...or, how my thirty-one year-old teenage daughter cinched up her borscht belt, moved to California, joined Hadassah, and married an entertainment lawyer in Sherman Oaks, or a dentist from Oxnard.
Mr. Walken once again demonstrates that he never met a camera he couldn't beguile, and if he can be a Lippman, there is no reason why Mel Gibson shouldn't have his scalp circumcised. (There are a number of good moils who would be happy to do the honors.)
I've always loved Nantucket in February, when the wind off the Atlantic is as cold and hard as the Puritan god, so the shots of clam shacks closed for the winter warmed me right up; straight out of the indie Playbill, but nicely done, nonetheless.
The very brief, scattered glimpses of Corinne's silent reactions to the exclusive bubble shared by Paul and Jude bespeak a lifetime of difficult experience. You don't need to wade through three hours of slush like The Aviator (2004) to know Kelli Garner is talented, and One More Time (2015) proves she has become a perceptive adult. Someone should really give her a prominent lead in something commensurate with her ability and maturity.
Oliver Platt is always a pleasure.
A couple of continuity issues that don't stand up to scrutiny, but nothing inexcusable.
A good job. Thank you.
XYZ
