"That Would Be Great"

Bridging Generations at Work with Pop Culture—and a Movie Lunch

There’s a moment in every professional’s life when they drop a perfectly timed pop culture reference into a meeting… and it lands with a thud. Blank stares. Polite smiles. Someone typing under the table (probably Googling what you just said). That moment happened to me for what felt like the hundredth time when I made a crack about a TPS report and “channeling my inner Lumbergh.” Crickets. That’s when I realized: my pop culture isn’t their pop culture.

Like many professionals of my generation, I’ve carried certain cultural touchstones with me throughout my career. One of my most well-worn references has long been the 1999 cult classic Office Space. It’s a workplace satire so spot-on, it almost feels like a documentary. Over the years, I’ve sprinkled quotes from it into emails, used it to lighten the mood in tense meetings, and joked about smashing a temperamental printer à la the movie’s infamous slo-mo baseball bat scene.

But my team—filled with bright, capable, mostly Millennial and Gen Z colleagues—often didn’t follow. To them, Office Space is a vaguely familiar title, a meme source at best, not the formative workplace gospel it was for Gen X and older Millennials. They didn’t know about flair. They’d never met Milton. They certainly didn’t grasp the life-affirming joy of a good case of “not gonna work here anymore.”

After yet another one of my Office Space references fell flat, one of my managers offered a helpful—and slightly daring—suggestion: why not turn one of our monthly team meetings into a lunch gathering and screen the movie? I decided it was time. We scheduled a (long) lunch hour, invited everyone to brown bag it, and turned our conference room into a makeshift movie theater. No slides, no updates, no agendas—just some popcorn, shared laughs, and 90 minutes of pure late-’90s corporate catharsis. It was a simple shift, but it created space for something we didn’t know we needed: a communal pause, a cultural reset, and a little bit of fun in the middle of a workday.

And something unexpected happened.

They loved it. They laughed. They exchanged “ohhhh, now I get it” glances during scenes they’d heard me reference countless times. More importantly, it became a shared experience. We started speaking the same language—not just mine, not just theirs, but something in between. It broke down barriers. Suddenly, jokes landed. Google Chat channels lit up with GIFs of Lumbergh and his coffee mug. We even started referring to standard daily and weekly reports as “TPS” reports.

But beyond the inside jokes, it created a subtle but powerful shift. We found common ground in a place none of us expected: a 25-year-old movie about cubicle life. It sparked conversations about how workplaces have changed (and how much they haven’t), what autonomy and burnout look like across generations, and how humor can be a survival tool in any era of work.

I don’t expect Office Space to become a required part of onboarding. And I still make a conscious effort to engage with the pop culture that resonates with my team today (yes, I know who Olivia Rodrigo is, and no, I don’t fully get TikTok). But sharing that piece of my own cultural foundation helped me show up as a more human version of “the boss.” And it helped my team see me as more than just the person who schedules meetings and signs off on budgets.

Pop culture can be a bridge—but only if we’re willing to build it together.

Not long after our movie lunch, I made the decision to step away from my role and begin a new chapter in my career. Even with that change on the horizon, I was grateful for the chance to create one more meaningful moment with my team. Watching them laugh, connect, and rally together reminded me of what’s most enduring in any workplace: relationships, shared experiences, and the small moments that bring people closer.

So if you're ever tempted to reference an old movie or a band you think “everyone” knows, pause for a moment. Better yet, invite your team to share in the experience. You might just find that a little bit of nostalgia—served with popcorn—can go a long way in building trust, camaraderie, and even a few inside jokes that live on long after you’ve moved on.

And if they still don’t get it?

Well, at least you tried. And that would be grreeeeat.

Review

Office Space
directed by Mike Judge

My rating 4½ of 5 stars

In the grand pantheon of movies about work, Office Space exists in a perfect little cubicle of its own—one where fluorescent lights hum, printers jam for sport, and the scent of burnt coffee hovers permanently in the breakroom. Directed by Mike Judge (yes, the Beavis and Butt-Head guy, but stay with me), this 1999 sleeper hit manages to turn the beige banality of office life into something surreal, absurd, and ultimately cathartic. The premise is simple: a burned-out programmer starts ignoring all the rules and somehow gets promoted for it. But beneath that surface-level rebellion lies a sharp, weirdly comforting look at how modern work quietly gnaws away at the soul.

