Bank of Dave



Netflix’s Bank of Dave claims to be a true(ish) story. While I appreciate that there has to be a degree of artistic licence in any film based on real events, it only takes a quick Google search to persuade me that in this case, that licence may have been pushed a tad too far. ‘Ish’ doesn’t quite cover it. Others, of course, may disagree. Oddly enough, if this were presented to me as a work of fiction, I’d be much happier about it.

Dave Fishwick (Rory Kinnear) is a cheery, plain talking Northerner. He’s also a highly successful businessman with a fortune created from selling vans. Based in Burnley, he’s been lending money to local friends and businesses for years and, what’s more, he donates all his profits to charities. He eventually decides he’d like to set up his own bank (as you do) and engages the services of London-based corporate lawyer, Hugh (Joel Fry), in order to help him achieve that goal. Though initially sneery about anything north of Watford Gap and, fully aware that no new bank has been granted a licence for 150 years, Hugh heads off to Burnley. Once there, he’s swiftly converted by Dave’s cheery persona and by the charms of Dave’s niece, Alexandra (Phoebe Dynevor), an A & E doctor – who, it must be said, appears to have more spare time on her hands than most in her profession. 

But Hugh soon comes up against a cabal of snooty London bankers, led by the villainous (and entirely fictional) Sir Charles Denbigh (Hugh Bonneville, once more steering his career into darker waters). These toffs are determined to block the deal by any means possible. What, let some Northern oik get into the business of banking? No fear!  It soon becomes evident that founding a new bank is going to be no easy matter.

The early stretches of the film feel somewhat caricatured as the evil privileged elite stamp gleefully over everything the cheery Northerners attempt to do. The latter are depicted as a bunch of saints, fond of a good laugh, a foaming pint and a night at the karaoke bar, clapping along as Dave belts out the greatest hits of Def Leppard. (Fans of the veteran band will doubtless enjoy the film as it features several of The Lepp’s best known songs and even a guest appearance from the musicians themselves.)

Once it hits its stride, Bank of Dave is a cheerful and uplifting movie with an overall ‘greed is bad’ message that few viewers will disagree with. Piers Ashworth’s script is funny, Kinnear provides a genuinely affable presence and Fry, once he’s loosened up a bit, is immensely likeable as a leading man. Most viewers will feel genuinely uplifted by the triumphant ending.

So why the relatively low score?

Inevitably, I must return to my original point. How ‘true’ should a true story be? How much massaging of the facts are viewers expected to accept? And why can’t filmmakers – just for once – own up to the fact that a ‘true’ story might not need the unconditionally joyful ending that’s been invented here? 

You be the judge. For me, it’s an issue.

Still, that said, hats off to the real Dave – he might not have achieved the dizzy heights this film credits him with, but he has made a real difference to a lot of people’s lives.

3.2 stars

Philip Caveney

The Pale Blue Eye



It’s the year 1830 and, at West Point military academy, a student has been found hanged. More puzzlingly, his heart has been removed post mortem. Veteran detective August Landor (Christian Bale) is recruited by Captain Hitchcock (Simon McBurney) and Superintendent Thayer (Timothy Spall) to investigate. He is somewhat surprised to discover that he has an ally amongst the cadets in the gangling form of Edgar Allan Poe (Harry Melling), who – as well as exhibiting a flair for writing dark poetry – is also an amateur sleuth. Soon, another murder occurs…

Director Scott Cooper has worked with Bale before (most memorably on the hard hitting western, Hostiles), but The Pale Blue Eye, based on a source novel by Louis Bayard, is a much more laid back affair, handsomely filmed and starring a clutch of accomplished character actors in minor roles. However, the women in particular have a thin time of it. Any film that offers the likes of Gillian Anderson and Charlotte Gainsbourg such thankless, underwritten roles should hang its head in shame.

Ultimately, The Pale Blue Eye is a two-hander between Bale and Melling (the latter having a field day as the wide-eyed, melodramatic young author). The result is an atmospheric story, with a distinctly Gothic flavour and some genuine surprises hidden within its twisty-turny plot – so it’s a pity that the eventual solution to the mystery is so risible – and that the reasons for the murders should prove to be so clumsily reductive about both disability and violence against women.

Poe aficionados will doubtless have fun spotting the various references to the great author’s work, but ultimately this feels like a missed opportunity.

