I got an email from a friend last night asking about movies with Laura Linney (she’d apparently been crapping her pants after watching The Mothman Prophecies on cable), so I thought I’d re-post this slightly redacted DVD review of P.S., which originally ran in another publication that… oh, how shall we put it this time, has yet to provide completion funds. It isn’t among the best of her canon, but does showcase the fact that you never get a stupid or wrongheaded performance from Linney. To wit:

A movie to be acknowledged for its atypical potentiality
rather than praised for its execution, P.S.
is the second feature from Roger Dodger
helmer Dylan Kidd. Here Kidd adapts, with original author Helen Schulman, the
contemporary-set novel of the same name — the story of a thirtysomething art
school admissions officer at Columbia University, Louise Harrington (Linney), who meets with and falls for a student candidate, F. Scott Feinstadt
(Topher Grace), who bears an uncanny resemblance in name, physicality, passion
and spirit to her dead high school sweetheart. Together they embark on a
hesitant, awkward affair, all while Louise tries to discern whether F. Scott is
in fact the reincarnation of her former beau.

P.S. is an
independent movie in all the best senses of the word — thoughtful,
performance-centric and meticulously crafted — it’s just that it actually doesn’t
live up to the quiet hype of its premise, or even the sum of its parts. Linney is characteristically
fantastic, and Grace brings a quiet sensitivity and, well, grace to his role
that will help make him a huge movie star in the very near future. The other
actors, though — which include Paul Rudd as Louise’s brother Sammy, a recovering
drug addict; Gabriel Byrne as her colleague and ex-husband Peter, who still
harbors a dark secret; and best-friend-by-default Missy (Marcia Gay Harden), a
harridan and functional alcoholic — all seem underused and/or arbitrarily placed,
emotional stimulators who drift in and out of the story whenever Louise needs
to be goosed. The film is much better put together, technically speaking, than
Kidd’s wordy, gimmick-driven debut, and augurs for a perhaps substantial and
successful filmmaking career where previously there might have been doubt. In
the end, though, that isn’t enough to recommend the movie, as it just doesn’t
hang together.

DVD extras include a fairly discerning and scholarly audio
commentary track from Kidd, and a collection of five excised/alternate scenes,
two of which are extended versions of what appears already in the film and
three of which were deleted entirely. Of these latter three, the exclusion of
the last — a seven-minute plus tête-à-tête between the two leads — intrinsically
changes the nature of the story. Kidd contends in optional audio commentary
that it was necessary to cut because, due to its setting, the scene’s inclusion
would infantilize F. Scott after he had, within the story, “become a man”
(Kidd’s wording). He has the germ of a point, but the trim comes at the expense
of Louise (it changes the prism through which you view her character) and the
movie as a whole. P.S. is still only
worth catching if you’re a huge fan of Linney or Grace, but watch these deleted
scenes only after the full film, and see if it doesn’t bump your estimation a
half-letter grade if they had been included. C- (Movie) C (Disc)

I’ve written before about Home Improvement,
and many other like-minded meat-and-potatoes sitcoms of the 1980s and ’90s, and
it’s shows like these that most bear out the maxim that one man’s trash is
another’s treasure.

Well, “treasure” is overstating it. Maybe “trash” too,
actually. The notion of comfort food might be a more appropriate comparison.
Just as there are times when hunger strikes independent of the ability to make another decision at the tail end of a
long day, and one finds themselves at a local haunt picking up the same
take-out they’ve ordered a hundred times before, there are also times — many
times, it turns out, and for many people — when the thought of actively
grappling with something like new characters or narrative nuance is as big of a
turn-off as a pre-liposuction Roseanne Barr in a floss-thin thong.

Home Improvement, at least in many of its
earlier incarnations. But as this collection of the show’s seventh go-round
reflects, blue-collar inspiration has a certain shelf life. Spanning 25 episodes,
this season of the Detroit-set show finds Tim “The Toolman” Taylor (Tim Allen) scoring box seats to a Thanksgiving
pro football game, where he somehow manages to cause a blackout. Tim’s eldest
son Brad (Zachery Ty Bryan) almost gets hitched in the episode “An Older
Woman.” Tim’s wife Jill (Patricia Richardson, who received her fourth Emmy
nomination this season) makes some rather inappropriate comments about her
husband’s fix-it-up television show in “From Top to Bottom,” while wise but
rarely seen neighbor Wilson (Earl Hindman) goes face-to-face with an alien in
“Believe It or Not.” Rounding out the cast are Tim’s mischievous younger sons
Randy (Jonathan Taylor Thomas) and Mark (Taran Noah Smith), with former Family Feud host Richard Karn costarring
as Tim’s unflappably upbeat, flannel-wearing Tool Time sidekick, Al Borland. The parade of guest stars includes
appearances from Dan Akroyd, habitually injured NBA “superstar” Grant Hill and
astronauts Ken Bowersox and Steve Hawley

Home Improvement
co-creators Matt Williams and Carmen Finestra previously wrote for iconic ’80s
sitcom The Cosby Show, so their work
retains much of that show’s good-heartedness, if not quite the same aplomb with
which the requisite “very special episodes” are handled. Home Improvement was, of course, originally inspired by some of Allen’s
standup comedy, but little of that kick remains here — just familiar sitcom
stories with a pinch of watered-down familial drama, carried along by charisma
and goodwill. Allen has gone on to film quasi-stardom, with box office hits
like Wild Hogs and The Santa Clause franchise, proving
that he knows his audience. Here, they know him too. And that’s just the way
they like it.

Some of Home
Improvement’s previous DVD incarnations came in novelty cases, or at least somewhat
imaginative packaging (a buzzsaw half-slipcase, etcetera), but the seventh
season’s release sees no such fancifulness. Presented in a 1.33:1 aspect ratio
(that would full-screen), the set’s Dolby digital stereo audio track is
certainly more than adequate to handle the skimpy requirements of the series’ sound
design. There are a few times when some cockamamie scheme of Tim’s blows up in
his face, either figuratively or literally, but these bits are conveyed through
volume and aural smash cuts, not really much fading or layering. Spread out
over three discs, this compilation’s only supplemental extra consists of a new blooper
reel comprised of the funniest outtakes from the 1997-1998 season. Flubbed
lines lead to some consternation, but unlike, say, Chris Tucker in every Rush Hour movie, at least no one leaves
their cell phone on. To order the set via Amazon, click here. C (Show) C+ (Disc)