Weekly Report from the N.T.A.B. Division of Media Review, 11/7/22

Two-For-One Edition

From the Division of Media Review
Distribution: Bunker-wide, All Departments
Subject: It finally happened

I’ve been saying for a while now that Administration had more on their plate than they could readily handle. And now, here we are, on a Monday, and the first thing I find in my In Box when I logged into the system was an email from the Admin to publish his FRIDAY update with the Monday media review. It was all blah-blah-blah “I’ve got to work” and yadda-yadda-yadda “So much on my plate right now.”

Pfft. Sheyeah. Right. I’ll bet you a ham sandwich he’s getting ready for another “field excursion.” What, like, the fifth one this year? Sixth? Hey, it’s called “Bunker Living” for a reason—we don’t go outside, okay?

Whatever. I’m over it. I really am. Here’s what he wanted me to report. I’ve taken the liberty of cleaning up all of his myriad grammar errors and grievously jarring sentence construction. You’re welcome, Jerk.

The Pupdate, Weekend Edition

The bunker mascot continues to gain weight and back leg strength thanks to regular food and walks. She is now strong enough to go up the stairs with the assistance of a dog-sling that we have to strap her into, like a carry-on at a Southwest Airlines flight. By lifting up her back legs in time with her front legs climbing the steps (or trying to run down them like in the old days) we can get her up and down with relative ease. No more over the shoulder fireman carries or tandem M.A.S.H. medic evac scenarios.

The family outing with an impatient mascot in the rear.

Sometimes, the dog gets ahead of herself and tries to bolt up the stairs, only to realize, three steps up, that her back legs have done about all they can do, and she’s now sitting on her ass, about to pitch over backward. More than once we’ve had to catch her and gently slide her back down to the ground, whereupon she’ll gamely submit to the luggage harness.

The Administrator is dragging ass today, thinks the Bunker Mascot. In her excitement, she wound up under one of the back seat cover straps that we use in the car for just such an outing.

She has good days and bad days, much like any 84 year old would. We can tell which days are which because on good days, she can nearly pull the Director of Bunker Ops off of her feet, like she used to.

Still a bit of a goofus.

Personally, I can’t tell you what a relief it’s been. Sure, she takes more pills than the two humans combined, and she has a schedule to keep so we can get her downstairs in the morning and upstairs at night, both of which have been better for all of us. With the notable exception of her former dexterity, she’s back to her old personality.

---

Confess, Fletch (Showtime)

One of my all-time favorite movies is Fletch (1985) starring Chevy Chase at the apex of his appeal and likeability. I liked it so much I went out and tracked down the books by Gregory McDonald. Since I was limited to a Waldenbooks and a B.Dalton’s (both in the mall, thankyouverymuch), I had to begin not with the first book, but with the second, Confess, Fletch. It locked me in as a fan for life.

And while I was disappointed that the movie sequel wasn’t Confess, Fletch, I was even more disappointed that the movie sequel just wasn’t as good as the first one. Evidently, the world agreed with me, because two Fletch movies was all we had…until now.

Actually, this is a perfect poster for the movie for so many reasons.

Jon Hamm! Reuniting with Mad Men’s John Slattery? Yes, please and thank you. It always surprises me when I see Hamm doing comedy, especially parts where he’s taking the piss out of himself, because Mad Men was so intensely serious. Now, thanks to Confess, Fletch, the next time he’s in a serious movie, I’m going to yell, “Don’t they know he’s funny!?”

You may well be a fan of Chevy Chase, and of the first movie. I want to tell you that Hamm’s performance is a lot closer to the book-version of Fletch, because the script is, too. Great bloody handfuls of the book found their way into this taut little mystery, but there’s still plenty of room for Fletch to crack wise, smart off, be sarcastic and disingenuous, and poke fun. I laughed out loud several times during the movie and all I kept thinking was, “God, please let this be well-received enough that Hamm can do a few more of these.” And bring Marcia Gay Harden back, too. She nearly stole every scene she was in.

---

See How They Run (HBO)

I understand that Wes Anderson is something of an acquired taste, though I don’t really know why. He’s got all-star casts, doing great character work, and his subjects are interesting if not enlightening. And yet, there are those people who can’t stand him, claiming they have tried, that they want to like him, but…

Allow me to introduce you to your new on-ramp to Wes Anderson films. It’s not written nor directed by him, and in fact, it doesn’t tell a story like him, either. But there’s his fingerprints all over this movie, as if it tried to start out being a Wes Anderson film and someone along the way mussed its hair up and shoved it into a locker.

Attenborough: It’s only fair to warn you that I learned to box in the RAF. Leo Kopernick: Yeah? Well, I learned to fly a plane in Gleason’s Gym.

All of the essential elements of an Anderson movie are in place in See How They Run, but they come together in a very traditional way, which is funny, because that’s kind of what the movie is about. By the way, that quip above is the point where I fell in love with this movie.

Agatha Christie’s play, “The Mousetrap,” is enjoying it’s 100th show in London and it looks like it’s going to get made into a movie, in Hollywood, no less. What happens next is a good old-fashioned murder of the drawing room variety with a mix of quirky characters, including a very young Richard—excuse me, “Dickie”—Attenborough leading a stellar cast doing their level best to deadpan their way through it all, more than a few swipes at both the theater and at Hollywood, and an ending that you have to see to believe.

See How They Run is a delight, full of snappy repartee, as close to a “fair play” murder as you can get when using a Christie plot construction, and Sam Rockwell in a a rare, understated role as the British police inspector assigned to the case and the rookie cop. If you’re not a Wes Anderson fan and you’ve tried to be, this movie is the half-step you need to either convince you to try again or ask yourself, “Why can’t he make movies like this one?”