Last Friday was a fine day. My first time off sick from work in I don’t know how long. The chance to spend a whole day in my pyjamas, make a bowl of pasta and a pot of coffee and treat myself to a three-movie-marathon. Joy to the world.I must have watched One Fine Day and Addicted to Love more than 50 times. Each time I watch them, I am convinced there is nothing more to discover and, each time, I’m wrong. The third film in my marathon was, appropriate given the date, Harold Ramis’s brilliantly imaginative, Groundhog Day.Groundhog Day made me sit up and smile, it’s something special, although I do think it would have been an even better film without Andie MacDowell. She’s appealing enough, but her chemistry with Bill Murray isn’t exactly smouldering.Maybe I’m in the minority, but I would have preferred it if Michelle Pfeiffer had played Phil Conners’ beautiful, sarcastic producer, or maybe Phil should have fallen head over heels for the bewitchingly pretty Meg Ryan in Punxsutawney?Now I think about it; 90’s vintage Pfeiffer and Ryan make a near-symmetrical contrast to each other. One a pert, perky American Sweetheart, the Queen of cute-o-rama. The other a poised, intelligent and gracious grand dame of acting.
Michelle’s movies are like medicine to me. They’ve become a kind of booster shot. When I have a specific ailment, I prescribe myself a dose of the Pfeiffer. Friday was a One Fine Day kind of day. I don’t know why, but I know I needed it.Played side by side, One Fine Day and Addicted to Love engaged in a nice tug-of-war as they strove to capture the pulse of a genuine screwball comedy. Watching Meg and Michelle paying homage to Rosalind Russell and Jean Arthur, was like a Cupid’s arrow straight to my heart, a heady cocktail of love and laughter.Screwball sensibility is a rare gift, you either have it or you’ve had it. Pfeiffer and Ryan had it in different ways, but they both commanded the screen. Their sea of talent was deep and wide in the face of that great equalizer, the camera lens.So will I ever see their like again? My feeling is that it’s like asking if we’ll ever have another Mozart. The product of a special time simply cannot be replicated.I am disappointed by this thought, but I think I should embrace it. It makes their art unique, unquenchable. Watching my “twin muses” perform is a joy. Maybe I should be content with their greatness rather than dream of their duplication.