We watch... so you don't have to.

Fall '98: "Costello"

A few years back, when I was young and stupid, I watched an autopsy. It was horrifying. This poor dead fop lay naked on a metal table, his scalp folded back over his eyelids, his brains in a plastic bowl, while some fella with a bone saw and a sorely misplaced sense of irony mumbled absentmindedly about "no external indicia of trauma."

"Egads," I thought to myself while peering to get a closer look, "what could be worse than this?"

Answer: if the fella with a bone saw were instead a Boston bar maid who ended every sentence by squawking "Maaaa!"

As in "no external indicia of trauma... Maaaa!"

Costello stars Sue Costello as a woman who, Nielsen gods willing, soon will no longer have a show. But that won't be the end of her problems, I suspect. That nasty class-action lawsuit soon to be filed by the good people of Beantown ought to tie her up for years to come. And good thing, too. We must stop this woman before she squawks again.

Of course, like all truly great accomplishments, Costello is a team effort. I don't doubt they take their cue from their leading lady. But still, the supporting cast should be proud. Together this bunch of numbnuts reaches unprecedented heights of obnoxious grating. It's hard to describe. The effect is like someone whaled away at your head for 30 minutes with a sledge. It's... well, frankly, it's enough to make you scream.



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