Ron Livingston plays Peter Gibbons, a man so beaten down by memos, traffic, and middle management that even his therapist gives up on him (okay, technically it’s a hypnotherapist who dies mid-session, but you get the idea). I’ve liked Livingston ever since he showed up in HBO’s Band of Brothers as Captain Lewis Nixon—a performance layered with understated depth and a heavy pour of scotch. He played Nixon like a guy who’s seen too much and says too little, which—now that I think of it—isn’t a bad description of Peter Gibbons either. In Office Space, Livingston’s dry delivery and quiet exasperation make him the perfect everyman for a world where showing up five minutes late can trigger a full-scale HR intervention. He’s not flashy, and that’s exactly why he works—both as a character and as a stand-in for all of us who’ve ever contemplated setting our inboxes on fire.

Which brings me to the true villain of this movie: the report. Specifically, the TPS report, with its mandatory cover sheet and the looming specter of a passive-aggressive follow-up from eight different managers. The absurdity of this detail struck a familiar chord with me—and probably will for anyone who’s spent time navigating a sea of weekly status updates, productivity dashboards, or systems that require a password change every 11 days. I once wrote about my nostalgia for green-bar paper and fixed-pitch fonts on this very blog (here, for the curious). There was something wonderfully simple about those old-school reports—clunky, yes, but they didn’t pretend to be anything they weren’t. Today’s reports? They’re like soulless performance art, and Office Space captures that disconnect beautifully. It’s not just that the bureaucracy is overbearing—it’s that it’s completely detached from the reality of the work itself. And when Peter decides to opt out, it feels, for a brief, glorious moment, like he’s achieved workplace nirvana.

Of course, no discussion of Office Space would be complete without Milton—the stapler-obsessed, softly mumbling tragic hero played to perfection by Stephen Root. Or the Bobs, those interchangeable consultants with MBA smugness and bad intentions. Or the printer, whose ultimate fate remains one of the most satisfying acts of vigilante justice ever captured on film. Judge populates this universe with characters so exaggerated they shouldn’t feel real, but somehow do. Maybe because we’ve met them. Maybe because we’ve been them.

Office Space didn’t set the box office on fire in 1999, but it’s lived a rich second life as a cult favorite—passed around on DVD, quoted in breakrooms, referenced whenever someone mentions “flair” with a straight face. It’s a satire that’s both deeply specific and weirdly timeless. Corporate culture has evolved (sort of), but the core truth remains: people want their work to mean something, or at the very least, not to actively erode their will to live.

In short, if you’ve ever wanted to do a slow-motion beatdown of a malfunctioning printer in a field while Still by Geto Boys plays in the background, this one’s for you.

Liberty in Three Acts: My Fourth of July Tradition

There are fireworks, there are flags, and there's always something grilling on the Fourth of July—but for me, Independence Day wouldn't feel complete without a familiar duo of movie musicals, now made into a trio. Each year, like clockwork, I settle in for a binge that spans the centuries of American spirit and song: 1776, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and now, Hamilton.

It all starts with 1776, the spirited (and yes, dramatized) story of the Continental Congress and their march toward independence. I first saw the film in college, but its roots in my heart go back even further—to 1976, when I was in middle school and the country was awash in stars, stripes, and a very particular kind of patriotic fervor.

Living in Pennsylvania in 1976, I was surrounded by history—not just the kind in textbooks, but the kind etched into buildings, monuments, and local pride. That year, our social studies lessons were laser-focused on the Revolution. We didn’t just learn about 1776—we practically lived it. Our classroom projects involved hand-drawing the Declaration of Independence on parchment-style paper. We staged mock debates about taxation and liberty. Field trips took us to Independence Hall and Valley Forge, places that felt suddenly alive with meaning.

