Entertainment
Review: As Dick Van Dyke turns 100, a PBS documentary fetes an artist who’s easy to celebrate
Dick Van Dyke turns 100 on Saturday, an event so eagerly anticipated that for him not to do so would seem cosmically wrong. It may be generationally vain of me to imagine that the beauties of “The Dick Van Dyke Show” and “Mary Poppins” are known and loved by those after their time, but as they remain available to watch and are still shared by parents with their children, it seems likely.
Although Van Dyke’s professional schedule isn’t what it was — a canceled public appearance in June made headlines, sending waves of concern throughout the nation — he has remained visible over the last decade in interviews and social media posts, often dancing or exercising, and the odd acting job. In 2023, he appeared on “The Masked Singer” as “The Gnome” and guested for a four-episode run on “Days of Our Lives” as a man with amnesia. (It won him — another — Emmy.) He marked his 99th birthday by appearing in a Coldplay video, shot at his Malibu home, dancing to “All My Love” as Chris Martin sings at the piano. (They went on “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” together.) His latest book, “100 Rules for Living to 100: An Optimist’s Guide to a Happy Life,” came out last month, following “My Lucky Life In and Out of Show Business” (2011) and “Keep Moving: And Other Tips and Truths About Aging” (2015).
Friday brings a PBS special, “Starring Dick Van Dyke,” appearing as part of the “American Masters” series — and who would deny that he has earned that title? (An unconnected film, “Dick Van Dyke 100th Celebration,” will play exclusively at Regent Theaters on Saturday and Sunday.) Directed by John Scheinfeld (“Reinventing Elvis: The ’68 Comeback,” “The U.S. vs. John Lennon”), it’s a celebration of a man and an artist easy to celebrate, a bringer of joy whose signature song — from “Bye Bye, Birdie, “ which made him a Broadway star and led to his becoming a movie star and a TV star — is “Put On a Happy Face.” Though the actor’s alcoholism is addressed here, in a long excerpt from a 1974 Dick Cavett interview — he’s been sober since 1972 — dark times are generally elided. The end of his first marriage, to Margie Willett, the mother of his four children, is expressed only by the words “drifting apart” and digitally erasing her from a family photo; it should be said here that Van Dyke has no official connection to this film and is not newly interviewed here.
Gathered together among the performance clips that are the main reason to watch the film are testimonies from famous friends and fans, which amount to: Van Dyke was a delight to know, to work with, or to watch. We hear from Carol Burnett, seen with him in pre-fame clips from “The Garry Moore Show” and together again in his own 1976 variety show “Van Dyke and Company” (brilliantly improvising an unplanned slow-motion fight between a couple of oldsters). Julie Andrews, his “Mary Poppins” co-star, does not think that Van Dyke’s controversial Cockney accent is all that bad, “and he was so rivetingly entertaining, funny and sweet, one really didn’t get bothered by it.”
Dick Van Dyke in a publicity still for Disney’s musical film “Mary Poppins.”
(Silver Screen Collection/Getty Images)
Steve Martin awards him “a likability factor of 10,” and Martin Short (seated inevitably next to Martin) recalls scribbling “DVD” in a script meaning “do Dick Van Dyke.” Ted Danson, another long-limbed actor, on whose sitcom “Becker” Van Dyke guested in a run of episodes as his father in “a serious turn,” says that “he did all the human things but in such an elegant way.” Jim Carrey — himself noted for a certain Van Dyke-like rubberiness — thinks the star’s famous trip over an ottoman in the opening credits of his sitcom, is “not a pratfall, it’s a metaphor; if you tumble, you got to pop right up and laugh at yourself, because you’re ridiculous — we’re all ridiculous — and life is an obstacle course of unforeseen ottomans.”
Conan O’Brien compares him to Gumby and dances with him on his TBS talk show. Larry Mathews, who played son Ritchie on “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” pronounces him “chill.” We also get Pat Boone, on whose late ‘50s variety show Van Dyke appeared; Karen Dotrice, who played little Jane Banks in “Poppins”; NPR media analyst Eric Deggans, providing context; and Victoria Rowell, from Van Dyke’s 1993 mystery series, “Diagnosis: Murder,” which ran three seasons longer than “The Dick Van Dyke Show” and may, in some circles, be what he’s best known for.
