Archives for posts with tag: Larry Miller

Garry Marshall died a few months after the release of “Mother’s Day” (2016) and I can assure you, he took no sitcom-style plot conventions with him to the grave. They’re all here: the younger and sexier second wife, the wacky parents, the sassy black friend, the wedding scene, the hospital scene, the graveyard scene. He did everything but have Fonzie jump a shark again. But that was Marshall’s gift. He could take boilerplate romantic comedy material and pan fry it in enough schmaltz to clog an artery, yet it would always come out satisfying (not great, satisfying). It’s cinematic comfort food.

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One night, Stanley Tucci will be at a Manhattan cocktail party. All his frufru friends and New York Times execs will be telling him what a great artist he is. Then somebody’s boozy boyfriend will mention “Undercover Blues” (1993), where Tucci plays a version of Tony Montana that is more schtickup than stickup. He’ll think back to that awful movie, serving as slapstick foil to Dennis Quaid and Kathleen Turner. As he’s about to punch the drunk, he’ll suddenly feel a hand on his shoulder. “Fuck it,” Dave Chappelle, his movie hoodlum sidekick will say, “we’re still getting residual checks.”