3 stars

Philip Caveney

Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery



Rian Johnson’s Knives Out garnered plenty of admirers on its release in 2019, though I felt at the time that it was a case of style over substance. Call me old fashioned, but I’m of the opinion that one of the basic requirements of a whodunnit is that it should be hard to crack and, in this case, it really wasn’t. The sequel (helpfully subtitled A Knives Out Mystery, just in case we’ve missed the connection) recently enjoyed a week in cinemas – at a time when we couldn’t see it. It now appears on Netflix, who financed it and they will also be funding several further instalments. The reviews haven’t been quite so ecstatic this time around, but perhaps ironically, I find this one an improvement on the original, mainly by virtue of the fact that I really can’t guess where it’s headed – though it should also be said that there is a glaring plot hole in there that should have been plugged. (See if you can spot it!)

Once again, this is very stylish, bright and kinetic. We’re offered a selection of – mostly repellent – characters who feel more like caricatures than real people. We learn more about ‘the world’s greatest detective’, Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig), who apparently is fond of sitting in his bath whilst wearing a fez (as you do) and who appears to share his home with a very famous housemate. It all begins with a bunch of seemingly unconnected individuals receiving invitations to an exclusive party on billionaire Miles Bron (Edward Norton)’s private Greek island.

The invites come in the form of elaborate puzzle boxes, which must be deciphered. Soon enough, Blanc is standing on the dockside with the other guests, who include hapless socialite Birdie Jay (Kate Hudson), muscle bound YouTuber, Duke Cody (Dave Bautista) and Bron’s former business partner, Andi Brand (Janelle Monáe). It soon becomes clear that Blanc hasn’t actually been invited to this bash, so his presence is only the first in a whole series of mysteries to be solved.The action is set in 2020, so hats off to Johnson for actually referencing the COVID pandemic, with the characters wearing masks and being all awkward about hugging and shaking hands, something that’s barely ever been referenced in the cinema so far.

Once on the island and inside Bron’s super luxurious home – the centrepiece of which resembles a huge er… glass onion – the host announces that they will all be playing an elaborate murder mystery game. At some point in the evening, he will be ‘killed’ and the guests will have to work out whodunnit…

So far, so Agatha Christie, but it should be said that nothing here goes according to anybody’s plan and, while I feel the early stretches of Glass Onion take some sticking with, once we’ve reached the midpoint, a huge revelation in the form of a series of flashbacks makes everything much more interesting. From here, the proceedings become ever more unhinged, ever more labyrinthine, as Johnson throws aside the conventions of the genre and begins to have fun with proceedings. It’s here too that his central tenet becomes clear. We’re continually reminded that nothing is hidden, nothing is opaque and that the answers to every puzzle are right there in front of us.

It’s clever but, once again, there’s a sense of distance. Because I don’t believe in any of these people, the result is like watching an expert game of chess, with the director manipulating the action like a grandmaster. I’m watching with a sense of detachment rather than being swept up in the proceedings.

Ultimately Glass Onion is an interesting exercise in legerdemain, and Netflix will doubtless do well with it. It will be interesting to see where the series of films goes from here but, for me at least, this feels like a step in the right direction.

4 stars

Philip Caveney

The Humans



Adapting a stage play into a film can be fraught with difficulties and it’s not often that one manages to rise above the strictures that such a process imposes. The Humans is playwright Stephen Karam’s attempt to do exactly that with his Tony-Award winning drama. His ‘opening out’ procedure is to use the apartment where the action takes place almost as an extra character. As the extended Blake family go about trying to celebrate Thanksgiving, the ugly, ramshackle new home of Brigid (Beanie Feldstein) and Richard (Steven Yeun) has all the grim oppressiveness of a traditional haunted house. We watch the family conversing at the end of a filthy corridor or crammed into an awkward corner. The camera lingers on blistered plaster and rusting metal. It’s almost as though the place is sentient and spying upon them. The sense of impending dread is palpable.