And there are, of course, archival interviews with the late Carl Reiner, who created “The Dick Van Dyke Show” and calls its star “the single most talented man that’s ever been in situation comedy,” and co-star Mary Tyler Moore, whose sexual chemistry with Van Dyke, as Rob and Laurie Petrie, was something new for television in 1961 and rarely equaled since. (They were perhaps the only sitcom couple who danced and sang together.) That series, which ran until 1966, when Reiner and company, not wanting to get stale, pulled it from the air, was the perfect frame for the star’s gifts, an unusually lifelike workplace/family comedy that made room for Van Dyke’s silent-movie physical comedy and reactions.
Purely as a film, “Starring Dick Van Dyke” does suffer some from the challenge of tracking a 100-year life and a career that runs back more than eight decades; it’s something of an unwieldy hodgepodge whose flow, like many such documentaries, depends on who agrees to talk, what they have to say, what photos and films are available (and affordable) and, of course, what interests the filmmakers. Disappointingly, there are no clips from the 1971 sitcom “The New Dick Van Dyke Show,” which Van Dyke dismisses here but I quite liked, and surprisingly, no mention of the 2004 reunion, “The Dick Van Dyke Show Revisited,” written by Reiner and featuring all the surviving cast members. (I also have some issues with the kooky framing graphics.)
But there’s so much to see (and hear), going back to a snippet of the future star on local radio in Danville, Ill., where he started working as a teenager, and footage of him in the Merry Mutes, the lip-syncing double act that started his nightclub career in the late 1940s; various unsuccessful stints as a morning show anchor (with Walter Cronkite), a cartoon show host and a game show host; and performing “Put on a Happy Face” alongside Broadway castmate Susan Watson.
Appropriately, the most time is dedicated to “The Dick Van Dyke Show” and “Mary Poppins” (along with “Mary Poppins Returns,” in which Van Dyke, as the aged son of the aged banker he surreptitiously played in the first film, danced on a desk — at 93. The production and rehearsal photos are delightful — and a gift to Moore and Andrews fans as well — with everyone looking young and beautiful. He paints himself as “lazy” and “lucky,” not driven (except to earn a living for his family), “not an actor.” But the world decided for itself.
Apart from the 1968 “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” a sort of “Poppins” redux that has a considerable consistency of its own, and the Reiner penned-and-directed “The Comic,” a 1969 drama about a silent film comedian reckoning with the talkies, his post “Poppins” theatrical films are relegated to a single description and a collage — not even a montage — of posters. More attention is paid to “The Morning After,” a 1974 TV movie in which Van Dyke played an alcoholic businessman; it was around then that he went public with his own drinking problem.
Toward the end, the documentary sometimes has the air of a promotional piece, with accounts of charities Van Dyke supports. But two hours of Van Dyke performances cannot help but be entertaining. All you need to do is set up the clips and get out of the way. A man desperately searching for a handkerchief while trying to stifle a sneeze, the world’s oldest magician making a comeback — these hilarious bits require no context.
Inevitably, it is also a story of time, given a century of photos and films marking every stage of life. His long arms, his long legs and his overall all length are not what they used to be. But the long (which is not to say sad) face is as recognizable and expressive as it ever was.
‘4’, the opening track on Richard D James’ (Aphex Twin) self titled 1996 album is a piece of music that beautifully balances the chaotic with the serene, the oppressive and the freeing. It’s a trick that James has pulled off multiple times throughout his career and it is a huge part of what makes him such an iconic and influential artist. Many people have laid the “next Aphex Twin” label on musicians who do things slightly different and when you actually hear their music you realise that, once again, the label is flawed and applied with a lazy attitude. Why mention this? Well, it turns out we’ve been looking for James’ heir apparent in the wrong artform. We’ve so zoned in on music that we’ve not noticed that another Celtic son of Cornwall is rewriting an art form with that highwire balancing act between chaos and beauty. That artist is writer, director and composer Mark Jenkin who over his last two feature films has announced himself as an idiosyncratic voice who is creating his very own language within the world of cinema. Jenkin’s films are often centred around coastal towns or islands and whilst they are experimental or even unsettling, there is always a big heart at the centre of the narrative. A heart that cares about family, tradition, culture, and the pull of ‘home’. Even during the horror of 2022’s brilliant Enys Men you were anchored by the vulnerability and determination of its main protagonist.
