Welcome back to the Deep Dive. This is where
we really get into the sources, pull out the
key knowledge, the interesting bits, and give
you that critical take you're looking for. Yeah,
the stuff that makes you think. Exactly. And
today we're tackling a career that's just, well,
it's all over the place in the best way possible.
It almost defies, you know, the idea of a straight
career path. We are talking about Thomas Griffin
Dunn. Born 1955, so 70 next year. And this is
someone who's been a cult movie star. Right.
An Oscar -nominated director. He's contended
for a primetime Emmy. And now, just recently,
a New York Times bestselling author. It's quite
the list. And when you actually look at the sources,
I mean, the term multi -hyphenate, it doesn't
even quite cover it, does it? Not really. It
feels insufficient. Because he's not just dabbling.
He's hitting, like... Peak recognition in these
different fields, actor, director, producer,
writer, often all at the same time, it seems.
So our goal today, I think, is really to pull
together these key moments, these professional
milestones. Yeah, synthesize them. Exactly. Yeah.
And also understand, you know, how much his family
shaped things. That family background seems crucial,
steeped in narrative and, well, tragedy, too.
Definitely. A family where stories were currency.
Yeah. And then. The big question, right? How
does one guy manage to get nominated for? The
big ones, Oscars, Globes, Emmys. Yeah, all of
those, and also win, like the most infamous anti
-award out there. The Razzie, the golden raspberry
for worst director. Yeah, quite the spread. That
contrast is really something. It really is. That
awards range, you know, from the absolute peak
of critical respect to the... with a basement
of cinematic shame, maybe. Oh, maybe. It feels
like it sums up his whole risk -taking approach.
You could call him a professional chameleon,
maybe. It's a strong term, but yeah. But looking
at the sources, you have to wonder, is that versatility
always a strength? Or could it maybe point to
a lack of a cohesive brand, you know? Something
that might explain those wild swings and how
his work is received. That's a really good question.
Yeah. That's kind of what we need to dig into.
So our starting point, just the basic facts.
Thomas Griffin Dunn, American actor, director,
producer. Got it. But to really get him, you've
got to go back, back to this very unique, very
public environment he grew up in. His story doesn't
kick off on a movie set, really. Oh, where then?
It starts in the intensely verbal, very public,
very literary world of New York society. Okay,
let's unpack that. The foundation. Because those
roots, they seem to explain so much. Born in
New York City. Oldest kid of Dominic Dunn. Right,
the Dominic Dunn. Journalist, novelist, producer,
even actor himself. Famous for chronicling, you
know, the rich and infamous. And his mother,
Ellen Beatriz. And activist. Right, a high profile
in her own way. Absolutely. So this is a family
where telling stories, shaping narratives, it
wasn't just a job. It was like how they operated,
how they existed. In the blood, basically. Completely.
Yeah. And think about the wider circle. His dad,
Dominic. Mixing true crime with high society
gossip in his writing. Yeah, Vanity Fair legend.
And then his aunt and uncle, Joan Didion and
John Gregory Dunn. Wow, just... Wow. Acclaimed
writers doesn't even cut it. Exactly. So he's
not just around creative types. He's growing
up with the absolute preeminent chroniclers of
like modern American life. It's hopes, it's anxieties,
it's contradictions. It's an environment where
everything is material. Everything's part of
a potential story. That context is inescapable,
isn't it? Totally. And you've got this interesting
mix in his heritage, too. His father's side,
Irish Catholic. OK. But his mother's side. Her
father was Irish -American, but her mother, his
maternal grandmother, was from Sonora, Mexico.
Oh, interesting. So that adds another layer,
a cultural breadth there. Yeah, maybe that helps
explain why he seemed so comfortable moving between
different kinds of stories, different social
worlds in his work later on. It could well do.
But that family structure, already so complex
and, you know, public, it got completely shaken,
didn't it? Redefined by tragedy. That's putting
it mildly. The sources are crystal clear on this.
The murder of his sister, Dominique Dunn, in
1982. That was just seismic. A horrible event.
And it threw the whole family into this intense
media spotlight, right? And into the legal system.
Yes. A deeply personal loss that instantly became
this huge public drama and legal fight. And the
direct outcome of that, professionally speaking
for the family. Was his mother, Ellen, founding
the victim's rights group, Justice for Homicide
Victims. Exactly. So think about the timing.
This is the early 80s. Griffin Dunn is just starting
to break through making these memorable films.