But this is far from being a straightforward ghost story. The Blakes are haunted by their own sense of failure. Patriarch Erik (Richard Jenkins) seems obsessed with the idea that something bad is going to happen, and often refers to the near miss the family experienced with the tragedy of the Twin Towers. His wife, Deidre (Jayne Howdishell), laments another slip-up with her Weight Watchers schedule, while Brigid announces that she hasn’t managed to secure a grant to fund her career as a musician and will have to contemplate working in retail. Brigid’s sister, Aimee (Amy Schumer) is suffering from a debilitating illness and has broken up with her girlfriend, while Richard refers to mental health issues back in his youth. And Erik’s mother, Momo (June Squibb), sits in her wheelchair and unleashes the occasional string of what appears to be rambling gibberish…

The Humans is nobody’s idea of ‘a fun night as the flicks’. Indeed, it’s tortuous, uncomfortable and, at times, dismaying. And yet, it manages to exert a slow, powerful grip on me, as the tension slowly rises to boiling point. If there is no real resolution to the mess of unconnected distress that’s unearthed at the Thanksgiving from Hell, it should also be said that, in its own way, it’s a cinematic offering like no other and – to my mind – that makes it well worth checking out.

3.8 stars

Philip Caveney

All Quiet on the Western Front



Erich Maria Remarque’s novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, first published in 1923, was that rarest of things – a runaway bestseller that carried at its heart a powerful anti-war message. In 1930 it was adapted into a movie, directed by Lewis Milestone, and it easily won that year’s Oscar for best film. In 1979, a pedestrian TV version struggled to compete with what had gone before and is now pretty much forgotten. It would be a brave soul indeed who thought they could do anything fresh with the subject.

Hats off then to writer/director Edward Berger, who steps gamely up to the diving board and takes a headlong plunge. Here is a version of the tale that doubles down on the futility of warfare and is able to depict the full visceral horror of life and death in the trenches in ways that Milestone would never have been allowed to in the 1920s.

We begin with a chilling scene of hundreds of dead German soldiers in the aftermath of a battle. We see their uniforms bieng stripped from them, then taken away to be laundered and packaged. Next we encounter our hero, Paul Bäumer (Felix Kammerer), still a naïve teenage schoolboy. He and his classmates are swept up in the idea of being heroes for a just cause and can’t wait to enlist, to do their duty. But all too soon, they arrive on the Western Front, unwittingly wearing the dead men’s uniforms, and begin to realise that all their childish fantasies are about to be torn to pieces by the bloody conflict around them.

The set pieces that follow make for harrowing viewing. The battle scenes are epic in scale, brilliantly captured by James Friend’s cinematography, and Berger doesn’t flinch from depicting scenes of utter carnage. An extended sequence where Paul’s battalion encounters tanks for the first time is particularly memorable – but there are quieter scenes too. Paul’s growing friendship with his comrade ‘Kat’ (Albrect Schuch) is expertly drawn, and the regular cutaways to politician Matthias Erzberger (Daniel Brühl), frantically trying to negotiate a truce as yet another brutal conflict approaches, add notes of suspense. Of course, we all know where this is leading. Volker Bertelmann’s ominous score contributes to the growing sense of unease.

Milestone’s iconic ending (taken from the novel) is so well known, I completely understand why Berger chose not to use it. In this version, he offers a desperate race against time, which may lack the elegance of the original concept, but the utter futility of the situation is once again brought to the fore and it makes for a powerful conclusion.

I can hardly recommend this as an uplifting watch – indeed, there are moments here that make me want to look away. But the novel’s original message is still very much in evidence.

4.2 stars

Philip Caveney

The Good Nurse



Films about real-life serial killers usually break down into two distinct groups. There are those that exploit the original story for lurid shock effect and have no real interest in looking for answers. Then there are those that are prepared to delve a little deeper into the circumstances surrounding a series of events. The Good Nurse, directed by Tobias Lindholm, definitely belongs in the latter category. There’s no mistaking the fact that the screenplay – written by Krysty Wilson-Cairns (and based on the book by Charles Graeber) is much more interested in the motivation than the crimes themselves.

The film focuses primarily on the nurse of the title. She’s Amy Laughren (Jessica Chastain), a single mom, struggling to balance her punishing work schedule at a New Jersey hospital with looking after her two young daughters – and she’s suffering from a debilitating heart condition. Put simply, Amy cannot afford to take time off work because she’s not been in her current post long enough to qualify for health insurance. She needs to keep going for another year, if she can.

