Pamela Anderson shares her feelings for Liam Neeson after 'intimidating' meeting
The pair worked together on the comedy reboot, which debuts in cinemas on August 1.
Pamela admitted she couldn't help but fall in love with her 'fantastic' co-star.
"He's had such an incredible career, starting in theatre and just kind of being part of this acting royalty, from Schindler's List and all the other films he's done. So, it was intimidating," Anderson said of her Irish co-star.
"I was afraid to meet him," she admitted. "I was literally shaking the first day I came to rehearse our first scene.
"But once we got going... I mean, he's such a gentleman. He's such a sweetheart, and he's so giving and generous and was so complimentary and supportive.
"You can't help but fall in love with Liam," she said.
Anderson plays Neeson's love interest Beth, while Neeson plays Lt Frank Drebin Jr, taking over the lead role from the late comedy legend Leslie Nielsen.
As for why she chose to star in a Naked Gun movie, Anderson explained: "I've just kind of restarted my career.
"I did Broadway, and then I did The Last Showgirl, and I thought it would be a nice juxtaposition to do a high comedy after doing drama."
"The fact that they even thought of me for this was so exciting," Anderson continued.
"I love the Naked Guns. I thought that they were really funny. They're just such crazy, silly comedies. And I think the world needs that right now."
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RTÉ News
31 minutes ago
- RTÉ News
Irish-produced drama Mix Tape and the musical love letter
BBC drama Mix Tape, a tale of star-crossed lovers who bond over music, is coming to RTÉ soon but can it reinvigorate the lost art of the mix tape as musical love letter? It was a teenage rite of passage and also what the kids now call a major flex. Making a mixtape was a labour of love, a musical way into the heart of the one you fancied and also a proud artefact of just how very good your taste in music really was. Carefully pressing the right buttons on your twin tape deck, choosing the tracks of your hopes and dreams and lovingly inscribing the song titles and artists on the inlay card became something of a minor artform back in what some people probably correctly call simpler times. Van Morrison called it the inarticulate speech of the heart and for millions of seventies, eighties and nineties kids, the mixtape was the musical equivalent of the love letter - the spark for countless nervous conversations and maybe even debates. God knows, I still have a box of them in my spare room. And no, they weren't all retuned, un-played and unloved. These days, of course, you will see wizened old Boomers and Gen Xers posting tiresome memes on wizened old Facebook (it's where the adults hang out, OK?) of cassette tapes accompanied by a pencil. If you know, you know. This, apparently, is the modern age's equivalent of uncovering ancient runes and explaining arcane rituals to digital nativists. In our era of instant gratification, even the noughties phenomenon of the CD burn has given way to soulless Spotify playlists and causal YouTube shares on mobile phones. As ever, something has been lost but with a new generation turning to vinyl and even the cassette format making its own comeback, can the actual physical mixtape become a tribune of love once again? Perhaps recent BBC drama Mix Tape (ta-dah!), which is due to air on RTÉ soon, will inspire a fresh flood of spooling polyester plastic film coated with magnetic material as musical missives. Perhaps not. In any case, the fabled mixtape is the jumping off point for the four-part series. It is the overwrought story of two music mad Sheffield kids, with the very Irish names of Daniel O'Toole and Alison Connor, who meet as teens at a house party in 1989. The young Daniel (who looks like a cross between Grian Chatten of Fontaines D.C. and a young Neil Morrissey) is a music obsessive and he wins bookish Alison's heart with his impressive knowledge of Cabaret Voltaire. Then again, we later learn that his favourite Bowie song is Modern Love. Their first dance is to Joy Division's immortal Love Will Tear Us Apart, their first kiss is to The Jesus & Mary Chain, and when their bedroom fumbling goes much further, they DO IT to the strains of In-Between Days by The Cure. Oh, the drama! Oh, the great basslines! There isn't enough of The Fall featured in Mix Tape for my liking but music is the spine of young Dan and Ali's romance and it plays out the beats and missed heart beats of puppy love (thankfully, no songs by Donny Osmond were used in the making of this programme). Daniel slips his mixtapes into Alison's school bag and she hands him lovingly curated TDKs on the bus to school. We hear The Jesus & Mary Chain, The Velvet Underground and The Stone Roses. All very good, indeed. But just as their teen crush turns to full-blown romance, Alison vanishes from Sheffield, leaving Daniel feeling like a Morrissey song. It's an intriguing premise and the drama plays out in a dual timelines and dual time zones, making it a lot like Sliding Doors meets Sleepless in Seattle - a Proustian rush of 'what ifs' and 'if onlys' played out longingly in verboten mobile phone texts and mutual cyber stalking and the songs of their lost youth. Normal People it is not. However, it is fraught stuff. We follow Daniel and Alison, who