Friday Night Dinner, 12.12.25

I'm writing this early because I'm hiking in the Catskills on Friday, which involves waking up at the asscrack of dawn and spending a full, glorious day outside without my stupid phone. By the time you read this, I'll hopefully be eating a giant sandwich in the bathtub, perhaps the Chili Crisp Turkey from my beloved Benny's Brown Bag in Peekskill. If the timing doesn't work out (they close at 5p), there's always the Crispy Eggplant from Mason Sandwich Co. in Eastchester. The food in Westchester is mostly an overpriced disappointment, but I have found several sandwich spots here to rival my city favorites (Court Street Grocers, Il Bambino).

Other updates: the kittens have opened their eyes, Luigi Mangione's pretrial hearing has me in a chokehold, and I have discovered a new favorite fountain pen ink (Diamine Espresso). Last weekend, I went to a string of excellent estate sales in New York and Connecticut where I found $1 records and film books, along with this framed Judith Bledsoe lithograph:

Among many cool jobs, Bledsoe worked as a children's book illustrator and created live drawings for children's programming on BBC-TV. Her work is whimsical, colorful, and habitually features cats, so I am spiritually predisposed to enjoy it. Here are two more pieces I dig:

I hope this cold, dark week is treating you well or at the very least, providing many good excuses for a guilt-free 6p bedtime.

Maybe you saw this limited series pop up on Netflix and thought, "Claire Danes and Matthew Rhys in a psychological thriller? Sign me up!" Well, think again, because this is bottom of the barrel drivel that isn't even fun in a campy way. I enjoy watching Rhys shake his ass to "Psycho Killer" with a mouth full of too many/too few (?) teeth as much as the next person, but it's hard to justify prolonged suffering for a few brief moments of joy. I still have no idea why I watched this. My husband was out of town, a weed gummy was consumed, and I didn't want to disturb my lap cat by lunging for the remote. Also, Claire Danes's character, Aggie Wiggs (groan) lives in an 1850s house covered in wallpaper. I'm a simple woman: I see Gothic Revival dormers and a Second Empire mansard roof and I slow my roll. If I had a nickel for every time I've been seduced into watching something terrible because of a beautiful house, I could retire early. (Learn from my mistake and flip through these photos of the house instead of pissing away 6.5 hours.)

Imagine a bunch of writers on quaaludes trying to combine "In Cold Blood" with "Hannibal" and you'll have a good idea what to expect with "The Beast in Me." Rhys's bobo Hannibal Lecter and Danes's patented chin quiver come with shitty dialogue and nonexistent character motivations. Aggie (Danes) is a successful writer whose career has been in free fall since the death of her young son four years ago. Her first book, a memoir about her father, won a Pulitzer, and she's been working on the follow-up without much progress. She's years behind on deadlines, running out of money, and living in a fog of rage/depression. Conveniently, Nile Jarvis (double groan), a Trumpian real estate developer who probably (definitely) murdered his wife but was never convicted, moves in next door and takes an instant shine to her. By E2, Aggie scraps her original boring book idea — about Ruth Bader Ginsburg's friendship with Antonin Scalia lol — and starts working on an authorized biography of her sociopath neighbor.

For a brief window, I was into this premise. I'm not against a stylish, played out two-hander that has a predictable ending yet keeps the suspense alive with a series of red herrings. I watched three seasons of "You," for fuck's sake! Unfortunately, "Beast" is not a two-hander. Inconsequential characters and subplots are constantly introduced, I assume so the audience can mindlessly browse TikTok without missing important plot threads. I miss when shows, even lowbrow ones like this, had decent writing and direction. These days, it often feels like showrunners are trudging through the tired, algorithmic motions with zero room for craft. You can just picture some goon in a development meeting saying, "This is what the data says people want, so let's give them that." How much worse is "content" going to get when there are less humans involved to push back?

