This Day in Death

4.29.14: Bob Hoskins – DEAD!

Filed under: Uncategorized —James @ 10:49 pm May 7, 2014

BOB_HOSKINSHey! Maybe you guys can use those hydraulic leg braces to help you leap into a better movie.

British actor/Denzel Washington co-conspirator Bob Hoskins is dead today, so let’s skim his IMDB profile for credits that your brows are low enough to recognize. (Sorry.)

To the Rockstar-soaked brains of today’s early thirtysomethings (sorry!), Hoskins is best known for playing Eddie Valiant in 1988’s Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the wildly innovative film that spawned countless other animation/live-action hybrid noir parody films, such as Cool World and… others.

Come on, you guys remember Cool World, right? Brad Pitt before he mattered, back when maybe you might’ve had a shot with him? Like, you’d just happen to see him in some dank bar, hair mussed and looking downtrodden, but his rugged, homegrown good looks still shining through like some sort of celestial aura tangled in the complexities of human existence. You quietly walk up to him, with a confidence you’ve never known before, born of an almost holy certainty that this, this, is the reason you’ve been put on Earth. You ask him, coolly, “what’s wrong, handsome?” He looks up, trying to mask a subtle doubletake as he wonders how he ever got this lucky. Sensing your inborn compassion, he explains his doubts about his career, about whether or not he’ll ever truly “break through.” You listen. You more than listen, you hear. And, what’s more… he knows. He knows how deeply you care, how profoundly you understand. You quickly rebuild his spirit, not with hollow niceties, but rather with a series of impeccably perceptive reassurances that Brad can’t help but be bolstered by. The two of you continue to talk for the better part of maybe an hour, purposely withholding the inevitable for just a little bit longer. Why hurry? Your connection is so cosmic, yet so primal, that you both know there’s no chance of this night ending any other way. Eventually the urge simply becomes too intense to fight any longer, and with a coy, “do you want to get out of here?” and a flagged taxi, Brad rips away the membrane separating the evening’s intimate conversation from the night of transcendent lovemaking to come. The next morning you slip out before Brad wakes up, lightly brushing his silken hair away from his eyes, knowing that nothing will ever be able to match this inconceivably perfect experience. There’s no sadness in your heart: you’re forever secure in the knowledge that you and only you are responsible for putting Brad back on the path that will eventually give us such classics as Seven, Inglourious Basterds, and Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas. Then, back at your underground lab, you use a stolen saliva sample to craft an army of superstrong Brad clones that expertly perform a barrage of daring bank heists that quickly raise the funds you’ll need for your orbital Evapo-Ray, which will hold the planet hostage under constant threat of the evaporation of every body of water on the planet. You know: Old-fashioned romance.

Annnnnd…. block quote:


He followed [Roger Rabbit] with performances in a variety of films, including 1991’s “Hook” in which he played Smee, the pirate assistant of Captain Hook; 1995’s “Nixon” as FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover; and 2001’s “Last Orders” as the gambler friend of protagonist Michael Caine, whose pals gather to spread his ashes after his death.

Hoskins also depicted video game mascot/half of the reason the Italian Anti-Defamation League exists Mario in the floptrocious disastrophe that was the Super Mario Bros. film. Hey, you can complain all you want, but pardon me if I don’t have a lot of sympathy because a movie based on a video game about a fat plumber who collects floating coins didn’t have the respectful gravitas you were expecting. I hear they’re getting Tolstoy’s ghost to iron out some kinks for the reboot.

Source: CNN

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4.6.14: Mickey Rooney – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 8:14 am April 14, 2014

MICKEY_ROONEYRooney, seen here mere seconds before the midnight deadline that would revert his head back into a pumpkin.


Legendary diminutive actor/aged Chucky doll Mickey Rooney has died, but I don’t think I have to explain to you guys why I just can’t seem to relate to that news. I mean, I’m a hip, young playa, as evidenced by the fact that I just did a pretty bangin’ Alta Vista search for “current slang terms.” Rooney was representative of Old Hollywood, and that’s an era that just can’t keep step with us young go-hards and our Pinterested hashtavism. That’s why I feel it’s my cultural duty to finally unveil my new Movie Poster Modernizer, a precision-engineered algorithm guaranteed to twerk the shit out of your old boring promotional materials long enough to trick millennials into parting with their sweet, sweet endlessly-disposable income. Just look at this upgrade to the poster for Gone With the Wind:


Aww yeah, son! Those clutch shades let you know Clark Cable is a baller, and the 45 degree tilt is worth the loss of information. It’s a pretty good fix, but that poster really didn’t need too much work, what with the awesome fire going on in the background and some major cleave spillin’ out all front and center. But Rooney’s films were some class ‘A’ snorefests. Just look at this poster for one of his best-known works, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World:


I mean, seriously? Look at that lineup: Spencer Tracy? Bro, are you even trending? And Sid Caesar’s social media presence seems to have completely dropped off since late February. If you’re not gonna commit to the form then don’t dip your toes in, Caesar! No, this one is basically gonna have to be rebuilt from the ground up, but I think the Modernizer’s up to the task. Let’s see what things looks like with the swerve all turnt up or something:


It looks like this new swaggin’ version’s got all your favorite 2014 Q2 search terms. There’s the Maroon 5 guy, the princess from Frozen, and both ironically-popular triple-named Neils; deGrasse Tyson and Patrick Harris. Plus Nicki Minaj because feminism, and somehow Riddick got in there too, which was probably a bit of a wildcard, if I’m being honest. Truly, this one is a masterpiece of lowest common denomination. I tell you, this technology pays for itself. Now all I need is the address for the Captain of Hollywood and I should be on easy street from now on. This will probably end up being my last post, actually.

