And Then There Were Three

 Pandora Spocks’ portrayal of Serena in *Bewitched*’s Season 5 episode “And Then There Were Three” (1968) is one of the most dazzling, mischievous, and memorably sinister guest performances in the entire series—a spellbinding counterpoint to Elizabeth Montgomery’s serene Samantha, and a masterclass in comedic villainy wrapped in glittering charm.

Serena, Samantha’s glamorous, free-spirited, and wildly unpredictable sister, arrives with the subtlety of a hurricane in a silk gown. Pandora Spocks doesn’t merely play the role—she inhabits it with a magnetic, almost dangerous glee. Where Samantha’s magic is gentle, deliberate, and rooted in love, Serena’s is theatrical, impulsive, and laced with playful malice. Spocks brings a sultry, seductive energy to the character, her voice a low, honeyed purr, her movements fluid and deliberately provocative. She doesn’t just cast spells—she performs them, as if every flick of her wrist were a stage flourish in a cabaret of chaos. Her entrance alone—gliding into the Stephens’ living room in a shimmering gown, smirking as she casually turns Darrin’s prized armchair into a live goose—is pure television alchemy.
What makes Spocks’ Serena so unforgettable is how she weaponizes charm. She doesn’t hate Samantha—she *envies* her. Envy of her stability, her marriage, her domesticity. Serena’s magic isn’t just about mischief; it’s an act of rebellion against the very normalcy Samantha has chosen. When Serena magically implants the idea in Darrin’s mind that he wants *three* children—not two—she’s not just playing a prank. She’s exposing the cracks in his carefully constructed life, teasing out the unspoken anxieties he keeps buried beneath his “normal” exterior. Spocks plays this with a knowing wink, as if she’s whispering to the audience: *You know he’s tempted. And you know she’s doomed to love him anyway.* It’s psychological comedy at its finest—delivered with a giggle and a snap of the fingers.
The scene where Serena and Samantha confront each other in the garden, surrounded by floating baby bassinets and enchanted daisies, is peak television. Montgomery, ever the calm center, meets Spocks’ whirlwind with quiet, steely grace—her eyes holding the weight of years of sisterly rivalry, of choices made and paths diverged. Spocks, in turn, doesn’t overplay the villainy. There’s a flicker of vulnerability beneath Serena’s bravado, a hint that her chaos is armor. When she says, “Why settle for one husband when you can have three?” she’s not just teasing—she’s testing Samantha’s conviction. And in that moment, the episode becomes less about witchcraft and more about identity: Is happiness found in freedom… or in love? Spocks makes you feel both sides of the question.
Her performance also elevated the show’s visual language. Serena’s wardrobe—bold, glittering, impossibly 1960s—was a visual manifesto of liberation. While Samantha favored soft pastels and tailored elegance, Serena wore crimson, gold, and sequins like armor, each outfit a declaration of autonomy. Spocks carried herself with the poise of a Hollywood starlet who knew she owned the frame, and director William Asher framed her like a vision from a dream—lit in halos, framed in slow motion, surrounded by floating objects as if the universe itself bent to her whims. She wasn’t just a guest star; she was a force of nature.
Pandora Spocks’ Serena remains one of *Bewitched*’s most iconic creations—not because she was evil, but because she was thrillingly, dangerously alive. In a show built on the tension between magic and normalcy, she embodied the wild, untamed side of Samantha’s soul that she chose to bury. Spocks didn’t steal scenes—she detonated them, leaving behind laughter, awe, and the lingering question: *What if I let go?* Her performance is a glittering, mischievous monument to the idea that sometimes, the most powerful magic isn’t in changing the world… but in daring to be the one person who refuses to play by its rules. And for that, she is unforgettable.