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BINGE AND LARF | PAGE 2 OF 2 In the first episode of the series, the Veronica's Closet marketing guy suggested faking the new catalog's cover photo by putting Ronnie's head on a thinner model's body. At first, Veronica refused, intending to diet off the pounds and get back at her wayward husband by cheating with her personal trainer. But when she found herself unable to follow through with either plan, she gave up and started madly tearing through her desk for candy, screaming, "Stick my head on anybody's body you want -- if I can't have sex, I gotta eat!" A beat later, Veronica saw a photo of her husband with another woman in the morning newspaper and she hit the roof; instantly, her male secretary came running with an armload of doughnuts, candy and ice cream. In a later episode, a toy company chose Ronnie to be one of a new line of "role model dolls." Ronnie was happy, happy, happy in that squealy, wheezy way that only Kirstie Alley can be happy, happy, happy -- until she saw the anatomically accurate doll. "I particularly like the way the breasts rest on the stomach," she snapped, sarcastically. And in the Thanksgiving episode, Veronica's now ex-husband brought his bimbo to dinner and the depressed Veronica hid in the pantry and polished off an entire pumpkin pie. On the bright side, so far none of Veronica's binge scenes have ended with her head in the toilet, although you get the feeling that the writers would turn bulimia into a kooky "I Love Lucy" routine if they could get it past the network's Standards and Practices department. Throughout all of this, Alley, whose weight has long been a favorite topic of the supermarket tabloids, remains swathed in some of the busiest "slenderizing" outfits this side of the Lane Bryant showroom. She is almost always clad in figure-hiding floor-length robes or long coats, worn over dizzying layers of camisoles, vests, palazzo pants and flowing skirts. And judging from her pumped-up bird's nest coiffures, Veronica/Alley has taken the Fran Drescher adage "the bigger the hair, the smaller the hips" to heart. Alley has always been a delightful, limber physical comedienne, but you wouldn't know it from "Veronica's Closet" because, girdled by all that costumery, she can barely move. There are moments, watching "Veronica's Closet," when you don't know whether you're supposed to be laughing at Alley or with her. And that's not the least of the show's problems. It's top-heavy with unspectacular fringe characters, all of whom are vaguely familiar supporting players from defunct early '90s NBC sitcoms. Of the many male employees of Veronica's Closet, only Wallace Langham's gay-but-in-denial secretary has backbone and snap enough to not be overpowered by Alley, but his is a strangely retro character for these post-"Ellen" times. And "Veronica's Closet" displays the frantic raunch alternating with sniffly sisterhood that has become the trademark of NBC's "ladies of comedy" sitcoms. Despite all this, "Veronica's Closet" still displays glimmers of the ballsy black comedy it must have been in first draft -- before it got cooped up in NBC's working-gal-sitcom henhouse. "Veronica's Closet" feels like it was executive producer Alley's attempt at a female version of "The Larry Sanders Show" -- after all, both Ronnie and Larry are self-absorbed, neurotic, needy bosses who demand unconditional love from their underlings. And Larry Sanders worries about the size of his ass, too. Created for Alley by Marta Kauffman and David Crane ("Friends," "Dream On"), "Veronica's Closet" takes on some heavy issues -- low female self-esteem, the commodification of sex, youth and beauty -- but it has yet to approach the subtle, dark, imaginative satire of "Sanders." And though Alley works hard to sell the jokes, she hasn't made Ronnie particularly interesting or complex. She's neither lovable nor unlovable. She's merely quirky. How much funnier and more subversive "Veronica's Closet" would be if it took its ironic premise -- Veronica has made a fortune promoting a narrow ideal of beauty and sex appeal, and it has all turned back on her -- to its logical extreme. Instead of having Ronnie respond to this cruel irony with envious, cutting remarks about every younger, skinnier woman in sight, why not have her rise to the challenge and get in people's faces, like she did in the episode where she introduced a new line of sexy lingerie for pregnant women and all the men in the office were disgusted by the idea. But even that story line pulled its punches. It would have been so much smarter if the writers had Ronnie designing sexy boudoir wear for women who are not pregnant, just generously proportioned like herself, or like Olive (Kathy Najimy), her loyal, wisecracking assistant. Which brings us to the show's most unfortunate failure of nerve. In Alley and Najimy, "Veronica's Closet" has two gorgeous, stylish and Rubenesque stars: When was the last time that happened on TV? So it's demoralizing to see Alley constantly whining about how supposedly fat she is (come on -- she looks great). And it's especially sad to see her making self-loathing remarks about her big butt in the presence of the fabulous, gifted and plus-sized Najimy. Actually, I prefer to think of "Veronica's Closet" as "The Olive Show," because she's the much more intriguing character. Najimy's Olive is as centered and efficient as Ronnie is neurotic and scattered. Although she's heavier than Ronnie, Olive never puts herself down, and though she mutters soothing remarks to Ronnie when she's upset and stuffing her face, you can sense that Olive disapproves (but in a totally non-judgmental way, since Olive is very big on being non-judgmental). We don't know much about Olive's personal life, except that she hasn't had a boyfriend in 17 years, she keeps a picture of Gloria Steinem on her desk and she's Lebanese. She is as quiet and tensed as a cat waiting to pounce; she's always at war with herself over whether she should smooth over her boss's feelings or be true to her own: "Look at that beautiful healthy body!" she exclaimed, bright-eyed, as Ronnie unwrapped the role model doll. Wrong thing to say. Olive spends a lot of time looking like a person trying to grab her last sentence and stuff it back into her mouth. Maybe someday, Olive will unload on Ronnie and tell her that every time Ronnie talks about how she's so fat and she hates herself, it's an insult to Olive. I could make a feminist argument about how it's not enough for Olive, a woman who seems comfortable with her body, to simply be present to deflect any criticism about the fat jokes -- she has to say something, and something louder than an aside. And I could go on and on about how "Veronica's Closet" is filled with negative body image stereotypes and examples of disordered eating. What stops me, though, is that every time Veronica turns her desk upside down searching for the candy stash and attempts to eat away her troubles, I laugh. And it's the embarrassed laughter of recognition. Most of us have been there. Most of us would probably also like to be able to say, "I'm OK with my body, it's who I am" and really believe it -- but who are we kidding? "Veronica's Closet" may not be painting the correct picture of the way women should feel about their bodies or about the role food should play in their lives, but it's reflecting the true one. Like chocolate, "Veronica's Closet" is bad for us. And it makes us happy for a little while. SALON | Dec. 11, 1997 Does the women-on-the-verge-of-a-pig-out humor of "Veronica's Closet" make you laugh or cringe? Join the discussion in the Television section of TableTalk.