perhaps if the world witnesses Kathleen aiding Michael in grieving through art, they won't need to go underground for an entire year.
It merely requires a misplaced clue to ensnare them, yet it isn't Charlie who unravels the mystery. Rebecca stumbles upon the scripted quarrel between Kathleen and Michael—a feigned altercation during a performance, caught on "accidental" hot mics to perpetuate their decades-long feud—hidden in Michael's coat pocket. Her motive is as transparent as glass; she too craves a piece of Ava's fortune. Five million by the play's ignominious conclusion, or Rebecca vows to spill the beans to the authorities.
This underscores my point: Charlie is fading into the background. She isn't even the pioneer in uncovering this nefarious plot. A waiter at the dinner theater where Kathleen stars in "Ghosts," Charlie often dons headphones to drown out the cast's abysmal rehearsals. Poor acting sets off Charlie's Spider-Sense, akin to the tingling she feels when confronted with lies, sparking an intriguing question: Is exceptional acting indistinguishable from deceit?
What ultimately draws Charlie into Ava's demise is the depth of Phil's despair. As the stage manager, he was the last to inspect the trapdoor; he was the one slumbering at his post when Ava met her untimely end on the hard concrete below. (Kathleen slipped an Ambien into his booze-laden thermos.) Charlie is aware of Phil's drinking, but she also knows his undying love for theater. He wouldn't jeopardize his cast for anything. So, she begins her investigation. Since Kathleen was the sole actor meant to traverse the trapdoor, she must have been the intended target.
Generally speaking, Charlie's detective work this week was more comedy than conviction, rather than showcasing her innate talent for sleuthing. Unable to persuade Kathleen to cancel the second performance for her safety, Charlie searches for the killer amidst the ongoing show, sometimes navigating through the hollow sets from backstage. After a videotape from opening night reveals dry ice billowing from beneath the floorboards, Charlie spots burn marks on Michael's hand...while he's smoking a fake stage window onstage. Charlie warns Kathleen onstage, her face peering out from behind the prop fridge amidst milk and olives, to beware of Michael. It's only when she discovers a red feather from Kathleen's mule slippers on the catwalk that she starts seeking a less obvious explanation for Ava's tragic demise.
This leads us to the concept of Chekhov's gun, a principle that underscores the importance of every element in a story serving a purpose. Imagine a character with a documented allergy to tree nuts and legumes; it's almost as if fate demands that someone offer her a cashew, setting the stage for drama. Initially, when Charlie informs Rebecca of her treacherous love entanglements, Rebecca chooses to lie, clinging desperately to her $5 million dream. However, when Charlie discovers Rebecca's blackmail demands scribbled on a scrap of paper in Kathleen's vanity area, her role shifts abruptly from detective to hero. She dashes onto the stage, sweeping a contaminated prop of Chex Mix out of Rebecca's grasp, peanut fragments flying.
Charlie, who has developed a newfound respect for the theater during her tenure as a drink refiller at the Seneca Lake Dinner Theater, even attempts to maintain character as the ghostly Pensacola when she breaches the sacred sightline barrier. Bravo indeed!
Meanwhile, during Rebecca's poignant third-act soliloquy about her clubfoot—a mysterious detail left delightfully unexplored in this week's episode—Michael and Kathleen conspire backstage, plotting their next steps. Taking a cue from Kathleen's murder script, Charlie strategically places a stage microphone in the dressing room. On opening night, Kathleen employs the hot mic to assure the audience of her and Michael's platonic relationship. By closing night, Charlie uses it to ensnare their unintended confession for the police.
Nonetheless, the show continues unabated. Rather than disrupting the performance, the police allow Kathleen to deliver her climactic monologue, her acting infused with the pain of her real-life predicament. Great acting, like the truth, is seamless and unnoticeable until it captures your heart. As Kathleen traverses the stage and plummets through the very trapdoor that claimed Ava, even Charlie, the human lie detector par excellence, is moved to tears. Sadly, her career has reached its denouement. For her and Michael, there await no minor roles, only the confines of small prison cells.