is now a successful novelist living in Syndey and married to a total eejit, and move between their teenage romance in 1989 Sheffield and the modern-day reality of their adult relationships living on opposite sides of the world. Daniel and his wife aren't exactly singing from the same hymn sheet back in Sheffield. He now works as a music journalist but never seems to do any actual work (so, that makes sense) and he is toying with writing a book about some great lost music figurehead, like Daniel Johnson or Nick Drake. Mix Tape is a very Irish affair. The four-part drama was originated and developed by Dublin-based production company Subotica, who have previously produced North Sea Connection and The Boy That Never Was, with help from Ireland's generous Section 481 Film and Television tax incentive and the support of Fís Éireann/Screen Ireland and Screen Australia among others. It was also filmed entirely on location in Dublin and Sydney. And so, the former steel town of Sheffield is played by Dublin's Liberties (I was tickled to see that some of it was shot on the very street where I live), while location filming was also completed in Australia. However, things get seriously meta when the young Alison actually moves to actual Dublin and young Daniel nearly has a whitey on the actual Ha'penny Bridge when he sees her with another bloke. Strangely, no U2 was used in the making of this programme. Based on the novel by Jane Sanderson and adapted for television by Irish writer Jo Spain, the show stars Teresa Palmer as the adult Alison and Jim Sturgess as the adult Daniel and Rory Walton-Smith as young Daniel and Florence Hunt as young Alison. And here's the thing, the actors who play the younger versions of our protagonists are so much better than the anguished grown-up versions, who spend most of the time moping about like extras in a Cure video. Of course, the whole thing reminded me of that minor noughties indie hit about an estranged couple haggling over their shared record collection in the same way rich people haggle over their condo in Bel Air or their D4 pied-à-terre. If you're looking for a good music-based romance, Stephen Frears' film of Nick Hornby's High Fidelity is still your best. Mix Tape is a mite too tortured and joyless but it does have two major flexes - those Dublin locations and the actual music. It also asks an eternal question posed by music obsessives in every time line and time zone - can the songs that sound-tracked our young lives and loves ever really sound the same again?
Irish Examiner
3 hours ago
- Irish Examiner
Joe McNamee: Is it time to subsidise Irish hospitality?
Our shared and serious passion for music and film led my daughter and I to The Bear, a truly magnificent TV series (TV being the new 'film') set in a Chicago restaurant with Michelin star aspirations. As a recovering chef, I can confirm its authenticity, at times almost as stressful as actually being back in a slammed kitchen, slaving under a sociopathic bully — it is why some chefs I know can't watch it. Flush with marvellously written characters, we struggle to pick our favourite. We adore transcendently serene pastry chef Marcus and the sweetly naive Fak brothers; we flat out venerate jittery, driven head chef Sydney. Jamie Lee Curtis's monstrous matriarch is nitro-glycerine plonked next to an open furnace; her children, Michael, Natalie and Carmen Berzatto, three differing studies of the impact of her dysfunctional parenting. Every single character, even minor, is fully realised. And then there is 'Cousin' Richie Jerimovich (Ebon Moss-Bachrach), who runs front of house. A loud, boorish and deeply obnoxious character, we spent the first few episodes wishing him serious harm until, gradually, tiny slivers of his humanity and vulnerability began to slip through. But he utterly transformed in our eyes when sent on a training internship to the fictional Ever, 'the world's best restaurant', site of his Damascene culinary conversion. Breaking through his innate cynicism, he comes to understand why high-end restaurants operate as they do and, most of all, learns to appreciate the complexities of service and its fundamental importance in a good restaurant. After that, he could do little wrong in our eyes, even when he does — regularly — do wrong. Over a decade ago, after a major food awards in Dublin, two of Ireland's finest restaurant managers and I wound up in deep conversation about service, the lack of awards for service, wondering whether it related to the marked decline in service standards, from what was always a wildly varying benchmark. Irish restaurant service has only worsened since; good service — the exception rather than rule — is an unexpected pleasure rather than automatic entitlement when dining out. When Patrick Guilbaud first opened his now Michelin two-starred Dublin restaurant, it took him a while to realise most of his non-French waiters, many of them students, viewed their role as a mere staging post en route to a 'real' career. Indeed, working as a waiter/server has rarely been viewed as a profession in this country even though innate Irish sociability makes for a natural-born host. Service is about so much more than ferrying plates to and from the table and it takes time and effort to train even the good ones. Imagine the frustration when they then leave for a 'real job'! For