And it wasn't just school. The Bicentennial bled into pop culture and everyday life. Cereal boxes had red-white-and-blue logos. Gas stations handed out commemorative coins. ABC aired "Schoolhouse Rock" segments that made civics catchy, and I still remember the thrill of seeing the Liberty Bell featured in commercials and TV specials. Everywhere you turned, there was this sense that America was not just looking back, but trying to understand itself in real time.

That summer, parades were filled with fife and drum corps and colonial reenactors in full regalia. I remember feeling that I was witnessing something big—like history had its own gravity and I was standing in its pull. That Bicentennial year didn't just make me aware of America's founding; it made me curious. It made me care. And when I eventually discovered 1776 in college, it gave all those half-formed impressions a voice, a cast, and a score.

While no historian would recommend the film as a primary source, 1776 brought the story of independence to life. It showed me that history isn't made by marble statues, but by flawed, passionate people wrangling over ideals in hot rooms. Watching it each Fourth of July has become my own secular ritual—less barbecue, more parchment and powdered wigs. Even now, every time I hear the opening drumbeat and that call for "a resolution for independence," I'm that Bicentennial kid again, filled with curiosity, awe, and patriotic pride.

Then there's Yankee Doodle Dandy. Sure, it's a full-throated piece of WWII-era propaganda, but that's not all it is. In its own way, it's a tribute to a very American kind of optimism—the kind that sings and taps and waves a flag without irony. James Cagney's George M. Cohan is a showman's showman, full of brash energy and patriotic fervor. And somehow, despite the bombast, it always hits the right tone for the day. It's a celebration of performance and pride, and it reminds me that love of country doesn't have to be loud or naive—it can be knowing, complex, and deeply felt.

That’s part of what keeps me coming back to it year after year. But I think the deeper reason has more to do with how musical theater, in all its forms, became a language of connection in my life—first through my mom, and later, through my daughters.

My affection for musical theater didn't just materialize one Independence Day. It was passed down, the way the best traditions are. My mom was the one who first gave me an appreciation for musicals. She loved the genre—not just the catchy tunes and elaborate staging, but the way music could tell a story straight to your soul. While her talent for performance didn't quite make it to me (though it clearly resurfaced a generation later in Faith), I did my part in high school by working behind the scenes with the stage crew. Painting sets, running lights, helping with props—I may not have been center stage, but I was there in the wings, soaking up the energy, the teamwork, the transformation of a bare auditorium into a world of its own.

That experience, paired with a college course I took on the history of musical theater, helped me see the genre as more than just entertainment. Musicals, at their best, don't just reflect culture—they help define it. They distill big ideas into melody, character, and story. And in America, perhaps more than anywhere else, the musical has evolved as a uniquely democratic art form: built on collaboration, born from diverse influences, and often focused on who gets to tell the story of "us." That context helped me place Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1776, and Hamilton not just as three shows I love—but as touchstones of how Americans have chosen to remember, reimagine, and reclaim their history. 

Editor's Note: Here's a link to a post where I've written more about how these three films work together as a musical portrait of American identity.

Faith at the Hollywood Pantages
in December 2017 for Hamilton.

It was with this deeper appreciation for the form that I later found myself sharing these same passions with Faith. She's always been a theater kid through and through, with a deep appreciation for not just the story being told, but how it's told. So it was no surprise when she was captivated by Hamilton. Like so many in her generation, she was swept up by the phenomenon—listening to the cast album on repeat, quoting lyrics in everyday conversation, diving deep into the lives of the Founding Fathers. She knew every word, every harmony, every historical reference. Her passion was infectious, and soon I was listening too, hearing echoes of the same stories I'd grown up loving—but now pulsing with a fresh, urgent rhythm.

That Christmas in 2017, "Santa" delivered something extraordinary: two tickets to see the touring production of Hamilton in Los Angeles. She hadn't expected to actually get to see it live. The show was a cultural phenomenon and seats were hard to come by. So when she unwrapped that gift, the look on her face—part disbelief, part pure joy—was a highlight of the holiday season, and of fatherhood.