And then along comes new recruit, Charlie Cullen (Eddie Redmayne), a likeable and considerate workmate, who quickly guesses at Amy’s health issues and does his best to help her out, appearing to care deeply about her difficult situation. The two of them quickly become close friends, with Charlie even helping to look after Amy’s daughters, Maya (Evan McDowell) and Alex (Alix West Lefler), when the going gets particularly tough.

But then there are some unexplained fatalities on the hospital ward, and two investigators, Tim Braun (Noah Emmerich) and Danny Baldwin (Mnmandi Asomugha), show up, asking some worrying questions. Why has Charlie Cullen been repeatedly shunted from hospital to hospital over his long career? Why does he always leave after a spike in deaths? And why do his former employers always seem so reluctant to pursue any questions about him?

This is another true crime story that boggles the mind: The Good Nurse doesn’t hesitate to point the finger of accusation at the American health care system, identifying it as a major enabler of Cullen’s exploits. Indeed, it’s the main reason why a man responsible for one of the highest murder tolls in history remains, ironically, a name that few people are familiar with. Essentially a taut two-hander, the film is as compelling as it is baffling. Chastain is terrific as Laughren, torn between her genuine friendship with Cullen and the dawning realisation that he is not the affable fellow he appears to be. Redmayne keeps his performance understated, only unleashing the full force of his character’s anger in one confrontational interview, yet he still manages to convey the frightening creature that hides behind that bland, smiling exterior.

We still don’t know – and probably never will – what motivated Cullen’s apparently random acts of murder, but The Good Nurse is unflinching in its portrayal of a health system motivated by profit and with scant regard for those who depend upon it for their survival.

4.2 stars

Philip Caveney

The Bombardment



The Bombardment (original title The Shadow in My Eye, or Skyggen i mit øje) would be a harrowing movie at any time. Right now, as the war in Ukraine escalates and dominates the newsreels, it’s an especially difficult watch. And, of course, all the more vital. Writer/director Ole Bornedal’s unflinching portrayal of this true-life tragedy doesn’t allow us to avert our gaze from the human cost of war.

Copenhagen, 1945. The city is in Nazi hands. Members of the Danish resistance have been strategically positioned under the roof of the Gestapo headquarters, forming a human shield the Germans hope will make the Allies think twice before bombing. The RAF devise a dangerous plan, to attack the building from the side. But it’s risky, not least because of how low the jets must fly, and hitting the right target is far from assured…

Bornedal’s deceptively scattershot approach to the story works well: the details accumulate to form a devastating account of what occupation and bombing really mean to the people on the ground – and in the air. There’s a whole host of characters – all vulnerable, all flawed, all damaged by the war. Frederik (Alex Høgh Andersen) is a traitor, despised by his family, working alongside the Nazis; Teresa (Fanny Bornedal) is a novice nun, her faith sorely tested by the horrors her God has failed to stop. Perhaps the most tragic figure of all is Henry (Bertram Bisgaard Enevoldsen), a young boy so traumatised by what he’s witnessed that he’s lost the power of speech. He’s especially afraid of the open sky, so – in desperation – his mother sends him to the city, where he’s taken under the wings of his vivacious younger cousin, Rigmor (Ester Birch), and her friend, Eva (Ella Josephine Lund Nilsson). The children’s performances are heartbreaking: between them, they exude a horribly credible mix of youthful exuberance and awful anxiety, and it’s hard to deal with just how defenceless they are.

Lasse Frank Johannessen’s cinematography is as unrelenting as Bornedal’s script: although the landscapes and architecture are undoubtedly beautiful, nothing is sugar-coated here. The grimy underbelly is as visible as the polished exteriors; there is no attempt to hide the harsh realities.

Despite the violence and frantic manoeuvring, the film moves at a slow pace, giving us time to understand the characters, to care about them and their fates. Of course, this only serves to make the final climactic scenes all the more devastating. This is a powerful piece of cinema, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

The House



It’s a cold Sunday afternoon, with the threat of snow hanging over it. We’ve nothing pressing to do, and we’ve already braved the elements for a bracing walk. We don’t want to go out again. It’s warm in our lounge, and there must be something worth watching that we haven’t already seen… But what?

The House pops up as a suggestion, and we’re intrigued.

Originally billed as a miniseries, The House appears on Netflix as a portmanteau, and is – I think – all the better for it. Viewed as one, the themes coalesce, and the strange beauty of this piece is given time to develop.

