Fug File: misguided facial hair
So in some ways, my initial instinct was right. But he’s also getting PAID for said mustache as part of a commitment to his work, much as Jude Law was in Sherlock Holmes or Jason Lee was in My Name Is Earl, and theirs ended up working fairly well in context. Perhaps I should be celebrating Bradley’s bravery instead of wondering whether that thing itches and if I could use it to scour my saucepan. Perhaps I should slap a pair of glasses on him and call him Ned Flanders, Sr. I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel: scared, or impressed. And that’s why I turn to you.
BRAD: This artwork is so… right here.
ANGELINA: If I look for ten more seconds, is that polite enough?
ANGELINA: Must remember to blink.
BRAD: I hope I didn’t leave any dinner in my beard.
ANGELINA Thank God, I look sufficiently boring and skinny. No
one’s going to pay attention to me when Brad is growing goat hair on
BRAD: This thing itches. I wonder if it’s rude to scratch it.
ANGELINA: Shoot, did I leave my sex-swing on?
BRAD: And I have that Miley Cyrus song in my head. Resisting… urge… to sing…
ANGELINA: I hope I didn’t forget to take my knives out from under my pillow.
BRAD: Hurry up, Angie, walk away so that I can, too.
ANGELINA: Come on, Brad, move along. I’m waiting.
I’m not sure what version of Michael Stipe I find stranger: The one of yore, where he painted his eyes Solange-style so that he had on a mask of bright makeup…
… or the one that looks like he wants to borrow Daniel Day-Lewis’s hat so he can star in There Will Be Blood II: No Seriously, There Will Be So Much.
So, apparently, the folks over at Defamer are calling shenanigans on Joaquin Phoenix’s retirement from acting to pursue a rap career: They think Casey Affleck’s supposed interest in capturing this career suicide on tape is actually a giant hoax, which will result in a mockumentary being released. It’s all rather bizarre and intriguing.
Personally, I want it to be true, and to end in grand fashion when his album is a runaway hit thanks to a rap single called “Jinx Put Max In Space” — a loving and long-overdue homage to starring in Space Camp (the B-side, of course, being “Be My Shuttle Commander,” a poignant ode to the hotness of co-star Lea Thompson). But the very absurdity of the entire conceit, coupled with some of the circumstances Defamer outlines, certainly smells fishier than a tuna milkshake. Regardless of what the truth is, SOMETHING weird is happening.
However, why ANY of it requires Joaquin Phoenix to reimagine himself as the Unabomber is totally beyond me.
Haikus For Jared Leto:
Your comb-over makes me sad.
Dude, why so greasy?
You were so dreamy.
Somewhere, Angela Chase is
So you’re in a band.
Some rock stars are very hot.
Resolve to bathe, ‘kay?
Don’t you understand?
Your hotness is, like, a gift.
Wasting it is rude.
Guy Richie has got to be stopped. First he had Robert Downey, Jr., growing a mustache to play Sherlock Holmes, and now he’s got his Dr. Watson, Jude Law, knitting a lip-sweater too:
Let’s step back for a second: Though Jude Law’s been looking a little skanky lately, the on-screen partnership of him and RDJ (as if he’s a real-life Joey Potter, it seems I am only capable of calling him either by his full name or his intials) had the potential to be a smoking hot plate of rumpled Yes, with a side dish of deep-fried Sexy. But the unflattering mustaches… they are tough. You need either to be Sam Elliott — possessed of an astoundingly robust facial topiary — or Jim Broadbent in Moulin Rouge (waxed and curled at the ends), or else you are left in this rather large netherworld where it is difficult to look like anything but a socially awkward and slightly clammy geography master at a British boarding school, who always gets glued to his seat by his pupils and watches EastEnders every night over a bottle of brandy and some Cup-a-Noodles. I hope the good people at Gillette stuff his stocking this Christmas.