Skip to main content

Amy Ryan: Icon

 This is a love letter to Amy Ryan, who really steals the show in "Only Murders in the Building."


The Times focused on Martin Short; I can understand this. Martin Short is amazing. His speech about "Splash: The Musical" will always stay with me. "The floor was meant to roll back to reveal a swimming pool....but the gears were clogged....So one chorus boy jumped, and smashed his face on the stage. Then the next boy. And the next. And the next...." If you followed "Spider-Man: Turn off the Dark," or the tales of various "Lion King" castmates, permanently crippled by puppetry tasks, then you'll enjoy the Martin Short character.

I also liked Short's bizarre speech about a colleague. "There once was a lonely child, and that child grew up to be STEPHEN JOSHUA SONDHEIM. The thing about Sondheim? When he is good, HE IS GOOD. When he is off, well, I'M PATIENT." This captures something crucial about the ritual of an Upper West Side brunch--something with sociological importance, and something I haven't seen on Hulu before.

But, to me, the true gem is Amy Ryan. Ryan's crazy, expressive face is the stuff of legend; when interviewed, Ryan just shrugs and says, "I never had Botox." Ryan plays an insane bassoonist who flirts by sitting in her window and giving a double-reed rendition of "If You Think I'm Sexy...." Ryan also winks at her male friend and says, "I'll be seeing you....bassooner or later...." Finally, Ryan gets involved in horny Scrabble: The words she opts to make are "Woody" and "Yum."

It seems unlikely Ryan will have a role in the sequel; I'm bummed about that. But Ryan is a great actress who elevates decent material in three or four episodes of the new Steve Martin show. It's fun to see her enjoying herself, and I'll miss her.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...