The one nice thing I can say is that "Beast" doesn't look like a Netflix show, which I have to imagine is at least partially due to the star power involved. If Danes is going to risk pulling a lip muscle, she better be well-lit, dammit. When the robots are in charge and maximum ROI is achieved, we won't even have simple pleasures like an enviously cozy, softly lit office to comfort us.

Watch if you like: masochism, watered down versions of better things, reminding yourself that it's only going to get worse when Netflix buys Warner Bros, constant anxiety about a fictional dog named Steve (no trouble befalls him), Lifetime movies.

I was so starved for entertainment during "The Beast in Me" that I clapped like a child when Bill Irwin appeared onscreen as the spineless father of Matthew Rhys's dead wife. It's a tiny role, but I always love seeing him, whether it be as the flawed, well-meaning dad in "Rachel at the Wedding" (2008) or as Mr. Noodle on "Sesame Street." Irwin has the range to make you laugh one minute, cry the next, and sometimes do both simultaneously. He studied theater at Oberlin, followed by Clown College, and, after graduating, became one of the clowns at the Pickle Family Circus in San Francisco. I imagine his aerospace engineer father exasperatedly asking, "What are you going to do with a degree from Clown College?" and Irwin, nonchalantly responding, "Become a clown."

It must have been gratifying to not only fulfill a dream other people look at with skepticism but to build a successful career as a versatile performer using that backbone of physical comedy in frequently unexpected ways. In 2005, Irwin won a Tony for his performance of George in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?," a role I never thought of as funny until seeing his take on it. Unlike Richard Burton, Irwin plays the character as a tightly wound ball of rage who has mastered the art of quiet passive aggression. In an interview with Backstage, Irwin describes the play as "a clown piece in some ways," which is definitely a hot take informed by his varied background.

These days, I wonder if it's even possible for an American actor to have a career like Irwin's without the support of rich parents. I fear the character actor-theater performer hybrid is dying off because of industry bullshit like stunt casting. As Alex once said, "I miss the days of Mr. Chumhum when [shows] brought Broadway actors in for side parts." (She's talking about a character in "The Good Wife" played by John Benjamin Hickey.) In the 2020s, shows like "The Bear" cast well-known actors in minor roles to generate buzz/provide grist for the capitalist mill. How will we get the next Bill Irwin if all the interesting side roles go to whoever is most marketable?

I used to post holiday watch guides that have since gotten lost in the depths of my website. They'll never rank on search and they're not easy to find using WiR's (admittedly subpar) navigation, so they're rarely trafficked. This bums me out because I put a decent amount of time/effort into them and I want people to know they exist:

• 2020 Holiday film, tv, and book recommendations
• 2022 Holiday film recommendations only because I ran out of steam

Here's what I've been watching this year, informed by the ghost of my former self:

• "The Muppet Christmas Carol" (Henson, 1992). Rizzo was robbed of a well-deserved Oscar nomination for his beloved performance in this esteemed classic. Every time I wake up with a sleep injury, I instantly think, "God save my little broken body." I just Googled "What is Rizzo the Rat up to" and AI returned this shocking (legit) information:

• "Moonstruck" (Jewison, 1987). We technically don't see anyone celebrating Christmas, but the Met's tree is up, it's snowing, and the entire Castorini family is collectively losing their shit. Nothing screams "It's the holidays" louder than a bunch of insane people trying to coexist without killing each other. The interiors are all intensely cozy, replete with red wine and roaring fireplaces (see header image), whereas the exteriors are decked out in twinkle lights and lunar chill. I recommend watching this one in bed with a cat and a glass of Spumante (don't forget the sugar cube) for maximum enjoyment.
• "Metropolitan" (Stillman, 1990). This film, centered around a group of Manhattan socialites during debutante season, takes place during the days leading up to and after Christmas. Imagine a "Presenting Lorelai Gilmore" spinoff where Chris Eigeman plays a younger, smarmier version of Digger. Tom's (Edward Clements) ignorant Jane Austen insults make me laugh every time, as does Nick (Eigeman) screaming, "They're a composite! Like New York Magazine does!" Stillman is one of those directors people either love or hate, but I think any "Gilmore Girls" fan will find him absolutely delightful.