While his family is engaged in this incredibly
public, incredibly raw battle over justice, over
how victors are treated, over the failures of
the system. It's intense. It's critical context.
He's making, you know, an American werewolf in
London, this cult horror comedy. And after hours,
this dark, edgy Scorsese film. Right. While simultaneously
his family life is consumed by the grim realities
of violent crime and the justice system, that
kind of split existence. Living in both Hollywood
fantasy and this harsh activist reality back
east. It must have given him a pretty unique
perspective on human drama, both the fictional
kind and the all too real kind. You'd think.
So. Given that backdrop, high society, literary
giants, public tragedy, you might expect a very
calculated path into the arts. But his own journey
into acting, it was a bit rebellious, wasn't
it? Yeah, definitely not a straight line. He
grew up mostly in L .A., but went to these fancy
boarding schools back east. Fay School in Mass.
Okay. And then Fountain Valley School in Colorado.
And that's where he first got the acting bug,
apparently, doing school plays. Right, but didn't
something happen there, something defining? Oh,
yeah. The expulsion story. It's kind of legendary,
and it's actually a huge turning point for him
professionally. What happened? He got expelled
from Fountain Valley for smoking marijuana. Okay.
The night before he was supposed to perform in
Othello. Oh, wow. Talk about dramatic irony.
A moment of sort of youthful rebellion completely
derails his academic path. But crucially, look
what happens next. Getting kicked out doesn't
send him shrinking home. It immediately pivots
him. Back to New York City. To pursue acting
seriously. Exactly. And not just, you know, trying
to find an agent. He goes for hardcore training.
Enrolls at the neighborhood playhouse school
of the theater. Which is a big deal. A very big
deal. Yeah. Studying under Sanford Meisner himself.
The Meisner technique. That emphasizes truthfulness,
right? Emotional reality. Precisely. The reality
of doing. It forces actors to strip away all
the artifice and just react truthfully in the
moment under imaginary circumstances. Which...
Thinking about his upbringing, that very polished
literary narrative heavy world of the Duns and
Didyans. That kind of rigorous, brutally honest
training seems vital, doesn't it? Yeah, like
a necessary counterweight. It grounded him in
emotional realism, maybe, which you definitely
see in his best performances. I think so. It
gave him the tools beyond just his background.
So the family sets the stage, the expulsion forces
the focus, the training provides the skills,
and boom, he lands right in the middle of Hollywood
in the mid -70s. Pretty much. His professional
debut is at 19. A small part in The Other Side
of the Mountain, 1975. Standard enough start.
Standard start, yeah. But things accelerate quickly,
and he lands roles that really define genres,
or at least push boundaries. Okay, let's talk
about that early big one. The horror comedy Pivot,
1981. An American werewolf in London. Jack Goodman.
Jack Goodman, the friend who... well, who doesn't
make it, dies, gets chewed up, and then keeps
coming back. Has this increasingly decomposed,
undead, wisecracking conscience for his buddy
David. It's an iconic role. He has to be genuinely
horrifying, but also incredibly funny, delivering
advice while literally falling apart in a porno
theater lobby. It's pure dark comedy genius.
He nails that balance. The terror, the sharp
timing. It's almost like vaudeville meets decomposition.
That's a great way to put it. And that performance,
it instantly made him a cult figure, right? Someone
who could handle extreme horror makeup and deliver
witty dialogue. Absolutely. Cemented him early
on. But then just a few years later, he shows
incredible range. We have to talk about After
Hours. 1985. Martin Scorsese directing. A black
comedy. That's a huge leap from Werewolves, isn't
it? Starring for Scorsese. Huge leap. But you
can see what Scorsese might have seen. It's that
same core skill Landis used conveying desperation
and paranoia, but through a comedic filter. Okay.
So tell us about Paul Hackett. Paul Hackett is
this ordinary word processor, right? And he gets
stranded in Soho, downtown Manhattan, for one
night that just gets progressively weirder, more
surreal, more dangerous. A total urban nightmare.
Completely. Yeah. And Dunn's performance as Paul
Hackett, he's just trying to get home. He's frustrated.
He's increasingly panicked. He keeps trying to
apply logic to this. Totally illogical sequence
of events. It grounds the whole crazy film. He
does. It must have been exhausting. It requires
so much vulnerability, so much sustained energy.
And it got noticed big time. That role earned
him a Golden Globe nomination. Right. Best actor,
motion picture, musical or comedy, which is interesting
in itself, that category. Yeah. Musical or comedy.
