The intent is good but the result is not the same when Emma Thompson plays the aged but (before) celebrated talk show host Katherine, whose job is threatened by a cold-hearted manager who only cares about viewership figures.
The host is an arrogant devil who realizes that her time in power is about to run out and forces her ignored producer to ill-employ a woman to get some new blood. Katherine's editorial team consists of a hundred percent of men, which of course seems like a pretty cramped premise today, even in Trump's USA, but okay, this is a comedy that speaks with very big letters and which might feel a little daring for that's 20 years ago.
Reach. Entering the stage is the unqualified but naturally comical Mali (or "Molly" whom she calls herself to facilitate the disabled employees) who is not only a young woman, she also has Indian origin and workers background. In other words, a three step rocket straight up the ass of the white middle class patriarchy.
She makes a success with her pragmatic down-to-earth style, quickly turning into an indispensable Sancho Pancha for Katherine in her fight against the company's accounts. Molly also gets "nice" cliché contact with the programmer's cabin-sitting old man, played by John Lithgow in probably his most menless role in his long career.
The theme of a young woman coming to dust off an old institution has become an institution in itself. Whether the cleaning is done at a police station (from Dirty Harry onwards), office or a TV editor, the moral template is clear: the main role of the piece should look down on the newcomer first to see the light later. Same thing here.
Late night is a bit like a diversity-preaching long-film version of the TV series 30 Rock - where mybufflike Alec Baldwin and brilliant Tina Fey (also script) deliver sharp humor, and indirectly turn on the light, oblique distribution of power. Late night works to the contrary; the good intent comes first, any humor may come after.
Actress Mindy Kaling , who does Molly, has good timing but is forced into a small painting script (which she has written herself) packed with #metoo, representation, quotation and age racism (ageism in English - is there any better Swedish word?) And who of course the old bechdel test can pass.
It is not particularly fun, though.
Or yes, bit by bit, but the sentimental ending almost blurs out the good memories of the first hour, which nevertheless delivered some nice replicas, usually shot out of the always-worthy Emma Thompson's mongipa (has she ever made a bad effort?). But then, when the bag is to be tied together, everyone in an unminded hand-turn becomes good friends and unites in an annoying heart-warm hug party - and a sour-faced critic wanders the trumpet out of the cinema.