The directorial reins in episode 3 switch from David Gordon Green to Andrew Fleming, who in the 1990s directed The Craft and the Watergate satire Dick. Recently he’s been directing not-great TV like Bad Judge and The Michael J. Fox Show, and the handover to a more TV-oriented helmer shows in “The Wedding,” which begins with two uninspired goofball scenes and then introduces the terrific, unafraid-of-going-camp “Special Guest Star” Gina Gershon as Getty’s wife, only to waste her in a nothing part.
A crude music video (though not authentically ’80s camcorder crude) is the demo that gets David hired as the assistant for the lecherous photographer Barry. Then David and Karen are browsing through a video store when they skulk into the Adults Only section and encounter David’s dad, Sam. Richard Kind makes the moment work with his line, “This — this isn’t the Western section! Then — then why are there saloon doors?” But this is Grade A sitcom syrup, derived straight from the spigot of laugh-track network comedy.
It’s revealed that Dr. Kornblatt (Barry Godin), the man throwing the wedding at Red Oaks for his daughter, is a cardiologist. Sentimentalists for shopping mall stores of yesteryear, though, will smile when Nash explains to David how Kornblatt really made his money:
Nash: “All of this was paid for by Yogurt Whimsy.”
David: “The place next to Supercuts?”
Nash: “And Crown Books and K-B Toys and a dozen other locations throughout North Jersey.”
Crown Books went belly up in 2001; K-B Toys somehow kept its plastic head from popping off until 2009.
Most of the episode cuts between high jinks during the wedding. It should have focused more on Getty and his wife, if only for the pleasure of seeing Paul Reiser and Gina Gershon as an obscenely rich power couple. Her one significant dialogue scene doesn’t even capitalize on Gershon’s talent for delivering juicy lines. (No matter what positive things people are saying 20 years later, Showgirls is still an execrable movie — except for her performance.) She and Getty chat with a high society woman, who’s bragging about the facelift she received from Getty’s tennis nemesis, Dr. Feinberg. “Is it my imagination,” Getty says once the woman’s walked away, pointing with his scotch in hand, “Or does she actually look worse?”
His wife looks at him. “What, you’re not going to pay for my face-lift?”
NEXT: Getty gets empathy