And then there was the afternoon itself. Sitting next to her in the darkened theater, watching the story unfold not just in song but in movement, light, and staging—it was electric. Even though she knew the entire score by heart, seeing how each song was brought to life within the full framework of the book gave her a deeper understanding of the story and its historical context. The choreography, the way scenes transitioned, the layering of narrative—she was fully immersed. And so was I.

Truth be told, I wasn't expecting Hamilton to hit me the way it did. Lin-Manuel Miranda's reimagining of the Founders, filtered through hip-hop, R&B, and unapologetic modernity, struck a chord I didn't know needed striking. It captured the ambition, contradiction, and grit of early America in a way that felt new and yet deeply familiar. It spoke to both our nation's promise and its imperfections. And that night, sharing the experience with Faith, I felt the beautiful convergence of our shared passions—for history, for storytelling, for truth told in harmony and rhythm.

So when Disney+ released the original cast recording, it wasn't even a question. Hamilton joined the July 4th lineup without hesitation.

Now, every Fourth, I travel through time—from 1776's congressional chambers, to Cagney's Vaudeville stage, and finally to the turntables and duels of Hamilton. It's a deeply personal tradition, stitched together from family, history, and a little Broadway sparkle. What began as a childhood fascination with the Bicentennial has evolved into a kind of secular ritual of its own—less about fireworks and more about reflection. A quiet act of remembrance, through song and story, of who we were, who we are, and who we still might become.

Each film reminds me that the American story isn't finished—it's still being shaped, sung, and rewritten by each generation.

It's a small tradition, but it connects me to family, to history, and to the imperfect, ongoing story of America itself.

This Year I am Thankful for an Empty Nest...and Zombieland

For the first time in my fifty-odd years, I celebrated Thanksgiving without my kids, without the comfort of my parents, or my siblings and their extended families. Here, at last, the dreaded empty nest... 

I won't be alone per se, but I also won't have what I have come to see as a "normal" Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving. But I did have some time to prepare for this eventuality...

Rockwell's Freedom from Want ©1943

My original plan, let's call it Plan A, for dealing with no one being home this year called for taking an extended Thanksgiving break from work, flying to the East Coast, and spending the holiday with my parents, sisters, and their families, and my son and his girlfriend. I'd have still missed my two girls who were off doing other things (one with her fiancé and the other with her mother), but still, I had hoped it would be one of those old-fashioned family get-togethers filled with great food, fun games, and the occasional family angst (that always comes when everyone is brought together in such close proximity).

You know, all the elements that make for cherished memories...

As is often the case, real life got in the way of my best-laid plans. The first SNAFU was financial. With my youngest a sophomore at a wonderful(ly expensive) private liberal arts college and my oldest getting married in the Spring, rubbing enough nickels together to pay for a transcontinental Thanksgiving flight would mean adding to my credit card debt. If I am being completely honest, I would have done it, but it wasn't the right thing. However, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, work, reared its ugly head. Unexpectedly, my boss went on a lengthy medical leave. This meant cutting what I had planned to be a ten-day trip down to just four (and traveling on two of the busiest and most expensive days of the year). Before the last two horsemen appeared, as much as I longed for that Rockwell-esque holiday, I decided to reassess Plan A - it just wasn't in the cards this year.

I started to think of ways to spend my time differently this year; let's call this Plan B... Four days off work, no real responsibilities, and a very strong desire to avoid Black Friday at all costs. Meaning I could spend four days hiking around Southern California, footloose and fancy-free. Maybe my long-delayed hike of the La Jolla Canyon Loop in Ventura County or the Backbone Trail near Malibu. However, a quick peek showed that Southern California's last couple of fires and the follow-on rainy seasons had resulted in many trail closures in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Thinking less grandiose, living in the foothills means plenty of hikes much closer to home. My decision was made; I planned to strike out and hike the 'Glendale trifecta' (the Verdugo Mountain Peaks, Cherry Canyon-Cerro Negro Loop, and Mt. Lukens Loop). About twenty-five to thirty miles of mostly quiet hiking in my backyard. Ace the Wonder Dog and I were set for our very own Thanksgiving #optoutside adventure...

