Felicia and I have been, like some of you, I think, watching the new season of Only Murders in the Building. We have been delighted by Steve Martin this time around, mostly because everything he's doing seems very different from what he's done in previous seasons: A little less razor-sharp, a little more befuddled. I'm not accustomed to seeing Martin this way; even in his goofiest roles, he's always hard to see as anything but one of the smartest people in any room.
Every Thursday in our house is movie night. We take turns choosing the movie, and we don't complain about each others' choices. That often means a lot of horror movies; that's Felicia's default lane, and Squish has merged into that lane recently, too. I can get on board with horror here and there; last month I planned to choose my personal favorite scary movie, Guillermo del Toro's Spanish civil war film The Devil's Backbone...and then Felicia selected it the week before my turn came up. Most recently, Felicia had us all watch Ghost (you can make an argument that it's as much a horror movie as Die Hard is a Christmas film, don't you think? There are demons dragging people to hell, spirit mediums possessed by dead people, ghosts haunting subway cars, grisly deaths...), and Squish chose Devil.
I don't have that many horror movies in my pile of favorites, and the ones I do have are all tragically sad, so I went the other way: 1991's very strange L.A. Story, written and starring Steve Martin.