It underlines that point. Again, his dramatic
depth often comes wrapped in this comedic sensibility.
We saw it in Werewolf and definitely here in
After Hours. And if you think about the mid 80s
indie film scene. starring in this really unconventional
Scorsese movie right after a big cult hit like
Werewolf. It shows guts. He wasn't just chasing
mainstream roles. Exactly. He was choosing challenging,
interesting material. He wasn't establishing
himself as like a traditional Hollywood leading
man, more like a brilliant, versatile character
actor who had crucially really good taste. He
knew a good script. And you see that taste in
his later film roles, too. He keeps popping up
in interesting places, mixing it up. Totally.
Think about the range just in supporting roles.
He's opposite Madonna in Who's That Girl in 87.
Which was a massive pop culture thing, even if
the film itself didn't go well. Right. But he
was there. Then he's Jake Bixler in My Girl in
91, that beloved family movie, a much gentler
role. Providing that emotional anchor. Yeah.
And then he's the smarmy Jared -Ole exec in Quiz
Show. 1994. Robert Redford directing, Oscar -nominated
film. He has to capture that specific 1950s TV
world cynicism. He nails it. And he keeps working
in prestigious projects later on, too. Maintains
his relevance. Like his role in Dallas Buyers
Club, 2013 Oscar winner, he plays Dr. Voss. A
key supporting part shows he's still contributing
vital work decades into his career alongside
major stars like McConaughey. And then more recently,
working with Wes Anderson. Yeah, the legal advisor
in the French Dispatch, 2021. Which tells you
something, right? Director's known for very precise,
very specific styles. Scorsese, Anderson, they
keep past him. It suggests they value his ability
for detailed, nuanced character work. And he's
not slowing down. He's in an upcoming film, Caught
Stealing, slated for 2025. So five decades in,
still in demand. That's impressive. It really
is. Okay, so film establishes his range, his
critical potential. But television, TV seems
to be where he built consistency. And maybe surprisingly,
where he got another one of his major award nominations.
Yes, the Emmy nomination. We have to talk about
this because the detail on the sources is fascinating.
It's for outstanding guest actor in a comedy
series. For Frasier. Right, Frasier. Huge show.
But what's so remarkable about the nomination
itself? Well, it wasn't for just one standout
guest spot. The nomination covers two completely
separate appearances he made on the show, years
apart. Wait, really? Yeah. Two different roles
combined for one nomination. How does that work?
Apparently, the rules for guest actor can sometimes
allow for that, submitting multiple non -recurring
appearances within a certain time frame. And
the roles required totally different skills.
Okay, break that down. What were the two appearances?
First one. Right in the pilot episode. The good
son, who's just a voice. A voice. Yeah, the voice
of Russell, one of the callers to Frasier Crane's
radio show. So pure vocal performance. Tone,
warmth, conveying emotion just with his voice.
Okay, that's one skill set, like radio acting.
Exactly. Pure Meisner, but vocal. Then fast forward
three seasons. Season three, episode 11, The
Friend. This time, he's there physically. On
screen. On screen, playing a totally different
character named Bob, who gets tangled up in one
of those classic Frasier farce plots full of
misunderstandings. So a full comedic performance
interacting with the main cast. Right. And the
fact that the Television Academy recognized him
for both this purely auditory role and then this
full physical comedy role, years apart, it just
shows incredible mastery of the sitcom medium.
Yeah, it demonstrates he could make a huge impact
whether you saw him or just heard him. That's
versatile. Extremely. And that ability to handle
both these short, sharp guest spots and also
longer arcs that continue throughout his TV career.
Which brings us to a role that probably defines
him for a whole new generation of viewers. Nicky
Pearson on This Is Us. Absolutely. Jack Pearson's
brother. The troubled younger brother we didn't
even know existed for a while. Right. And that
wasn't just a guest spot. That was a major recurring
role. Huge. 28 episodes. Between 2018 and 2022,
a massive commitment to a network broadcast drama
and a really heavy storyline to dealing with
PTSD, family trauma. It allowed him to show a
completely different side, didn't it? Very dramatic,
very vulnerable, shedding that quirky indie guy
image for something much deeper. Definitely.
Anchoring that emotional arc for years. And beyond
This Is Us, you see him pop up in all sorts of
quality TV. Like where? Well, he was the fast
-talking consultant Marco Pelios on House of
Lies for a stretch. Oh, yeah, with Don Cheadle.
