Scully have I loved

Scully certainly did her time as a damsel in often soap-operatic distress: She was abducted, her eggs were harvested, her sister was killed; she had cancer, a chip was implanted in her neck, and she was dragged to a spaceship in Antarctica, where a gross-looking tube was stuffed down her throat and she was pumped full of an alien virus. But though her reproductive system was the depressing locus for much of her trauma, she wasn't alone in her victimhood. Mulder had nearly as many indignities foisted on him. Abduction, check. Dead sister, check. Alien virus, check.

In fact, the show was exceptional in its willingness, if not to turn gender conventions on their head, then at least to level the playing field. The producers could have insisted on a more standard-issue duo, an alien-loving nerd and a bombshell lady scientist. Instead we got the slightly repressed (or at least sharply coifed and primly manicured) but socially capable leading lady and her porn aficionado partner, leering but ultimately unlucky with the ladies. "X-Files" creator Chris Carter complicated the roles of his wary protagonists further by making Scully the rational, resilient, mature one and her partner Mulder a gullible, sensitive, doe-eyed and slightly laughable foil.

The pairing, based mostly on the dynamic between actors Anderson and Duchovny, crackled, and the show had at its core a professional relationship that was not just sexually, but romantically, electric. Of course, back then, when we all walked a mile to school and programs started the season in September and finished them in May, slow-burn television relationships burned really slowly, especially in comparison with today's short-attention-span theater, when an unrequited prime-time couple can maybe make it to sweeps before kicking off their panties.

Not only did the sparks between Mulder and Scully fly fast and far, but the drawing out of their relationship allowed their audience to fall for them too, despite the irritating imperfections of both character and plot.

Scully was a leading lady to fall for, a smart-girl icon who was (and would still be, alas) a rare television bird: professional, independent, unsentimental. She liked boys' things: Her favorite movie was "The Exorcist," her favorite book the phallic classic "Moby-Dick"; her nickname from her father was Starbuck; she wrote her thesis on Einstein's twin paradox. She was the opposite of squeamish. In possibly the best "X-Files" episode of all time, the vampire farce "Bad Blood," there is an ur-Scully scene: She is doing an autopsy after a long day of chasing the undead through a small Texas town. Annoyed, she sighingly hoists the departed's heart, lung and intestines onto the scale, reading their weights into a tape recorder. Then she opens up the victim's stomach and starts poking around with her scalpel to determine his last meal. "Pizza, topped with pepperoni, green peppers, mushrooms." Here she pauses, looks up briefly from the bloody innards. "Mushrooms. That sounds good." She orders a pizza.

Today's television is not without its Scullys -- "Law & Order" ladies who crack skulls and chase bad guys in Jimmy Choos. But they all feel like tall, skinny, limp knockoffs of the original. Dana Scully was not standard television beautiful, but a diminutive pre-Raphaelite, pale of skin and red of hair, who could give equal amounts of soul to lines like "Nothing happens in contradiction to nature, just in contradiction to what we know of it" and "Well, seeing as how it's Friday, I was thinking I could get some work done on that monograph I'm writing for the penology review: 'Diminished Acetylcholine Production in Recidivist Offenders.'" A woman who, when asked by her pestering partner to examine a cadaver's head just one more time for a set of horns, can snap on her gloves and mutter "Whatever" like she really means it.

Of course most of the credit here goes to Scully's portrayer, Anderson. I was always keenly aware of the discrepancy between the entertainment press's reactions to Anderson and Duchovny. The latter, a Princeton grad who was an English Ph.D. candidate at Yale (his unfinished dissertation was to have been on morality, magic and technology and "Gravity's Rainbow"), was always breathlessly congratulated for his special intellect and pedigree. He seemed to accept the media's wide-eyed adoration with self-assuredness, feeding reporters lines about Marvell or Milton. Anderson, by contrast, was unapologetic about being the wifty one, a remorseless wild child whose giggly demeanor and pseudo new-wave spirituality always made her appear, in interviews and on talk shows, the polar opposite of her character.

But I always thought that for Anderson to so beautifully embody Scully -- a character so distant from her own experience -- meant that she was the special one. Intervening years have put a satisfying spin on their real-life personae. While Duchovny, who had such a bright future ahead of him that he (discerningly) left the show early, flopped around in middling movies until finally finding his natural home on the softcore narcissism-fest "Californication." Anderson, meanwhile, has built a career on an immaculately edited collection of sophisticated material. The former punk rocker may still be wifty, but she is practically a poster child for highbrow period piece drama, and has turned in gorgeous performances as Lily Bart in "The House of Mirth," as Lady Dedlock in "Bleak House" and as a doctor in the brutal Idi Amin biopic "The Last King of Scotland." She even did a terrific sendup of herself in "Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story."

This weekend, she'll be bringing all those chops back to the role that made her, and that's good news. In an entertainment world where women are disappearing from multiplexes, where men bulk up as superheroes while women don't eat but sip pink drinks, we need to remember that there was once a very short heroine who hunted monsters and talked about Einstein, who kicked ass and questioned her faith, who went to work with a man she loved but didn't rip his shirt off over lunch, who didn't want to believe, but opened herself nonetheless to possibility. We need Scully back, even for a moment.