all the advance 'engagement' — online, reviews and so on — a diner's first human interaction with a restaurant is through service. A good first impression is vital; sustaining it throughout the course of an entire meal, equally so. (Take note, all servers who seem to ghost a table once desserts are served.) More worryingly, I see the decline in standards of Irish restaurant service as a canary in the coalmine for the Irish hospitality sector overall. Many businesses operate on a fiscal model that wouldn't last kissing time in other industries, while a dining public, ignorant of the harsh realities of hospitality, only ever registers the rising prices of eating out. When the minimum wage was raised to €13.50 an hour last January, the best restaurateurs acknowledged the additional financial stress on their business models, yet never begrudged their employees the extra 80c an hour. In Dublin, for example, many of the lowest-paid hospitality workers have to commute from far outside the city to afford accommodation — if they can find it. There is one question that gauges the real viability of Irish hospitality like no other: as a waiter/server, will I qualify for a mortgage? (It applies equally to lower-paid kitchen jobs.) The answer is almost inevitably, no. Which begs another question — is it time we start a conversation about subsidising the Irish restaurant sector, as we do with the farming sector? TABLE TALK A recent soiree at The Metropole Hotel to launch its newly designed reception/lobby area and a casual all-day menu sees a venerable old aristocrat of Cork hospitality substantially sharpening its offering in tune with the overall energy sense of energy that has imbued its home, MacCurtain St, in recent times, reminding that it is about so much more than just an annual venue for 'The Jazz'. In further reference to today's main theme, belated congrats to the Market Lane group for their ongoing achievements at the Fáilte Ireland Employer Excellence Awards, voted on anonymously by employees, and, yes, the ML group does number more than a few well-supported professional waiters/servers in their ranks. Vada café in Dublin's Stoneybatter, may cleave to a very familiar formula for what is currently cool in casual dining but more than gets away with it on the back of some tasty food and a genuine commitment to sustainability and zero waste so, additional opening hours to serve dinner on Friday and Saturday evenings could be well worth checking out. TODAY'S SPECIAL Make Hummus, Not War print from Bia Blasta This week's choice is more about food for the mind and soul than the belly, a handsome print from Blasta Books inspired by their latest authors, Izzeddeen Alkarajeh and Eman Aburabi, and the original version of the Free Palestine mural painted next to their Izz Café in Cork City. Available in A4 (€25) and A3 (€38) sizes and shipped anywhere in the world, all profits will be donated to World Central Kitchen. Read More Ireland's best food trucks and street food stalls to try this summer
Irish Examiner
3 hours ago
- Irish Examiner
Gareth O'Callaghan: 50 years after Miami Showband killings, the scars of The Troubles still remain
Maybe everybody feels this way about the long hazy days of their teenage summers, but the summers in the mid-1970s were unforgettable. Long sunny days were hitched to an endless soundtrack of classic songs and pop stars whose posters adorned every teenager's bedroom in the country. The year 1975 was particularly memorable, but not just for the weather. I remember where I was on the morning of July 31 that year. Sitting in the back of the family car, I listened in shock as news of the ambush and execution of three members of the Miami Showband broke on RTÉ. I was 14, and what I was listening to was unthinkable. Fifty years later, as the anniversary approaches next Thursday, it still is. Having left the Castle Ballroom in Banbridge, Co Down, shortly after 2am, after an unexpected treat of Irish stew prepared by the venue's staff, the minibus carrying five of the band — Fran O'Toole, Des 'Lee' McAlea, Tony Geraghty, Brian McCoy, and Stephen Travers — was stopped in the townland of Buskhill, eight miles from Newry, at a military checkpoint. They were ordered out of the van and questioned. Unknown to the band, the armed men dressed in British Army uniforms were members of the paramilitary Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF). Seconds later, a bomb that was being placed under the driver's seat by two of the loyalist killers, Harris Boyle and Wesley Somerville, exploded prematurely, killing both. Three of the Miami— Fran, Tony, and Brian — were gunned down as they tried to make their escape across a field they had been blown into by the force of the explosion, and then shot dead while lying on their backs pleading for their lives to be spared. Stephen was shot and seriously wounded. Des escaped uninjured. Why would anyone target a group of musicians who were entertaining young people from both sides of the North's political divide? Music, after all, is meant to bridge all kinds of divides. After all, the Miami's song 'Clap Your Hands, Stomp Your Feet' meant the same to a Protestant teenager as it did to a Catholic. It's impossible to describe the hateful intent that hung in the air that night on the North's A1, as some of the most dangerous killers of 