Right, eight episodes there. He did a full season,
13 episodes, of Trust Me. And he showed up in
big prestige dramas like... Goliath, and The
Good Wife. And didn't he direct an episode of
The Good Wife, too? He did, which perfectly tees
up our next section. He was already moving behind
the camera. Glaring those lines. And he's still
current, right? Wasn't he just in Only Murders
in the Building? Yep, 2024. Played Professor
Dudinoff. Yeah. So, yeah, still very much in
the mix. What really stands out looking across
all these decades of acting... What's the thread?
He doesn't seem to chase fame or typecasting.
He chases the interesting character, the nuanced
role. Whether it's, you know, a decomposing werewolf
or a paranoid office worker or a traumatized
vet or a quirky professor, it's about the material.
Which makes perfect sense given his background,
that focus on narrative, on story. Exactly. And
that desire to shape the story, to control the
narrative. It wasn't just in picking roles, it
led him directly behind the camera. Right. Let's
shift gears then to the other hyphens. Yeah.
Producer, director. This wasn't an afterthought,
was it? It started pretty early on. Very early.
Late 1970s, actually. Around the same time his
acting career was taking off, he forms Triple
Play Productions. With collaborators. Yeah, Emmy
Robinson and Marc Metcalf. And this wasn't just,
like, a vanity label. It seems like a really
deliberate move to get control, to make the kinds
of films they want to make. Okay, so what was
their first big project? An adaptation of Anne
Beattie's novel, Chilly Scenes of Winter. Came
out in 1979 initially, but the story around it
is really telling. Oh, what happened? This sounds
like one of those classic Hollywood battles.
It really was. A brutal fight with a distributor,
United Artists. UA got cold feet, basically.
About what? The tone. The ending. They insisted
on changing the title first. From chilly scenes
of winter to the much softer, kind of generic
head over heels. And worse, they demanded a different
ending. The original book and the film they made
had this realistic, maybe ambiguous, Definitely
not traditionally happy ending. Right. True to
life, maybe. Exactly. But UA insisted on tacking
on this forced, upbeat, happy ending. Which probably
felt completely wrong after everything that came
before. Totally wrong. It betrayed the whole
mood. And predictably, that version of the film,
Head Over Heels, it was released. And it bombed.
Short run, nobody really got it. Confusing tone.
So what did Dunn and his partners do? Give up.
No way. This is where you see that Dunn tenacity
may be inherited from his activist mother or
his journalist father. They fought tooth and
nail. To do what? To get the film back. They
eventually secured the rights, found a different
distributor, and years later, in 1982, they re
-released it. Under the original title. Under
the original title, Chilly Scenes of Winter.
And crucially, with the original intended realistic
ending restored. And how did that go? Much better.
It found its audience. It was recognized for
what it was. That whole experience, fighting
the system, protecting the artistic vision. Must
have really cemented his commitment to independence,
right? To sticking to the story you want to tell,
even if the market doesn't immediately get it.
Absolutely. Proving he'd rather lose commercially
short term to win artistically long term. After
Metcalf left, Dunn and Amy Robinson kept going
as double play productions. And they became pretty
significant players in that indie scene. Oh,
yeah. They produced the films that really defined
his early image. After Hours, for example. Which
he also starred in. Right. And other well -regarded
films like Baby, It's You, the River Phoenix
film running on empty Game 6 later on. They built
a real reputation. A strong one. Strong enough
that by 1986, Double Play signed a two -year
production deal with a major studio. Wow. So
they weren't just outsiders anymore. They were
independent, yes, but recognized forces within
the system. Exactly. Bringing unique, character
-driven stories to the screen, often with studio
backing, that's a powerful position. And that
producing success, that desire for control, it
logically leads him to directing, doesn't it?
Seems like the natural next step. And his directorial
debut, well, it took him straight to the top
tier of recognition. Almost immediately. What
was the project? A short film called Duke of
Groove, 1995. Okay. And what happened with it?
This is where that career paradox really starts
to sharpen. Duke of Groove, it's about a teenager
dealing with his mother leaving his father, navigating
that emotional fallout. Sounds like sensitive
material. Yeah. And his first time directing,
it gets nominated for an Academy Award. Seriously?