Alas, Plan B was dashed by Mother Nature. A series of Pacific storms decided to race down the California Coast, making this year's holiday one of the coldest and wettest Thanksgiving weekends in Los Angeles in the past 15 years. While the cold would have been manageable, washed-out and muddy trails (and a twenty-pound Scottish Terrier/Schnauzer), don't mix...

On to Plan C... a scaled-down, traditional Thanksgiving dinner, maybe a movie, and some much-needed rest. A wonderful lazy, long weekend...As those of you who have ever prepared a "traditional" family Thanksgiving know, just the food prep and cooking is an all-day affair (I even started the night before), not to mention the dreaded dishes! So much for relaxing!

But slave away in the kitchen, I did (but I got to watch Zombieland while cooking). The menu was mostly my Mom's traditional recipes, with a couple of my own additions. Everything was delicious, if I do say so myself. But even with my efforts to cut all the recipes in half, there were still tons of leftovers - but I'll return to food later... I can hear you, gentle reader asking a question... "Zombieland, why on earth watch Zombieland as a Thanksgiving movie?!" My answer was, "Why not?"

But really, I generally avoid horror movies, almost like I would a zombie-inducing plague. That said, a few days before, I stumbled upon a really well-written (and positive) review of the Zombieland sequel Zombieland: Double Tap. The author raved about how funny the sequel was (and how much they enjoyed the parody-esque original). The review was so gushing I decided to see the new movie over my newly freed-up long weekend. But before going to see Double Tap, I naturally decided I needed to watch the original movie first...hence my cooking companion for the day.

Review

Zombieland directed by Ruben Fleischer
My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

Let me say what a treat this 2009 movie was to watch. Clearly, my disdain for horror movies has been misplaced, at least for comedy/horror/romance movies. Like most really good movies, everything starts with the script. Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick's story is wry, witty, and has snappy dialog (the kind I narrate in my head during "real" conversations!). The story here is coupled with quick pacing, and interesting visual overlays, including the '31 Rules' and Zombie Kill of the Week cuts by director Ruben Fleischer (in his feature directorial debut). His direction seamlessly ties excellent performances by the cast (Jesse Eisenberg, Emma Stone, Woody Harrelson, and Abigail Breslin) into one funny (not-so-scary) little (81-minute) horror/comedy film that one professional reviewer called a "balls out the entertaining movie." The blood and gore are there, but not so overwhelming, and certainly not just for blood and gore's sake (which is probably why I like this movie - did I mention it was entertaining?).

The comedic timing of the actors and human relationship story elements make up for some questionable decisions the characters make (seriously, in a world infested with fast-moving, light and noise-sensitive, flesh-eating zombies, why would you turn on all the lights and music at an amusement park?!). But this is a horror/comedy, after all... I thoroughly enjoyed the production, the "surprise" cameo in the middle of the movie, and the slow-mo gory scenes, which ended up being really fun.

Completely not what I had expected..with a name like Zombieland!! It changed my mind completely about this sub-genre of honor films, and I'd rank it up there with some of my other favorite screwball comedies like Kelly's Heroes, Big Trouble in Little China, The Great Race, and Dr. Strangelove. So, bring on Shaun of the Dead and Warm Bodies!

I know, I know, this probably sounds like a terrible Thanksgiving to the more extroverted personality types in my family, the ones who thrive on social activity (you know who you are!), but an excellent dinner, a funny movie, and time to myself, really worked for me..but next year I will finish those hikes, or at least head back East for a Plan A vacation!

To that end, this year, I am grateful not only for my family and the blessings of years of special holiday memories but also for some serious time to decompress and hang out alone (with some canine companionship). No real expectations, no responsibilities, and no worries (well, at least not many). I'm also thankful for Zombieland and the broadening of my movie genre palate.

