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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People who only know Whoopi Goldberg as the old black lady that runs her mouth on talk shows are missing out on the fact that she was once a pretty good actress. A prime example is how she rescues the dopey “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and turns it into a halfway decent, escapist romantic comedy. A great example of making chicken salad out of chicken poop (or as Whoopi would say, motherfucking chicken poop). The plot involves spies, lonely women and a 1986 version of instant messaging that will make you feel really old if you remember computers with green screens.
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