An Oscar nomination for Best Live Action Short
Film? On his debut. Yep. Shared with the producer,
Tom Colwell. It's almost unheard of to go from
respected actor and producer to Oscar -nominated
director on your very first try. That's incredible
validation for making that leap. So that must
have opened doors for feature directing. You'd
think so. Eddie. And he did move into features,
directing across different genres, too. He did
the rom -com Addicted to Love in 97. With Meg
Ryan and Matthew Broderick. Right. And then maybe
his most well -known directing gig, Practical
Magic, in 98. Oh, yeah. The Witchy Sister movie
with Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman. Total
cult classic now. Became one, yeah. And directing
that, it's interesting, it's a bigger studio
film, blending romance, comedy, fantasy elements.
Yeah. Requires a specific touch. So he showed
he could handle studio projects. Did he do smaller
films, too? He did. He directed Fierce People
in 2005, which was more of an intimate character
study. based on a novel and another rom -com
the accidental husband in 2008 so comfortable
moving between scales and then his most personal
directing work seems to bring everything full
circle right back to the family narrative we
started with exactly we absolutely have to talk
about the 2017 netflix documentary joan didion
the center will not hold his aunt his aunt this
project feels like the ultimate fusion of all
his worlds he produced it He directed it. And
he's in it, right? Interviewing her. Yes. He
appears on screen with her, guiding us through
her life, her work, their relationship. It's
this profound act of family documentation. Using
his filmmaking skills to preserve and interpret
the legacy of one part of his famous family,
it feels like embracing that role, doesn't it?
Chronicler. Absolutely. Taking control of how
that family narrative is presented to the world,
but from the inside this time. Which leads us
perfectly into the final hyphenate. Because he
didn't just stop at documenting others. No. He
became a writer himself, bringing us right back
to that core lineage, Dominic Dunn, Joan Didion.
That literary influence feels almost inevitable
looking back. It really does. And he hasn't just
dabbled. He's contributed proper articles to
some serious publications. The New York Times
travel section. Details magazine, Porter magazine,
often writing about things like travel, memory,
personal reflections. It's thoughtful work. Not
just celebrity puff pieces. No, not at all. He
also put out a collection of short stories as
a Kindle single called Air Guitar. Interesting.
So fiction, too. Yeah. But the biggest literary
step, the most significant one recently, is the
memoir. The Friday Afternoon Club, released just
this year, June 2024. And it hit the New York
Times bestseller list. Right. And that title
alone, The Friday Afternoon Club, it refers to
his family's regular gatherings. It signals he's
now turning that documentary lens fully onto
his own life, his own experience within that
extraordinary and sometimes tragic family. Just
like his father chronicled the lives around him,
now Griffin is chronicling his own. It really
solidifies his role, doesn't it? Yeah. As the
keeper, maybe the transmitter, of that whole
Dundinian legacy. The family business was narrative,
and now he's formally shaping his own story,
the pain, the glamour, the contradictions, into
a public text. It feels like the culmination
of all those different professional choices he's
made. Actor, producer, director, documentarian.
Now memoirist. Exactly. The ultimate expression
of it all. Okay, so let's try and tie all these
strands together now by looking at the award
spectrum. Because this is where his career just
gets fascinatingly paradoxical. The extreme highs
and, well, the lows. Yeah, it's quite the roller
coaster. Let's recap the highs first. The major
industry seals of approval. Golden Globe nomination,
Best Actor for After Hours. Check. Academy Award
nomination, Best Live Action Short Film for directing
Duke of Groove. Check. primetime Emmy Award nomination,
Outstanding Guest Actor in a Comedy Series, for
those two distinct roles on Frasier. Check. That's
acting, directing, across film and TV. It's the
trifecta, basically. Industry recognition at
the highest levels. It demonstrates excellence
across the board. And don't forget the independent
world recognition, too. Right. He actually won
the Independent Spirit Award for Best Feature
back in 86 for producing After Hours. Which is
huge in the indie world. Plus other honors, like
a Pioneer Filmmaker Award from a festival in
2000 and acting awards from festivals like Sarasota
and Sedona later on for a film called The Discoverers.
So consistent recognition from peers and festivals
for his commitment to quality, often independent
work throughout his career. Exactly. Highs. Validated
highs. But then, then you hit the other end of
the spectrum. The polar opposite. The Razzie.
The Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Director.
2013. It's just such a jarring contrast, isn't
it? An Oscar nominee for directing holds a Razzie
for directing. How does that even happen? Okay,
context is key here. Yeah. He won the Razzie
for directing one segment, a segment called Veronica,
in that absolutely notorious anthology film,
Movie 43. Oh, Movie 43. I remember the buzz around
that. It was supposed to be outrageous. Right.
