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BY JOYCE MILLMAN | IT'S NO SURPRISE that Fox's "Ally McBeal," the new drama/comedy from "Picket Fences" and "Chicago Hope" creator David E. Kelley, has been likened by more than one TV critic to "The Mary Tyler Moore Show": Calling a character "the Mary Richards of the (fill in the decade)" has become criticspeak for any single career woman with just the right blend of vulnerability and (as Lou Grant would say) "spunk." In the '80s, it was Molly Dodd, tongue-tied and indecisive and at loose ends when it came to men. And now (male) critics are all a-dither over Ally McBeal and her adorable insecurity and single-gal-in-the-city aloneness. TV Guide's critic called Ally McBeal "everything that I want in a series (and that any man would want in a woman)," describing her as "put upon, frustrated and disappointed -- who isn't? -- but she's not a victim. Or if she is, she knows how to fight back." A San Francisco newspaper critic declared, "Like Moore's Mary Richards, (Calista) Flockhart's Ally McBeal beams an alluring blend of strength and delicacy." I don't know about you, but when I see phrases like "everything any man would want in a woman" and the words "alluring" and "delicacy" used in the same sentence, I get just a tiny bit cranky. I don't mean we shouldn't give Mary Richards her due. In the '70s, she was an independent, career-oriented trailblazer among female TV characters. But in the '90s, the Mary Richards baby-step style of feminism is painfully retro. Women -- even pretend TV ones -- have been out in the world, alone, pursuing careers and recovering from disappointments for a long time now. So, fellas (and ladies, too -- the show is pulling in great female demographics, Fox claims), what is the big deal about Ally McBeal? If any current female TV character deserves the "Mary Richards of the '90s" appellation (in its most positive sense), it's Ellen DeGeneres' Ellen Morgan, with her big Mary-style "E" on the wall of her bachelorette pad, introducing middle America to the concept of girls who like girls. But, perhaps, Ellen Morgan isn't quite as fetching as a delicately alluring 100 percent heterosexual babe like Ally McBeal, eh? Like the Meredith Brooks song "Bitch" and NBC's Ladies of Monday Night sitcom lineup, "Ally McBeal" and its high-strung, feisty heroine are glossy, commercial appeals to the sisterly feelings of female consumers. But what they're really pitching is a male wish-list kind of feminism where women are independent and strong -- within reason, of course -- and looking foxy counts for 75 percent of the total grade. The pilot episode of "Ally McBeal" featured flashbacks about how Ally followed her childhood sweetheart Billy to college and then to Harvard Law School. When Billy wanted to take an out-of-state clerkship despite Ally's objections, she retaliated by developing a sudden great seriousness about her law career and stayed put at Harvard. Now, Ally is supposedly a talented go-getter at an up-and-coming Boston law firm and her voice-overs keep telling us how comfortable and self-assured she feels arguing cases. But frankly, I haven't been able to get past the Heather Locklear micro-minis and big shoes she wears to court. I'm no jury consultant, but I really doubt that a female attorney who dresses as ridiculously '70s-chic teeny-bopperish as Ally does -- skirts the size of mittens, see-through lace blouses under itsy-bitsy suit jackets, funky little neckerchiefs -- is going to be popular with the women in the jury box. But I don't mean to mislead you into thinking "Ally McBeal" is a show about the law. Hey, this is Fox! "Ally McBeal" is a show about a girl and her love life. Ally is obsessed with Billy (Gil Bellows), the Moby Dick of would-be husbands. Billy is now, coincidentally, one of her co-workers at the firm, and even though he went and married Georgia, a brilliant lawyer played by Courtney Thorne-Smith (see how much suspension of disbelief this show requires?), he makes himself very available to Ally, checking in on her when she's working late and comforting her in her times of crisis, which occur approximately every three minutes. Neurotic Ally is always in a pickle (remember: delicacy, victim) that stems from being too honest or not honest enough -- one of her most darling traits is that she says "yes" when she means "no" and "no" when she means "yes." And so, she's always running to Billy, who helps her sort things out and validates her every thought and listens to such plaintive, soul-searching