Epilogue - 'Twas the Night After Thanksgiving...

I mentioned the food earlier; despite dropping from a 23/24 pound turkey to a 15-pound bird this year, there were still plenty of leftovers. But most importantly, the turkey carcass. With extra time on my hands (with few family obligations), I decided to try my hand at one of my Mom's old favorites, Turkey Carcass Soup. All of (or perhaps any of) my culinary skills are largely due to my Mom (thank you, I love you), so in an effort to get as many family recipes documented as possible, here is my take on her original recipe:

Turkey Carcass and Vegetable Soup

Ingredients

1 turkey carcass
4 quarts water
2lbs little (baby) potatoes (halved or quartered)
16oz baby carrots, diced
4-6 stalks of celery, chopped
2 14.5oz cans of diced tomatoes (I prefer the ones seasoned with basil, garlic, & oregano)
1 10oz bag of frozen peas
1 10oz bag of frozen corn
48oz turkey bone broth (chicken stock can be substituted in a pinch) - optional
1 tablespoon of garlic salt
1½ tablespoons of onion powder (you can substitute 1 large diced onion)

Simmering the carcass

1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
1½ teaspoons of kosher salt
1 teaspoon of dried parsley flakes
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1 bay leaf
½ teaspoon of granulated garlic
¼ teaspoon of cracked black pepper
¼ teaspoon of paprika
¼ teaspoon of poultry seasoning
1 pinch of dried thyme

Directions

1. Place the turkey carcass (I also included the turkey wings) in a large stock pot and add the water; bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer, cover the pot, and cook the turkey frame until the remaining meat falls off the bones (at least 1 hour, but even better if it can simmer overnight).
2. Use a wire strainer to remove the turkey carcass bones and separate the meat. 
3. Chop the meat (and look for small bones, especially ribs).
4. Strain the broth through a mesh strainer into a clean soup pot and add the chopped turkey (sans bones) back into the broth. Depending on the length of time you simmered the carcass (and your personal preference for the liquidity of your soup, you may want to add the turkey bone broth at this time. Bring the mix to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer.
5. Stir in the potatoes, carrots, celery, tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, and dry seasonings and simmer for an additional 30 minutes.
6. Add in the frozen corn and peas and simmer for a final 30 minutes (until all the vegetables are tender),
7. Remove the bay leaf, and the soup is ready to serve.

Morning Glory (REVIEW)

Morning Glory directed by Roger Michell
My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

Slowly, but surely, I find myself liking Rachel McAdams more and more. Her latest film, Morning Glory is the story of Becky Fuller an ambitious young producer who is, somewhat surprisingly, given the opportunity to resurrect the long-ailing, 40-year old network morning news program, "Daybreak."

Based on early promos, I had Morning Glory pegged as a typical chick flick, and went to see it with pretty low expectations. It is a good thing Mom taught me not to judge a book by its cover...because the good news is that while Morning Glory did make a nice date movie—it has a good story, a great cast, and a less-than-typical Hollywood comedy script, it really wasn't a chick flick and director Roger Michell and producer J.J. Abrams have put together an enjoyable film. Overall the movie works, so women shouldn't have a problem getting their men to watch it (once they get them to the theater).

The ensemble cast includes Diane Keaton as the show's co-anchor Colleen Peck. Keaton does good work as a spry, albeit aging, morning news personality willing to try almost anything to keep the jeopardized program afloat. Patrick Wilson is Adam (Becky's love interest), a story editor for a news magazine show. Becky clicks with Adam almost immediately but her devotion to her job interferes with her relationship throughout the film (in the romantic sub-plot). The romance between McAdams and Wilson isn't heavy-handed, and seems like mostly an afterthought—although McAdams does look great in the lingerie she wore for Adam in their second date scene (but that's neither here nor there).

