It took a minute or 92 for people who watched Gillian Jacobs’ stunning performance in Don’t Think Twice to connect her with Community’s Britta Perry. That she could inhabit such different roles so believably without ever having trained in comedy or improv is a tribute to her talent. Whether it’s a tribute to Julliard is up for debate. A quirky, independent kid jettisoned by friends who saw her as a drag on their popularity, Jacobs threw herself into theater; later, Julliard almost threw her back out. It took her awhile to realize control can’t fix an alcoholic parent or a conventional performance. But eventually, the kid who comes home with gum in her hair may also come home with a stronger sense of self. We talk to Jacobs about scaring herself silly, hanging out at celeb hot spots like the La Brea Tar Pits and playing the sex and drug addicted wrecking ball Mickey on Netflix’s Love. Which we love.
It took a minute or 92 for people who watched Gillian Jacobs’ stunning performance in Don’t Think Twice to connect her with Community’s Britta Perry. That she could inhabit such different roles so believably without ever having trained in comedy or improv is a tribute to her talent. Whether it’s a tribute to Julliard is up for debate. A quirky, independent kid jettisoned by friends who saw her as a drag on their popularity, Jacobs threw herself into theater; later, Julliard almost threw her back out. It took her awhile to realize control can’t fix an alcoholic parent or a conventional performance. But eventually, the kid who comes home with gum in her hair may also come home with a stronger sense of self. We talk to Jacobs about scaring herself silly, hanging out at celeb hot spots like the La Brea Tar Pits and playing the sex and drug addicted wrecking ball Mickey on Netflix’s Love. Which we love.
Let’s face it, Kenneth Lonergan will never be the Mr. Rogers of Hollywood. He’s learned (kind of) to placate studio brass, but mourns the days when writers and directors had more artistic control (“Nobody told John Ford to make Grapes of Wrath less depressing”), and wishes he could just be left alone, trusted to deliver great films on his own timeline. After Manchester By the Sea, maybe that will finally happen. He’s proven three times now that no writer possesses a keener ear for dialogue, no director a better sense of story, and no observer of life a more merciless grip on how it really works. The subject of his films? Us. Human beings. So why are they called “small”? It’s not often we get inside the head of someone who’s given so much thought to his craft and the world he makes it in. We didn’t emerge unscathed, but we also didn’t leave without hope.
If you’ve seen Veep, you likely know Richard Splett, which could mean you know Sam Richardson. It more likely means you know what it is to be so convinced by a performance that you’re unsure where the actor stops and the character begins. How does an artist make that happen, especially when he’s the newcomer to one of the most talent-packed comedies on TV? Well, it might be a stretch to say Richardson grew up on the mean streets of Detroit, but growing up on the city’s tough comedy stages taught him a thing or two. Now, Motor City serves as backdrop and inspiration for his own TV show. We discuss the parallels between playing a pitchman on Detroiters and actually pitching Detroiters, and how growing up between two countries inspired its unique take on race and traditional sitcom relationships. He also explains why a fake laugh is no courtesy, but a crime against humanity.
If you’ve seen Veep, you likely know Richard Splett, which could mean you know Sam Richardson. It more likely means you know what it is to be so convinced by a performance that you’re unsure where the actor stops and the character begins. How does an artist make that happen, especially when he’s the newcomer to one of the most talent-packed comedies on TV? Well, it might be a stretch to say Richardson grew up on the mean streets of Detroit, but growing up on the city’s tough comedy stages taught him a thing or two. Now, Motor City serves as backdrop and inspiration for his own TV show. We discuss the parallels between playing a pitchman on Detroiters and actually pitching Detroiters, and how growing up between two countries inspired its unique take on race and traditional sitcom relationships. He also explains why a fake laugh is no courtesy, but a crime against humanity.
If you’ve seen Veep, you likely know Richard Splett, which could mean you know Sam Richardson. It more likely means you know what it is to be so convinced by a performance that you’re unsure where the actor stops and the character begins. How does an artist make that happen, especially when he’s the newcomer to one of the most talent-packed comedies on TV? Well, it might be a stretch to say Richardson grew up on the mean streets of Detroit, but growing up on the city’s tough comedy stages taught him a thing or two. Now, Motor City serves as backdrop and inspiration for his own TV show. We discuss the parallels between playing a pitchman on Detroiters and actually pitching Detroiters, and how growing up between two countries inspired its unique take on race and traditional sitcom relationships. He also explains why a fake laugh is no courtesy, but a crime against humanity.
Let’s face it, Kenneth Lonergan will never be the Mr. Rogers of Hollywood. He’s learned (kind of) to placate studio brass, but mourns the days when writers and directors had more artistic control (“Nobody told John Ford to make Grapes of Wrath less depressing”), and wishes he could just be left alone, trusted to deliver great films on his own timeline. After Manchester By the Sea, maybe that will finally happen. He’s proven three times now that no writer possesses a keener ear for dialogue, no director a better sense of story, and no observer of life a more merciless grip on how it really works. The subject of his films? Us. Human beings. So why are they called “small”? It’s not often we get inside the head of someone who’s given so much thought to his craft and the world he makes it in. We didn’t emerge unscathed, but we also didn’t leave without hope.
Let’s face it, Kenneth Lonergan will never be the Mr. Rogers of Hollywood. He’s learned (kind of) to placate studio brass, but mourns the days when writers and directors had more artistic control (“Nobody told John Ford to make Grapes of Wrath less depressing”), and wishes he could just be left alone, trusted to deliver great films on his own timeline. After Manchester By the Sea, maybe that will finally happen. He’s proven three times now that no writer possesses a keener ear for dialogue, no director a better sense of story, and no observer of life a more merciless grip on how it really works. The subject of his films? Us. Human beings. So why are they called “small”? It’s not often we get inside the head of someone who’s given so much thought to his craft and the world he makes it in. We didn’t emerge unscathed, but we also didn’t leave without hope.