The house in question is a rather lovely one: three storeys of opulence and grandeur. Enda Walsh’s script shows it to us in three different times: the past, the present and the future.

Chapter One, And Heard Within, a Lie is Spun, is an eerie origins tale, directed by Emma de Swaef and Marc James Roels, and brought to life via some very spooky felt dolls. Mabel (voiced by Mia Goth) is a little girl. It’s some time in the 1800s, and her father’s fecklessness means her family is impoverished. Raymond (Matthew Goode) is a decent man; it’s just that he’s not very good at making money or managing his alcohol intake. One night, he wanders drunkenly into the forest, and meets a mysterious being, who offers him a way out. The enigmatic architect, Mr Van Schoonbeek, will build him a house. It is a gift. The only catch is that they have to live there – and that doesn’t seem like a catch at all. What could go wrong?

A lot, as it happens. Mabel is disconcerted to discover that Mr Van Schoonbeek keeps making changes. Big changes. Such as removing the staircases, so that she and her baby sister, Isobel, are trapped on the upper floor. Her parents seem caught up in the house’s spell, lured by its riches, and all too soon are literally defined by what they own…

Chapter Two, Then Lost is Truth That Can’t Be Won, directed by Niki Lindroth von Bahr, takes us to the present day. The house is now part of a suburban row, and is in the process of being renovated.

By a rat.

Said rat, known only as The Developer and voiced by Jarvis Cocker, is a hard-working soul. He has everything riding on the success of what seems to be a solo project, and – as his constant calls to the bank confirm – is relying on a quick sale. At first, he’s confident. His plans are meticulous. He has dedicated his life to this money-making scheme, sleeping in the basement for months, doing the place up room by room. It’s a wonder of high-spec luxury. But when he spies a fur beetle scurrying along the kitchen floor, he realises he has a problem. He fills in gaps in the skirting boards and throws around a liberal amount of beetle-poison, but all to no avail. He has an open viewing scheduled. What is he to do?

In Chapter Three, Listen Again and Seek the Sun, director Paloma Baeza offers us a washed out dystopia, set in the near future. Floods have risen, and the house looms precariously out of the water, an island in a never-ending sea. It’s all studio apartments now, owned by a cat called Rosa (Susan Wokoma), who dreams of restoring the dilapidated building to its former glory. The Pinterest-style boards attached to her wall show an ambitious vision, but she’s fighting a losing battle. All but two of her tenants have left, and those who remain, Jen (Helena Bonham Carter) and Elias (Will Sharpe), pay their rent, respectively, in crystals and fish. Which is all very well, Rosa tells them crossly, but no plumber will accept them as currency so no, sorry, she can’t do anything about the horrible brown water that’s coming out of the taps.

When Cosmos (Paul Kaye) arrives, the truth becomes clear: Rosa needs to let go of her attachment to the house if she wants to survive.

Taken as a whole, these three stories amount to a gentle polemic, an admonishment to us all to realise what really matters before it’s too late to save the world. It’s beautifully done. The tales are fresh, engaging, and quirkily animated – a lovely way to while away an hour and a half.

4.1 stars

Susan Singfield

The Lost Daughter



I really want to like The Lost Daughter. After all, it’s directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal, and stars two of my favourite actors, Olivia Colman and Jessie Buckley. The reviews I’ve read have all been glowing, so I’m expecting great things. And yet, in the end, it just doesn’t seem to have enough heft: it’s all build up, with weak foundations and no catharsis.

Colman and Buckley both play Leda Caruso. Buckley, of course, plays the younger iteration, a twenty-something post-grad student, struggling to balance her burgeoning academic career with the demands of her marriage and two young children. Time has rendered such issues less pressing for Colman’s Leda, who – approaching fifty – is now a professor, free to spend the summer alone on a Greek island, her adult daughters busy leading their own lives.

The movie opens with Colman’s Leda collapsing on the beach, so we know from the start that something isn’t right. In a series of flashbacks, we are shown what has brought Leda here, from the working-holiday immediately preceding her fall to the ‘crushing responsibility’ of motherhood that overwhelmed her younger self.

