By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
An unbothered Valley Girl life is impossible for a Slayer, andby this episodethe risen Buffy is bone tired and unforgivingly angry at the endlessness of her evil-fighting. She and her friends find themselves in a new worldthe old one, choreographedin which you can't but reveal more perilous truths about your feelings, in particular the rage or doubt that creeps in behind your muscles, the subtle little repetitive strain injuries brought less by the inequities of a demon-harried world and more by the inequities of being in a gang dedicated to vanquishing these demonsthe repressive hypocrisies so familiar to anyone who ever involved themselves with a movement. The demon's spell forces inner protests to emerge from the numbing effects of repetitionthe work-never-done repetition of the politically active, always forced to return to the fray, or the repetition of a cult TV drama in which the heroine, released to easeful death at the close of season five, is struggling to accept being forced back to duty. And of course Buffy's disgusted exhaustion with the trials of life runs counter to ours: We wanted her back, we love exactly the patterns, the jokes, the routines that she's hating.
It's classic TV plot-work to comment by contrast alone, to run the contours of one relationship hard against another, and Buffy has been athletically deft at this, contrasting by montage how protector and mentor Giles treats Slayer versus how Willow treats Tara versus how Buffy treats her little sister Dawn versus how everyone treats the semi-domesticated vampire Spike. "OMWF" took this to another level: By inverting scripted-TV-drama daily bread into song and dance, by contrasting itself in the most exposed way with the popular weekly series that's been momentarily suspended to allow it, by risking humiliation (its rivals aren't Sondheim or Lloyd Webber, but Buffy puppetmaster Joss Whedon himself, who wrote the words and music for every song) and daring revelation, it laid quietly bare the tricks of its own settled form, and worried at the forms it was briefly adopting. These were numbers where the norms of performance collided with classic Buffy-gang doubt, resistance, and flip sarcasm: When a sudden burst of ensemble harmony"It's getting eerie/what's this cheery singing all about?"wonders at the idea of itself as an event in the story, it's also wondering about the oddness of harmony-as-convention arriving in any music ever (and ditto in any relationship ever . . . ).
No mere interlude or indulgence, "OMWF" realized its song-lines and ensemble dance moves with terrific semi-amateur verve. Some were affectingly wobbly, to be surebut in combination with the sheer guilelessness of the music, mostly light Broadway rock, this shakiness ambushed characters with the sincerity of their own buried emotions, things about themselves they didn't know they knew. The unfamiliar mode of expression forced the story sideways psychologically: Tropes overworked in spoken TV drama were de-emphasized; less obvious possibilities were thrown to the fore. In the excitementbut also the nervous fragilityof a gesture or a phrase translated into a different set of techniques and instincts, a subtly different species of feelings, beliefs, comfort, and doubt could be elicited. (Of course some of this is lost when frozen onto an image-free soundtrack CD, though I'm not sure that the sense of something missing doesn't itself make the same point another way . . . )
Even when it's just a kid posing with a tennis racket in a mirror, all music is an intuitive declaration about the state of community, what works, what doesn't, what wewhich may or may not include the audiencewill transform, with our belief in each other and what it is we do together. The global omnipresence of the rock bandas imported from and by the culture that has ostensibly committed itself most evangelically to the ideal of radical individualismis the most widespread manifestation of the collective as stubborn knot of refusal to atomize. A rock band's ideals are the unspoken sinews of its particular community, from "help our sound top the charts" to "let's all save the world." As much as the most committed rock bandand far more than most collectives or ensembles as portrayed on TVthe vamp-busting Buffy gang is a crusading unity arrayed against a World of Bad. But here's the thing: By staying true to the storyline so farthe ethos as embodied by the motion habits of the various playersthe music in "OMWF" strengthens and complicates itself, by waltzing us through the internal stresses and unspoken refusals of this particular gang. Rock bands rail against everything, except they never look within, where the most difficult fault lines may lie. "OMWF," commenting by contrast alone on how different art strategiesthe cult TV drama, the musical, the rock-band-as-gang, genres and ideas adopted almost as ready-madescohere (or don't). "OMWF" cracks open collectivity as an unexamined piety, in a way that no one genre, policed inside its own conventions of group dynamics, can.