Critically savaged. Universally panned is probably
fair. It was this huge, sprawling, incredibly
vulgar sketch comedy film. Tons of directors
involved, Peter Farrelly, Brett Ratner, others,
and a massive star -studded cast doing, well,
doing intentionally offensive stuff. So his Razzie
was for just one part of that collective disaster.
Yeah, the Razzie sometimes give awards to multiple
people for collaborative works like that. But
the question remains, right? What does it say
about his professional judgment or maybe his
sense of adventure? Then an Oscar -nominated
director signs up for a segment in a film seemingly
designed purely for shock value. It feels like
such a deliberate swerve away from the nuanced,
emotionally real work he's often praised for.
It signals maybe a profound willingness to experiment.
To take huge creative risks, even if they might
blow up spectacularly. Like he was chasing some
extreme boundary -pushing comedy, maybe? Something
totally different. Possibly. A far cry from Meisner
realism, that's for sure. And the industry, or
at least the Razzies, responded by saying, nope,
this whole thing is the worst. It's the perfect
final piece of the puzzle, isn't it? Yeah. He
aims for the absolute peak. The Oscar nod proves
that. But he's also apparently willing to crash
and burn in pursuit of something completely off
the wall. That Razzie sitting metaphorically
next to his Emmy and Oscar nominations, it just
perfectly captures a career that seems driven
more by exploration and curiosity than by, say,
maintaining a consistent brand or level of prestige.
Before we wrap up with a final thought, we should
probably briefly mention his personal life, just
as it connects to that theme of family and legacy
continuing. Good point. The sources note he's
been married twice. First to actress Carrie Lowell
from 1989 to 1995. And they have a daughter together.
Yes, Hannah Dunn, who is also an actress. So
the tradition continues. Another generation in
the family business of performance and storytelling.
Exactly. And then he had a shorter marriage later
to stylist Anna Benjamin from 2009 to 2010. OK,
so the acting legacy definitely continues with
his daughter. It does. It keeps that Dunn name
linked to Hollywood narrative. All right. So
let's try to bring it all together when we synthesize
this whole career. Thomas Griffin Dunn from the
mid 70s, basically right up to today and beyond.
It's just the scope is immense. He flows so easily,
doesn't he? From being this cult horror icon
to an Oscar nominated director, then a respected
dramatic actor on a huge TV show, a documentary
filmmaker chronicling his own family, and now
a bestselling memoirist. And if you connect that
all back, that diversity, that range. Maybe it's
not a lack of focus. Maybe it's actually a really
sustained, decades -long commitment to storytelling
itself, just using whatever medium fits the story
best at that moment. Because he grew up immersed
in it. Exactly. Raised by these master chroniclers,
Dominic Dunn, Joan Didion, people who saw life
itself as narrative material. So his choice,
first, to document his aunt's life and legacy.
In the center will not hold. And then to write
his own big family memoir, The Friday Afternoon
Club. It feels like confirmation. His core drive,
professionally, seems to be about documentation.
Yeah. About telling complex stories. Whether
through comedy or drama or documentary or now
prose. Stories rooted in real human experience.
Yeah. He's sort of the living embodiment of his
family's obsession with narrative. Sometimes
reaching the absolute highest peaks of recognition.
And sometimes, yeah, earning a Razzie because
he aimed for something completely outside the
expected box. Precisely. The whole arc is about
legacy, about telling the tale. Which kind of
leaves us with a final thought for you, the listener,
to chew on. Okay, what have you got? Well, think
about his deep involvement in telling Joan Didion's
story. Producing, directing, curating her legacy
for that documentary. He was shaping how we see
her. Right. He was the narrator of her life,
in a way. So the provocative question is this.
What impact does that experience be in the architect
of someone else's high -profile family story,
especially someone as iconic as Didion have on
your own decision later to write your own definitive
personal family memoir? Does organizing and presenting
your aunt's memories her legacy? Does that process
somehow inspire you or maybe even obligate you
to finally do the same for yourself, to formalize
your own place in that narrative? Does one act
of documentation naturally lead to the next?
Yeah. Especially within such a story -obsessed
family. That's a really compelling question.
Something to definitely mull over as you reflect
on the very deep and, yeah, sometimes very contradictory
career of Thomas Griffin Dunn. And Jeet. Thank
you for joining us for this deep dive.