OH, WHAT DELLA Reese and 36 hours without sleep can do to a person’s mind.

In these troubled times, solace is what you make of it. Like many folks, I’ve lately tried burying myself in work to buffer the stream of Al Qaeda–related news. Unfortunately, even the safe haven of the office is beset by "Punch the bin Laden" Internet games and e-mail attachments featuring stirring images of crying American eagles and the Statue of Liberty flipping off the Taliban. It’s all pretty traumatic and, for me, enough to cause insomnia. During one recent sleepless stretch, I started to consider seeking spiritual help.

Thank heavens for 2 a.m. reruns of Touched by an Angel.

The closest I’d ever come to Angel was watching Roma Downey host Saturday Night Live, during which she was surprisingly vulgar. But I’m given to understand that the show is a CBS staple that has engendered extreme comfort in Americans since 1994. Each week, angels are dispatched from heaven to inspire troubled people. Downey is the "rookie angel," who reports to her superior, Tess, a streetwise and tough "mama angel" played by ex–gospel singer Reese. Sure, I expected schmaltz.

Maybe this is the late-night Meister Brau talking, but schmaltz is the least of what I received. I mean no direct offense to folks who live and die by this program, but Touched by an Angel is shockingly similar to porn movies. If you substitute angel sightings for sex, the resemblance is uncanny.

Think about it: what’s a porn flick? Four or five hard-core payoff scenes that reward the viewer’s patience, strung together by the worst, most insipid dialogue and situations anyone can imagine. ("Excuse me, Mrs. Smith? It’s the mailman. I’ve got a special delivery for you ...") Angel really isn’t much more than that. It’s a Dukes of Hazzard episode crossbred with "Church Chat." This is the soul-lifting program that’s healed millions? This is my solace?

The first episode I watched was called "On Edge." It featured (gulp) Jack Wagner — who’s come down a bit from the great days of General Hospital — as part of a father-daughter con-man team. Reese and Downey, the angels, follow the father and daughter to Salt Lake City, where daughter Hayley has been promised a chance to go ice skating. Downey works as a rink employee, and bad ol’ Jack Wagner shortchanges her as he pays the entry fee. Jack also works out a scam to steal some charity money. In the meantime, as Hayley skates, she falls down. Another angel helps her up, and introduces her to (I kid you not) Tara Lipinski, the Olympic skating champion. Jack’s scam eventually goes bad, but the police think it’s Hayley who has stolen the dough. Finally, the angel reveals herself to Jack and tells him to "trust God and listen to your conscience." Wagner throws himself on the mercy of the court, and everyone cries.

Fascinated, I tuned in the next night and watched Marion Ross (Happy Days) and Veronica Hamel (Hill Street Blues) as mother and daughter, dealing with the cruel effects of aging. Fortunately, by the end of the show, the angels have persuaded them to "give up [their] fears of being alone, of growing old, of losing each other, because God will never leave either of [them]." It’s a genuinely lovely sentiment, but before we get to this "money shot," we have to endure endless dialogue about how Ross was in the "Lady Tigerettes," an all-gal elite fighter-pilot squadron, during World War II. It was nothing short of uproarious.

Each entire hourlong program is basically an excuse to get to a few key lines: "Forgiveness is not a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of strength"; "Shame brings you down, but true humility will only lift you higher"; "You can’t spend your life sitting in a boat, staying safe ... that’s no life"; and "There will be another job, but you will never have another family." Never mind that these aphorisms are trite. The manner in which we arrive at them is so porn-like as to be hilarious:

Angels are shown walking into new town.

Angry/sad/conflicted characters do something naughty (e.g., illegally enter skating rink, take mother for granted, etc.).

Angels shake their heads.

Tortuous, convoluted reasons for conflict are head-clutchingly revealed.

Glimpse of angel power is offered (e.g., Tara Lipinski shows up to give skating lesson).

Conflict comes to a mind-numbing head.

Angels finally get to announce Christian rhetoric.

Replace the "angels" with "Jenna Jameson" and the "Christian rhetoric" with a little latex and some Vaseline, and, I’m sorry, you’ve got porn.

I don’t begrudge the fans of Touched by an Angel their comfort. It’s a hugely successful program (so successful, in fact, that Reese threw a tantrum a couple of seasons back, pitching for lots more money per episode to spread the gospel). People are obviously moved by its messages, and don’t mind the silly means of delivery. Nor do I mean to indict Christianity as a thinly veiled attempt to strap us all down and attack us with butt-plugs. But whew, Angel is not for me. It delivers laughter in a time when I need consolation.

Say. I wonder if Debbie Does Dallas is out on DVD?

Christopher Harris can be reached at chris@holecity.com

Issue Date: November 8 - 15, 2001

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