questions as, "Why don't men like me?" (The answer: because she wants too much.) And she talks really fast and fumbly when she's nervous and -- Oh, Mr. Gra-ant! These scenes usually end with her sniffling into Billy's shoulder and then remembering that he's not hers anymore (I Followed My Boyfriend to Law School and All I Got Was This Lousy Career!), so she says something bitter and cutting and Billy gazes at her in mute, wistful admiration. The new Mary Tyler Moore? Ally McBeal is more like the female Austin Powers, minus the irony; the show is a defrosted throwback to leering '70s "liberated chick" series like "Charlie's Angels" and "Police Woman." Except that producer/writer Kelley is luring you in with intellectual jiggle. "Ally McBeal" suggests that women today are so beyond feminism that we've come out the other side -- it's strong to be self-diminishing, smart to be indecisive, brave to be a wimp. Ally consults the husband-acquiring handbook "The Rules." She complains to her roommate, after a chaste second date with a hot prospect, "I am a sexual object, for God's sake! He couldn't give me a little grope?" When a guy dumps her, she whines to Billy, "All I ever wanted was to be rich and successful and to have three kids and a husband who would wait at home to tickle my feet and look at me -- I don't even like my hair!" (She dissolves into sobs.) In every episode, there's a Billy Moment, when she lets him hug her or slow dance with her or tell her what a really special girl she is, and you want to scream, "Get it through your head, woman, Billy is MARRIED!" But, apparently, Kelley believes that Ally's stubborn devotion to the wrong guy is a bold, honest stroke that makes us sympathize with her and love her even more. If the show's scripts and camerawork were any more adoring of its heroine, Ally would be crowned with a halo and nursing the Christ child. Granted, "Ally McBeal" is supposed to be half-drama, half-winsome comedy. But the comedy often comes at Ally's expense. All that stammering and hair-flipping pertness absolves viewers of having to take her seriously; it helps to soften the ambitious-career-woman stuff that might put some people off. Next to Ally, a mature, decisive (not to mention appropriately dressed) TV attorney like, say, Carey Lowell's "Law & Order" character, Jamie Ross -- the anti-McBeal -- comes off looking chilly and bad-tempered. "Ally McBeal" is Fox's hit of the new season; it has just been picked up for a full 22-week run. The only way I can figure this is ... it must be the "thirtysomething" factor. As with "thirtysomething," you either identify with "Ally McBeal" to the very core of your being, or you intensely, viscerally detest it, but you nevertheless have some strange, sick need to torture yourself with it every week. I am a masochist. The windy airheadedness of Kelley's scripts, the smug emotional voyeurism of the direction (close-ups, lots of close-ups), the phony universality of Ally's dilemma, Calista Flockhart's seven-dwarves-of-stupid-female stereotypes performance (ditsy, needy, mopey, wimpy, flighty, sassy and self-sabotaging) -- all of this makes "Ally McBeal" one tremendously annoying show. Give me more. Yes, more! Kelley in full quirky mode is one of TV's most satisfying train-wreck pleasures. Example: There's a coed bathroom in Ally's office. Not a one-person-at-a-time thing, mind you, but a multi-stall, men and women peeing side-by-side deal. This serves as the setting for many urgent conversations between Ally and Billy, upon which their co-workers eavesdrop. It's kind of like on "My So-Called Life," when Rickie used to hang with Angela and Rayanne in the girls' bathroom. I guess it's supposed to show us that the real working world is, you know, just like high school. Coed bathrooms -- all big law firms have 'em. The show's signature gimmick, though, is Kelley's dramatization of what's inside Ally's head. But the joke's on him because -- her head is empty! She wishes her breasts were bigger; cut to fantasy snippet of her chest expanding until her bra straps pop. A guy asks her out for coffee; she imagines swimming around with him in a giant cup of cappuccino. Ally's inner life is about as interesting and deep as a "Cathy" comic strip. I eagerly await the episode where, in summation, Ally turns to the jury and asks, "Does this outfit make me look fat?" SALON | Oct. 20, 1997 Do you need to torture yourself with "Ally McBeal" every week? Confess in Table Talk.

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