Serena Stops the Show

 On February 19, 1970, *Bewitched* delivered one of its most flamboyantly theatrical and gloriously self-aware episodes with “Serena Stops the Show,” a Season Six standout that showcased Elizabeth Montgomery at her most dazzlingly uninhibited as the bewitching, boundary-pushing Serena. Ever the dramatic foil to her sister Samantha’s composed domesticity, Serena—dressed in a cascade of sequins, bold eyeliner, and an air of untamable charisma—storms into the episode with a diva’s entrance and a witch’s wrath when a group of performers at a local cabaret flatly refuse to go on stage for her after a scheduling dispute. Never one to accept rejection (or share the spotlight gracefully), Serena responds not with negotiation, but with a spell so theatrical it could only come from her: with a flick of her wrist and a throaty laugh, she freezes the entire troupe mid-protest—musicians locked in mid-note, dancers suspended mid-leap, the lead singer frozen with mouth agape—transforming them into a living, breathing tableau of artistic rebellion turned silent spectacle. What follows is classic *Bewitched* farce at its most inventive: Serena, now the sole performer in a show that technically *can’t* go on without her, decides to take center stage anyway, belting out jazzy standards and tap-dancing with supernatural flair while her immobilized audience watches in mute astonishment. Back in Westport, Samantha (also played by Montgomery, of course) catches wind of the chaos and rushes to intervene, not just to undo the spell, but to remind Serena—once again—that magic shouldn’t be wielded as a weapon of ego. Elizabeth Montgomery effortlessly shifts between the two personas: Samantha’s calm, empathetic diplomacy contrasting brilliantly with Serena’s wild-eyed theatricality, her every gesture dripping with campy confidence and barely concealed petulance. The episode cleverly satirizes showbiz vanity, artistic temperaments, and the fine line between passion and pettiness—all while reveling in the visual comedy of enchanted performers stuck in absurd poses (a pianist hovering over the keys, a saxophonist mid-solo with cheeks puffed like a chipmunk). Yet beneath the glitter and farce lies a subtle message about respect: Serena may be powerful, but true artistry—and true magic—thrives on collaboration, not coercion. By episode’s end, after a few choice words and a well-placed nose-twitch (off-screen, as always), the performers are released, the show resumes—this time *with* Serena as a guest, not a tyrant—and even Darrin, watching from the wings with bemused resignation, cracks a smile. “Serena Stops the Show” remains a fan-favorite not just for Montgomery’s virtuosic dual performance, but for the way it celebrates the joy of performance itself—even when, or perhaps especially when, the leading lady is a witch who refuses to be upstaged by mere mortals.