And because you know I can't help myself, here are some new (to me) books I'd add to my original list:

• "Letters from Father Christmas" (1976), written and illustrated by J.R.R. Tolkien. This is the kind of parent I'd try to be if I had kids, which is many reasons why I'll never have them. How am I going to watch 6.5 hours of shitty television if I'm crafting up whimsical, illustrated letters for my progeny? It's one or the other.
• "A Grouch’s Christmas" (1990), written by Michaela Muntean, illustrated by Tom Leigh. Oscar requests sardine cookies with chocolate icing, which Elmo makes for him because that little bastard is a great friend. For those who have read this book, I have one question: who is the hell is the random man at the end? He looks like Jason Schwartzman and Carl Sagan's love child.

• "The Christmas Party" (1978), written and illustrated by Adrienne Adams. I like Adams best when someone else writes the text. Her stories are always a little basic, but the illustrations go so hard that I'm willing to forgive almost every grievance.

John Hutman's YouTube channel, daddystayshome, is the gift that keeps on giving. You might know him from his work on Nancy Meyers movies like "It's Complicated" and "The Holiday" (among many others), along with "Heathers" and "The West Wing" (which won him an Emmy). Sometimes he talks about projects he's worked on, but most of the time he breaks down iconic design from movies he wasn't involved in, like "Practical Magic" and "You've Got Mail."

As the King of Kitchens, Hutman spends quite a bit of time on the Gilmores', pointing out their O'Keefe and Merritt stove, along with several vintage pieces I've never paid that much attention to, like their mismatched assortment of chairs and the antique sewing machine outside of Rory's room. In an interview with Home & Gardens, Lauren Crasco, one of the "GG" production designers on S2-3 says,

So many of the things we did had references in the past. There was a timelessness. It was using lived-in pieces that already had a lot of history to them. I think of Gilmore as being a simpler time in the U.S. A lot of the things we did harken back to the turn of the century or the 1940s.

While Lorelai's finances don't make a bit of sense, her thrifted/vintage furniture visually grounds her in reality. I can picture her haggling at weekend flea markets, cobbling together whatever she can afford, and adding her own flair with handmade linens. Maybe she inherited a stained old couch and revived it with a slipcover. Hutman pegs the Chippendale dresser in her bedroom as a piece that likely came from the elder Gilmore home, although you'd never guess it based on how she's incorporated it into her space. In Emily and Richard's giant mansion, the piece would feel formal, perhaps adorned with a jewelry box and a pair of porcelain lamps; in Lorelai's bedroom, it holds a tiny tv, on top of which is a precariously placed basket full of ribbon spools and knickknackery.

When speaking about Luke's hardware store turned diner, Hutman says, "What unifies the characters in this world is that these people have made the choice to stay." The residents of Stars Hollow want to be there, so they've adapted their spaces to make them work, not only for themselves, but their community. Think: Mrs. Kim's Antique Store, Miss Patty's Dance Studio/the town meeting space, the house Lorelai made cozy so that her own daughter could have the soft childhood she missed out on. This is what makes it so damn charming... the effort and adaptability, the care that goes into the spaces they inhabit.

Journalist Rachel Miller's most recent newsletter features a playlist of YouTube Christmas videos that I've been slowly working my way through to get in the holiday spirit. Is it working? Absolutely not, but watching Miss Piggy make a gingerbread house with Martha Stewart brings me as much joy as I'm probably capable of feeling at this point in my life. Another favorite is this video where Iona Farrell, Assistant Curator of Metalwork, presents her favorite whimsical table decor from the Victoria and Albert Museum's collection. I think I would actually kill someone for the trompe l'oeil figs.

Ok, now it's Friday Lindsay. I made it the whole way to the Catskills when I realized that my hiking boots weren't in my car. Has the long, downhill slide of my mental faculties already begun? The answer is probably yes.