'The Troubles' lay in wait for their targets. It wasn't the terrorists' intention to shoot them. The plan was to allow them to continue on their journey, while, unknown to any of them, transporting a massive bomb set on a short timer — most likely to detonate while the van was travelling through Newry. Clearly, the UVF's plan was to manipulate the enormous love shown to the band by its thousands of fans both north and south. If the bomb had exploded, then the innocent musicians would forever have been remembered as republican terrorists transporting an explosive device north of the border. Fifty years later, the world would still be none the wiser about the bogus checkpoint that night, or the UVF's involvement. Although three innocent men lost their lives, the original plan was foiled. Nor would there have been a 2011 report by the PSNI's Historical Enquiries Team pointing to collusion between the RUC and loyalist paramilitaries in relation to the killings. According to Martin Dillon, in his book The Dirty War, at least five serving Ulster Defence Regiment soldiers were present at the checkpoint. It's impossible to describe the hateful intent that hung in the air that night on the North's A1, as some of the most dangerous killers of 'The Troubles' lay in wait for their targets. The memorial plaque to Miami Showband members Tony Geraghty, Fran O'Toole and Brian McCoy outside the former National Ballroom on Parnell Square in Dublin. Picture: Billy Higgins Is the North a better place 50 years later? It depends on who you ask. South Armagh, with its lush green countryside, is a pleasure to drive through on a sunny July morning; but memories of the Glenanne gang, and its secret alliance of soldiers, police, and UVF members, who murdered innocent Catholics and nationalists in the 1970s, don't disappear with time. Take a stroll along the predominantly loyalist Shankill Road in West Belfast, and it doesn't take long to be reminded of Lenny Murphy, who headed up the Shankill Butchers, who, during the 1970s, brought a new level of paramilitary savagery to a city already on its knees as a result of cold-blooded sectarian killings. There are reminders everywhere that all six counties paid dearly for the hatred of others — often neighbours and work colleagues. Murder could knock on anyone's door, depending on your religion and your allegiances in the community, on where you went to church, or took a pint. Who you worked for often determined whether you became a hitman's target. No one felt safe, and if they did, they were only fooling themselves. The Cork Examiner's front-page report on the Miami showband massacre on August 1, 1975 On the surface, Northern Ireland is different to what it was 50 years ago. Despite Belfast's brutal past, it has become a booming tourist destination. Just like Derry, its bloody history is a curiosity for visitors. But there are those who will tell you it's a history that's not over — just dormant. It wouldn't take a lot to stir the pot. A friend who has lived in Banbridge all his life once told me, 'No one should opine on the history of Northern Ireland unless they lived here during The Troubles', but we've known each other long enough so I doubt he'll mind. It's a place of anomalies and contradictions. It's a part of the United Kingdom, but it shares the same island as a separate sovereign country. One of those anomalies is violence — a reminder that political and civic decisions are forever mindful of orange and green. There are still places where to openly display your Irish pride could get you mistaken for a closet Provo, and vice versa if your loyalty is to the Crown Jewels; but it will no longer cost you your job or your life if you openly support a united Ireland. However, all that happened will never go away. How do you discuss the past with someone whose father walked into a pub carrying a gun and murdered a bunch of his neighbours who were enjoying a football match? What if you're the son of one of them? Despite the peace deal in 1998, many of Northern Ireland's Catholics and Protestants continue to live mostly separate lives. More than 90% of children attend schools segregated by religion. The loyalist bonfire in Moygashel, Co Tyrone, featuring a model migrant boat with life-sized mannequins in life jackets. Picture: Eamonn Farrell / There's a direct link between deprivation and political violence, which the peace agreement failed to address. Add to that the recent violence caused by ethnic discrimination. Seeing news footage of a bonfire topped with mannequins in a boat — representing migrants — in the Tyrone village of Moygashel recently reminded me of the hate that drove the killings of the Miami. For many people, nothing has changed. Moygashel native Wesley Somerville, who blew himself up with his own bomb that night 50 years ago, was honoured in recent weeks when loyalists hung a banner bearing his image from a lamppost in the same village. Let's hope the late Seamus Mallon was right when he said: 'Violence interrupts but does not determine history'. A 45-minute drive south-east of Moygashel brings you back to Banbridge, where three white ribbons still hang from branches close to where the Miami massacre took place, a constant reminder of precarious peace. Read More Two children and woman killed in shooting in Co Fermanagh while man remains in hospital