This month sees the release of Jenkin’s latest feature film, Rose of Nevada, which is set in a fractured and diminished Cornish coastal town. One day the fishing boat of the film’s title arrives back in harbour after being missing for thirty years. The boat is unoccupied. And frankly that is all the information you are going to get because to discuss any more plot would be unfair on you and disrespectful to Jenkin and the team behind the film. You the viewer should be the one who decides what it is about because thematically there are so many wonderful threads to pull on. This writer’s opinions on what it is about have ranged from a theme of sacrifice for the good of a community to the conflict within when part of you wants to run away from your roots whilst the other half longs to stay and be a lifelong part of its tapestry. Is it about Brexit? Could be. Is it about our own relationships with time and our curation of memory? Could be. Is it about both the positives and negatives of nostalgia? Could be. As a side note, anyone in their mid-40s, like me, who came of age in the 1990s will certainly find moments of warm recognition. Is the film about ghosts and how they haunt families? Could be…I think you get the point.
The elements that make the film so well balanced between chaos and calm are many. It is there in the differing performances between the brilliant two lead actors George MacKay and Callum Turner. It is there in the sound design which fluctuates from being unbearably harsh and metallic, to lulling and warm. It is there in the editing where short, sharp close ups on seemingly unimportant factors are counterbalanced with shots that are held for just that little bit too long. For a film set around the sea, it is apt that it can make you feel like you’re rolling on a stomach churning storm one minute, or a calming low tide the next. Dialogue can be front and centre or blurred and buried under static. One shot is bathed in harsh sunlight whilst the next can be drowned in interior shadows.
Rose of Nevada is Mark Jenkin’s most ambitious film to date yet he has not lost a single iota of innovation, singularity of vision or his gift for telling the most human of stories. It is a film that will tell you different things each time you see it and whilst there are moments that can confuse or beguile, there is so much empathy and love that it can leave you crying tears of emotional understanding. It is chaotic. It is beautiful. It is life……
Rose of Nevada is released on the 24th April.
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Review by Simon Tucker
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Inside the ornate Bovard Auditorium, Larry David kept a full audience in stitches as he discussed the creation and legacy of his improv hit, “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” which concluded in 2024 after 12 seasons.
In a conversation with Lorraine Ali — who wrote “No Lessons Learned: The Making of Curb Your Enthusiasm,” which retraces the show’s 24-year run with cast interviews, episode guides and behind-the-scenes material — David reflected on the separation between himself and the abrasive on-screen persona he adopted for more than two decades.
“I wish I was that Larry David,” he said.
David spoke about the outrageous audition process for “Curb,” wherein actors tried to navigate a brief written scenario without any dialogue to guide them as David lambasted them in character. Out of this process came iconic one-liners and beloved characters, such as Leon, played by J.B. Smoove.
“People bring out certain things, and when I would act with them, some of them would make me seem funny,” David said. “I go, ‘Oh, that’s good — let’s give him a part.’”
David cited “Palestinian Chicken” as one of his favorite episodes of the show. In the episode, David is caught between a delicious new Palestinian chicken restaurant, a Palestinian girlfriend and an outraged inner circle of Jewish friends.
He also spoke briefly about his upcoming episodic HBO series, “Life, Larry and the Pursuit of Happiness,” a historical spoof that will retrace United States history for the country’s 250th founding anniversary. The series will premiere on Aug. 7.
“A lot of wigs, costumes, beards — fake beards,” David said. “Nothing worse than fake beards.”
The controversial ending of “Seinfeld,” which David co-wrote with comedian Jerry Seinfeld, was polarizing among fans when it was released, David said. After a recent rewatch, however, David said he thought it was “pretty good,” to a round of applause from the audience.
Near the end of the panel, an audience member asked a question some definitely had on their mind: Will “Seinfeld” ever get a reunion?
“No,” David replied without missing a beat.
