Meryl Streep delivered a surprisingly effective musical number on last night's new Only Murders in the Building. It led me to reflect that the music on the show, by a band called Siddhartha Khosla, has always been pretty good.
This season really seems to belong to Martin Short, who's energetic as ever but also capable of subtlety in his quieter moments with Meryl Streep. I doubt they'll make Streep the killer but there's something sinister about the impending relationship between the two. The way she tried to broach a relationship so soon after Paul Rudd died made it seem like there's something vicious under her sweet, struggling actress personality.
It was an obvious sequence of manipulation when Short and Streep were making moon eyes at each other just before a scene where it looked like she was going to get a big break in a Grey's Anatomy spin-off--taking her away from Martin Short's show. But I still really liked it, especially how quickly but believably both characters pivoted--from her encouraging him to make the show into a musical, from him encouraging her to aim high as an actress. Suddenly she's saying the musical's a shaky idea and he's telling her she's bound by contract to stay with him. It gives you an idea of how treacherous personal relationships might be in show business.
Steve Martin is starting to seem a little tired and I heard he suggested he might retire after this season. That would be too bad.
It looks like Mabel's, Selena Gomez's, new love interest this season is going to be Paul Rudd's cameraman. They were forced to hide together in an armoire last night. Their chemistry isn't doing anything for me so far.
They uncovered footage of Paul Rudd in his dressing room, talking to someone--or something--off camera, accusing them of being sweet and capable of ruining his career. I'm pretty sure he's talking about cookies.
Only Murders in the Building is available on Hulu in the US and on Disney+ most everywhere else.
Twitter Sonnet #1728
A brutal star inflicts a luckless horde.
Repulsed in court, a damsel would oppose.
A pretty wrist produced a sluggish sword.
With crumb'ling stones, the pallid street arose.
The lucky boys behold a second hen.
For home the butchers make to find an ax.
So fortune hunters scale the wire bin.
Computers rate electric fire tax.
It's not where paint endangered planes.
It's over peaceful green and lively snow.
A current jumps from flake to blade for gains.
Distorted steel for blistered hands would glow.
The anxious desk denies a thousand calls.
But lonely souls abide twixt hotel walls.
No comments:
Post a Comment