At first, the holiday seems idyllic. The island is undoubtedly beautiful; Leda’s apartment is charming; the sun is shining; the beach is quiet. There are hints that something is amiss: the mouldy fruit in the bowl; an insect buzzing on her pillow. But all seems well until a large, brash American family arrives, rudely interrupting Leda’s peace. When their matriarch, Callie (Dagmara Dominczyk), pregnant for the first time at forty-two, asks Leda to move her lounger so that the family can sit together, Leda stubbornly refuses. And an animosity is born that overshadows her whole stay…

Despite her instinctive dislike of the family, Leda finds herself drawn to Callie’s glamorous sister-in-law, Nina (Dakota Johnson), whose relationship with her daughter, Elena (Athena Martin), reminds Leda of her own past. When Elena goes missing, Leda helps to find her, and the two women form an uneasy bond.

So far, so good. As a character study, this film is wonderful. Leda is a complex and interesting woman, whose conflicting desires and ambivalence towards parenthood make her an all-too-rare sight on our screens. But, though it pains me to say it, the casting doesn’t quite work. No one can reasonably argue that Colman and Buckley aren’t terrific actors, and they both deliver here, offering detailed and nuanced performances. But they don’t cohere: their Ledas are two different people. It’s not just the way they look; audiences are used to suspending their disbelief on that account. They sound so very different though – Buckley’s sonorous tones at odds with Colman’s girlish, higher-pitched voice – and their movement doesn’t match either.

Gyllenhaal’s direction isn’t bad. She utilises close-ups to excellent effect, and really ramps up the tension: a sense of all-pervading menace is cleverly evinced. But what’s the point, I wonder, if it never amounts to anything? I’m left frustrated by the damp squib of an ending, with nothing calamitous ever revealed or resolved.

A little internet searching shows me the missing piece: in Elena Ferrante’s source novel, Leda is from Naples (instead of ‘Shipley, near Leeds’) and the invading family is also Neapolitan. The sense of dread Leda feels when she encounters them isn’t just snobbery, it’s actual fear, based on her own past, and her own experience of a Mafia-style clan. Perhaps it’s this change that makes Leda’s sense of foreboding harder to understand – and weakens the story in the process.

It feels like a squandered opportunity.

3.4 stars

Susan Singfield

Bo Burnham: Inside



Bo Burnham is what you might call a polymath – a man of wide-ranging talents. He acts; he writes; he sings; he plays maddeningly catchy music. He’s extraordinary! He’s also been around for quite a while (he first started performing comedy as a teenager), but I, sadly, have only recently become aware of him. He’s the writer/director behind the bittersweet coming-of-age movie, Eighth Grade, which Bouquets and Brickbats awarded a well-deserved 4.8 stars in 2019. More recently, he submitted a perfectly-judged performance as Ryan in Promising Young Woman. And he has three comedy specials on Netflix, the latest of which is Inside.

Like everyone else in recent history, Burnham found himself trapped at home by the pandemic. Shortly before being locked down, he’d been afflicted by crippling bouts of stage fright. Also, he was about to turn thirty, and he needed to talk to somebody about that situation.

So he wrote, directed and performed a one-hour-twenty-seven-minute piece that all takes place in one room of his house. Of course he did. He’s a polymath.

It can sometimes be hard to write about comedy, but this show is particularly hard to pin down, because it careens frantically from one routine to the next, all of them stitched together by a stream of perceptive, oddly Beatle-ish songs, each one of which seizes on a particular subject and brilliantly eviscerates it. Whether he’s commenting on the all-pervasive overload of the internet, spoofing a children’s show where a sock puppet is revealed to be a submissive slave to his human counterpart, offering a commentary on the kind of fluff that masquerades as emotion on Instagram, or exposing the raging narcissism that lurks at the root of every comedian’s output, this is never less than fascinating. It’s wry, self-deprecating – and sometimes shocking. Occasionally it dares to stand on the very edge of a precipitous ledge, staring down into the abyss.

Comedy is subjective, of course, but – having watched this – I was prompted to catch up on his two previous Netflix specials and to note how his work – though always first rate – has matured over the eight years, from what. (2013), through Make Happy (2016) to Inside (2021). This latest piece represents him at the very peak of his powers. Where he will go next is debatable – there is some talk of him pursuing a movie career but, if that is the case, I hope he doesn’t give up on what he’s doing here.

Which is being brilliantly, irreverently funny. And if there’s something we all need right now, it’s more laughter.

4.8 stars

Philip Caveney