Additional supporting cast include John Pankow, Jeff Goldblum, and Patti D'Arbanville who all deliver excellent supporting performances. But Harrison Ford playing the distinguished veteran newsman Michael Pomeroy headlines the ensemble. Pomeroy is an old school, serious news anchor, who maintains that the "news is a sacred temple" and that he is "too good" to stoop to doing fluff pieces, which happen to be the lifeblood of morning talk shows. Heroine Becky is able to finagle him into taking a co-anchor position across from Keaton's Peck, but neither woman can get him to warm up to the morning news routine...

I found myself laughing as writer Aline Brosh McKenna mocks the insipid jokes and fake laughs of the morning news shows that we see on camera, and more than once I wondered if the movie portrays what is really going on behind the scenes at the Today Show. Diane Keaton and Ford play off each other so well as enraged egomaniacs, their mutual upstaging and bickering, turned off just in time for the cameras to roll made me hope for more scenes of them together.

Regardless of the star power of the movie's supporting cast, Rachel McAdams is the focus of this movie. McAdams' Fuller has that schizophrenic quality that Hollywood (and to some extent our society) uses as shorthand for career-minded women. She obsesses over her work, she flits from idea to idea at an afternoon "first date" dinner (a date whom she manages to scare off in minutes), and can't quite decide when to silence her meandering babbles in front of anyone, let alone her future boss (Jeff Goldblum), a television executive who's not sure if he should take a chance on her.

I only recall seeing Rachel McAdams in Mean Girls and Sherlock Holmes prior to this movie. Playing the antagonist in Mean Girls, and she did a good job, but I really didn't realize what a very charming and talented actress she was, until Sherlock Holmes, where she played a wonderful foil to Robert Downey, Jr.'s Holmes. She more than carried her weight in that "buddy" adventure/thriller. Here, she proves to be a very good comedienne, and she is able to take Hollywood's contrived cliché of the talky, klutzy, heart of gold heroine, and turn in a performance that seems genuine and endearing. The more I see of McAdams' performances, the more I want to go see.

The real centerpieces of Morning Glory are the scenes between McAdams and Harrison Ford. At first, to me at least, Ford doesn't quite feel right as the self-important, somewhat arrogant, newsman Michael Pomeroy, who, as Becky is constantly reminded, is the "third worst person in the world." I just can't see Ford as a Cronkite, Brokaw or Rather. As the movie progresses, director Roger Michell is able take that "he doesn't quite fit" feeling and couple it with the star-power and weight that both Ford and Pomeroy posses – the weight to crush the plucky Becky (and McAdams).

What I found interesting, was how Michell controlled Ford's "star power" in much the same way a race car driver controls his speeding car to avoid crashing into the wall – a wall where the spectators/audience are watching and expecting, dare I say anticipating, a crash. Michell uses this as a Sword of Damocles. One that hangs over Becky/McAdams' head. Michell engages the audience with the star-power of Ford and moves forward the mentor/student-father/daughter relationship between Ford and McAdams' characters, all the while avoiding the crash.

These scenes, between these two principals, are each very good, pretty funny, and end up being some of my favorites scenes in the movie. From the hunting scene where they first meet, to the frittata scene at Pomeroy's apartment (foreshadowing the dénouement), Each scene is an excellent piece of the acting/directing craft.

Being a big Ford fan, I'm glad to say he did some really good work in this film, and despite my initial misgivings about him as an "elder statesman of news" Some of Pomeroy's sarcastic one-liners are simply laugh-out-loud funny. In the end I forget my initial misgivings and end up liking and identifying with his character as he warms up to McAdams.

What's not to like? Despite all of my praise for the actors, the main shortcoming of the film (for me) really has to do with the predictable, telegraphed, and underwhelming dénouement (where Becky finally gets the interview for her dream job at the Today Show, forcing her to choose between what she has created at "Daybreak" and her dream). Although we get a typical Hollywood ending, I didn't feel a sense of closure as the credits rolled. It could have been the editing, or the script itself, but it just fell flat... that said, if you are a Rachel McAdams or Harrison Ford fan, you'll enjoy this one, and I'm anxious to see McAdams' next film...