Greetings from the heavens! 

Meaning, I’m on a little airplane right now, on my way home from Savannah. I had a lovely few days in the Hostess City of the South, chatting with actors and filmmakers and colleagues, eating some really good food, and taking my first beta blocker. Yes, for fear that the panic demon who lives inside me would stir up a fuss while I was on stage for our live episode of Critical Darlings, I allowed our producer to drug me with one of his calm-down pills. And ya know what? It freakin’ worked. I was still nervous, but the old gremlin who likes to play tricks from inside my body wasn’t able to send its adrenalin spikes straight into my chest like it sometimes does. Thus, the event was a success. Thanks, medicine!

What a thrill to now be flying home and to have nothing but a weekend awaiting me. It’s rare to return home from a trip on a Friday; I really should try to do that more often. Because Halloween is tomorrow, I plan to board up my windows and doors and spend the entire day hiding from ghouls in ironic pop culture costumes who mean to do me harm. (Meaning, their whimsy and spirit of play will make me feel bad about myself for being too self-conscious to ever really participate in grown-up Halloween.) Plus, I have much television to catch up on, from Survivor to Only Connect to Law & Order: SVU. (And, honestly, Law & Order prime. They did a crazy thing in the season premiere and it renewed my interest in the show.) 

If you are planning on hitting the town for the world’s spookiest night, I salute your bravery and hope that you have a good, safe, sexy time. If you are going to see A Few Good Men at Lincoln Center, though, I am sorry. I reviewed the production for The Guardian this week, and must report that it’s pretty lousy. In the performance I saw, Bradley Whitford (in the Jack Nicholson role) and Tom Blyth (in the Tom Cruise part) kept messing up (or maybe outright forgetting) their lines, which is pretty unforgivable when the ticket price is as high as it is. Beyond that, though, the production is just kind of lifeless, all the potential zip and zap of Aaron Sorkin’s writing tamped down by clumsy staging in a far-too-big venue. Tom Blyth handsome, though. Tom Blyth definitely handsome. 

I don’t have much television to recommend for you today, because it’s been a quiet week for premieres. Of course, I urge you to watch the fourth season of The Gilded Age, which drops on Sunday. You can read all about that in my last letter, which I think is pretty spoiler-light. I never once mention that Clock Twink runs into George Russell at a bathhouse and George says, “My, how clocky you’ve become” and then there’s a 40-minute erotic scene. I promise that my review does not spoil that. Nor does it spoil that every time the show cuts to poor Ada Forte, she’s falling down a flight of stairs—one long continuous tumble stretched out over eight episodes. I pledge to you that my review does not reveal that. 

There are, however, some movies I’d like to talk to you about. One is a full recommendation, one is a mixed bag, and the other is a bit of a cautionary note.