I sure didn’t add this to my Netflix queue for its plot. Here’s the synopsis: “While she spends her days filing papers as a harried office temp, Myra returns home each evening to an even more chaotic world, where her eccentric younger brother, Ludlow, staves off manic episodes through his art. But when Myra opens her heart to a shy but endearing co-worker, her love for her brother finds a rival…and Ludlow fights back for her affection.” Meaningless jobs? Shy people with problems? Mental illness? Bonding against all odds? Stinks of Eau d’Generic Indie to me.

No, what drew me . . .

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Because if your main joke is injuring your characters, then those characters had better deserve it.  And although Wayans & Co. score some points by having Dr. Phil amputate his own foot, the other actors are so boring that I can’t even muster the energy to hate them.

Because if we needed an Ordinary People for the new millennium, it wouldn’t be a pretentious indie that even Sigourney Weaver couldn’t save.

My first thought as I watched Good Night, and Good Luck was:  Did George Clooney just quit smoking?  I know people loved their cigarettes in the 1950s, and I had read many comments on the amount of smoking in the movie, but those little cancer sticks kept stealing the stage.  There’s a loving shot of a lighter.  There’s an ad for Kent.  Even the black-and-white hues suggest exhaled blue clouds.

Eventually it hit me:  Clooney uses cigarettes to make a point.  You see, back in the 1950s, people didn’t know that cigarettes caused cancer.  Or, more accurately, smokers . . .

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I just bought some M & Ms, which I don’t think I’ve done since I was… Well, I don’t ever remember buying myself a bag of M & Ms, but I assume I have before. I mean, a small bag of M & Ms for myself, not some giant bag I throw into a bowl for a party and never look at again, except when I mindlessly stick my hand in it later and insert the M & Ms into my mouth without looking at them or remembering I did it. On those rare occasions, I could be throwing a handful . . .

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