Saw, with stepkid, at Lagoon Cinema, Bombshell, the title a possible play on words: what the Fox anchorwomen are, "bombshells," or, alternatively, what they report, though it's not really a "bombshell" that Roger Ailes, Bill O'Reilly, et al are turds. At the dramatic center is the perfectly coiffed Megyn Kelly, played by Charlize Theron. Will she do the right thing?
Sometimes, with regard to people who don't resign their jobs in the Trump White House, the point is made: The pay can't be that good, why don't they just do the right thing? One thing the movie glides over pretty easily is that, for Kelly, the pay was that good. She will keep her mouth shut. "At what price?" asks her husband. "At the price of this apartment we live in," she replies, and she elaborates. That quiets him down. Action x is the "right" thing to do, unless someone pays you enough money not to do x, in which case not doing x is the new "right" thing to do—so obviously true it needs no exposition. The possibility of doing two right things, telling the truth about the turd and moving to a cheaper apartment, doesn't arise, but, in the end, she does tell the truth, which is that Ailes sexually harassed her, too.
There is one scene, in particular, that's hard to watch and makes you hate Roger Ailes, even if you don't really require a special invitation. When, therefore, his downfall comes, it's especially delightful, but back outside walking to your car it feels like kind of a cheap thrill, the way for example the camera zooms in at his moment of disgrace so that you can contemplate the pores in the skin of his fat, sick, disgusting face. He's physically grotesque and at one point Theron's Kelly observes that, probably for this reason, he prefers sex acts that do not require disrobing. Feels like piling on.
Oh god, am I feeling sorry for Roger Ailes?
With Margot Robbie, a composite of all the more anonymous Fox victims and the casualty in the hard-to-watch scene, John Lithgow as Ailes, and Nicole Kidman as Gretchen Carlson, who started it all by suing after she was fired: she got $20 million, so no need for a cheaper apartment. Not Christmas-themed in the least and I liked better our breakfast at Our Kitchen, a hole-in-the-wall on 36th Street just west of Lyndale. According to Rory, the pork sausage patty is to die for, and I can vouch for the cheese omelet, hash browns, and pancakes. I am not one of those who complains about getting "too much" whipped butter.
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