A Constant Visual Feast

There’s a book to be written about the millennial children of famous boomer actors, and the gulf between the former’s personas and the latter’s. Do not write that book. It’s mine. I’ll fight you for it. I’ll wrestle a bear, make friends with the bear, gorge myself on fish and berries with the bear, then point you out to the bear and recreate Grizzly Man, if you even think about nicking this brief from me. 

Think about Jack Quaid, often the dork where his dad is known as the American heartland’s optimistic everyman*. And think especially about Ray Nicholson, because that’s whose aesthetic I dug into, with the release of his latest movie, Borderline, which functions as a better showcase for his acting than Smile 2 (and will likely get much less attention). Ray’s a nervous wreck. Jack? Jack was the kind of cool that doesn’t give a damn. That’s a contrast.

Read my breakdown over at The Daily Beast.

*Except in The Substance, where he plays an entertainment industry bigwig slash misogynist pervert named Harvey, because Coralie Fargeat thinks her audience is too stupid to connect those dots on their own. God, I hate that fucking movie.