Movie Reviews
‘Hen’ movie review: György Pálfi pecks at Europe’s migrant crisis through the eyes of a chicken
A rogue chicken observes the world around it—and particularly the plight of immigrants in Greece—in Hen, which premiered at last year’s Toronto International Film Festival and is now playing in Prague cinemas (and with English subtitles at Kino Světozor and Edison Filmhub). This story of man through the eyes of an animal immediately recalls Robert Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar (and Jerzy Skolimowski’s more recent EO), but director and co-writer György Pálfi (Taxidermia) maintains a bitter, unsentimental approach that lands with unexpected force.
Hen opens with striking scenes inside an industrial poultry facility, where eggs are laid, processed, and shuttled along assembly lines of machinery and human hands in an almost mechanized rhythm of production. From this system emerges our protagonist: a black chick that immediately stands apart from the others, its entry into the world defined not by nature, but by an uncaring food industry.
The titular hen matures quickly within this environment before being loaded onto a truck with the others, presumably destined for slaughter. Because of her black plumage, she is singled out by the driver and rejected from the shipment, only to be told she will instead end up as soup in his wife’s kitchen. During a stop at a gas station, however, she escapes.
What follows is a journey through rural Greece by the sea, including an encounter with a fox, before she eventually finds refuge at a decaying roadside restaurant run by an older man (Yannis Kokiasmenos), his daughter (Maria Diakopanayotou), and her child. Discovered by the family’s dog Titan, she is placed in a coop alongside other chickens.
After finding a mate in the local rooster, she lays eggs that are regularly collected by the man; in one quietly unsettling scene, she watches him crack them open and cook them into an omelet. The hen repeatedly attempts to escape, as we slowly observe the true function of the property: it is being used as a transit point for migrants arriving in Greece by boat, facilitated by local criminal figures.
Like Au Hasard Balthazar and EO, Hen largely resists anthropomorphizing its animal protagonist. The hen behaves as a hen, and the humans treat her accordingly, creating a work that feels unusually grounded and almost documentary in texture. At the same time, Pálfi allows space for the audience to project meaning onto her journey, never fully closing the gap between instinct and interpretation.
There are moments, however, where the film deliberately leans into stylization. A playful montage set to Ravel’s Boléro captures her repeated escape attempts from the coop, while a romantic musical cue underscores her brief pairing with the rooster. These sequences do not break the realism so much as refract it, gently encouraging us to read emotion into behavior that remains, on the surface, purely animal.
One of the film’s central narrative threads is the hen’s search for a safe space to lay her eggs without them being taken away by the restaurant owner. This deceptively simple instinct becomes a powerful thematic mirror for the film’s human subplot involving migrant trafficking. Pálfi draws a stark, often uncomfortable parallel between the treatment of animals as commodities and the treatment of displaced people as disposable bodies moving through a similar system of exploitation.
The film takes an increasingly bleak turn toward its climax as the migrant storyline comes fully into focus, sharpening its allegorical intent. The juxtaposition of animal and human vulnerability becomes more explicit, reinforcing the film’s central critique of systemic indifference and violence. While effective, this escalation feels unusually dark, and our protagonist’s unknowing role feels particularly cruel.
The use of animal actors in Hen is remarkable throughout. The hen—played by eight trained chickens—is seamlessly integrated into the film’s world, with seamless editing (by Réka Lemhényi) and staging so precise that at times it feels almost impossible without digital augmentation. While subtle effects work must assist at certain moments, the result is convincing throughout, including standout sequences involving a fox and a dog.
Zoltán Dévényi and Giorgos Karvelas’ cinematography is also impressive, capturing both the intimacy of the hen’s low vantage point and the broader Greek landscape with striking clarity. The camera’s proximity to the animal world gives the film a distinct visual grammar, grounding its allegory in tactile observation rather than abstraction.
Hen is a challenging but often deeply affecting allegory that extends the tradition of animal-centered cinema while pushing it into harsher political territory. Pálfi’s approach—unsentimental, patient, and often confrontational—ensures the film lingers long after its final images. It is not an easy watch, nor a comfortable one, but it is a strikingly original piece of filmmaking that uses its unusual perspective to cast familiar human horrors in a stark, unsettling new light.
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