I love this woman!

I know I periodically give her kind of a hard time here, but I really do love Cindy Adams. She wasted no time claiming the spot in my heart vacated last spring when Joyce Wadler surrendered her Boldfaced Names column at The Times, and Adams' most recent, imaginative stabs at film coverage have influenced me beyond any and all description.

And if you think she could not top yesterday's insightful peek into An Unfinished Life or last week's Matthew Modine fever dream, then you would be underestimating her. Writing today about The Thing About My Folks, it is clear that this woman is all about shaking the fucking foundations:

This Jewish version of My Big Fat Greek Wedding is basically stolen from Paul Reiser's life. He's in it. He wrote it. He produced it. He'll probably sell the popcorn for it. He's hustling around p.r.-ing it. Like at the Orpheum he joked: "I'm actually only here because I really came in to see Wedding Crashers, and this was next door." (Wait for the laugh.) Ask so where's Falk, he says: "Steaming his raincoat someplace." (Wait for the laugh.)

So, Paul, how did this film came about? He tells you: "I had the idea 20 years ago, but I type very slowly." (Wait for the laugh.) "The truth is, it's part my family and part stuff added in. My mother, who's seen it and has total objectivity, said it's absolutely without doubt the No. 1 finest film she has ever in her whole entire life seen." (Wait for the laugh.) I actually wrote the role of my father with Peter Falk in mind."

And if Falk, age 79, couldn't have done it?

"I don't know . . . Regis maybe?" (Wait for the laugh, Reege.)

Not do be outdone, Adams' colleague Liz Smith—who last week gave up women long enough to fellate Falk in her own column—rhapsodizes at length today about the "exceptional," "must-see" Capote:

This is splendid, taut, filmmaking, evoking the late-'50s, early-'60s era without slavish overstylizing. It is a movie in which not one character speaks above a normal conversational tone, yet the drama is almost paralyzing in its bleak intensity. At times, I felt I had stopped breathing I was in such a state of concentration and anticipation of what the next scene — the next sentence! — would bring. It is not a nice story. Capote's manipulations for his art are ghastly and committed for the most part in, well . . . cold blood.

Evidently, we are supposed to have more faith in Smith's review because Capote once asked for water crackers while having chili at her house. And while I admit I am awfully impressed, only my lady Cindy has today's groundbreaking scoop on Peter Sarsgaard kissing Liam Neeson in Kinsey—like two years ago: "I worried about Liam's reaction in kissing me, not about mine or the moviegoers'."

See? Is she amazing or is she amazing?