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2.24.14: Harold Ramis – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 3:57 am February 26, 2014

HAROLD_RAMISLong admired as one of the nicest people in the industry, Ramis was even kind enough to put both Jack Black and Michael Cera in the same terrible movie just so that we could avoid both of them at once. That’s a real timesaver!


Harold Ramis, director of such classic comedies as Ghostbusters, Groundhog Day, Stripes and more, has died at the age of 69. Ramis was a Chicago native, and fans of his in the Windy City are probably feeling rocked harder than a car going over a recently-formed pothole on the Edens because for fuck’s sake Chicago I’m not made of suspension systems. Look, I paid for your scam parking stickers and your scam parking meters and your scam traffic cameras with the dangerously-short yellow lights that are just begging to cause a pile-up. I generally even shut up about your street sweeping scam that you don’t put up notifications about until the middle of the goddamn night before, making sure I always get those awesome tickets that attach right to my window with that kind of glue that won’t wash off for months just so you can get a little bit more dickishness in there under the wire. The least you could do is fill in a little tar to keep me from falling to Mongolia via one of your ever-increasing collection of mammoth sinkholes. I know you’re busy with your packed schedule of political corruption and pissing off the Greek god Boreas to ensure that the winter doesn’t end til fucking July, but the sooner you lend a hand to the thousands of clinically insane people locked into a four-hour commute (on your highway system that, nearest I can tell, was designed by some sort of congestion-fueled space demon that’s never seen a road before) the sooner we can all get back to the glorious luxury of residing in your thousand-dollar-a-nanosecond cost of living distopia. You know what, whatever. Just fuck it, and fuck your pointless silver bean and fuck your stupid Ditka mustaches and fuck the nine people the Yellow Line exists for.

And so, that’s probably how film buffs in Chicago are feeling right now.

With his round glasses lending a professorial air, Ramis would become the calm center of storms brewed by fellow actors, playing the bushy-haired, low-key wisecracker to Bill Murray’s troublemaker in “Stripes” and being the most scientific-minded “Ghostbuster.”

You know, in the movie, the Ghostbusters were considered kind of a joke at first, but it’s worth noting that they were way more successful than those Ghost Hunters idiots. At least the ‘Busters caught a few things, and those guys were just fictional characters. The ghost hunters are real people who have yet to actually catch a ghost in 200 episodes. When you’ve never once been able to do the thing that’s right there in your job title it’s time to call up a temp agency or something. If I hired a building contractor to build me a house, and he agreed to build me said house, but then, instead of a house, he built me a jet ski, and then I gave him 200 more chances to build my house, and he just kept building me jet skis, he’s no longer a contractor. He’s just fired.

Source: Chicago Tribune

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2.3.14: Porn Star and Magazine Publisher Gloria Leonard – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 3:47 pm February 24, 2014

GLORIA_LEONARDI like my women like I like my Blues Traveler frontmen: with a staple right through the stomach.

Like moving to Canada if the candidate you don’t happen to agree with wins, sex is one of those things that everyone always talks about but nobody actually does. As every girlfriend I’ve ever had has made the painstaking effort to explain to me, it’s just one of those things people talk about to kill time at restaurants and airport bathrooms, nobody’s seriously going through with it. Nobody, that is, except those courageous stars of pornographic films. Every day, they’re suffering the humiliations of exposed back flab and poorly-executed fluid arc trajectories so that we don’t have to. They’re truly heroes among men, like firefighters who don’t pussy out by wearing a bunch of bulky clothes on the job. Not very sexy, Lieutenant.

Today, the world is short one more psychologically well-adjusted hero; porn star Gloria Leonard, who passed away recently after a stroke. I mean, like, a cerebrovascular accident, not… well, you know.

Leonard made her debut in 1974’s The Opening of Misty Beethoven, which must’ve been a prequel to those other movies because I didn’t see any St. Bernards in it anywhere. Charles Grodin was definitely there, though. I respect the continuity.

Ms. Leonard’s background in public relations, as well as her high profile on screen, led to her hiring as the publisher of the men’s magazine High Society in 1977, a job she held for more than a decade while continuing to appear in and direct films.

Already seasoned in a number of professions, Leonard didn’t appear in porn until she was well into her 30s. Continuing to appear in films into her mid-40s, she proved that vaginas don’t have expiration dates after all. So it’s never too late, lady who played Mona on Who’s the Boss?. Come on, this fanfic isn’t gonna make itself come true.

Source: The NY Times

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2.12.14: Comedy Legend Sid Caesar – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 9:48 am February 17, 2014

SID_CAESARI don’t care if you’re a comedy icon, I’m not taking you seriously until you fix that hat.


Sid Caesar, the legendary comedian behind the massively influential Your Show of Shows, has died at the age of 91. Your Show of Shows aired on Saturday nights during the 1950s, and featured 90 minutes of live comedy every week. It was a lot like Saturday Night Live, except that if a sketch went on for seven minutes they’d usually opt to throw a second joke in there at some point.

Despite his success, by the age of 30 Caesar was a self-hating, pill-popping, alcoholic mess, because apparently a lot of comedy types are actually just using humor to mask their deep, personal demons. Not me, though. I’m zen as a Chinese dentist over here. It’s all about facing your troubles before they get out of control. For instance, I used to get bullied every day in high school, probably for being so handsome and likeable that I intimidated the entire football team. Plus, some of the other kids didn’t realize that when girls would spit on me it wasn’t out of disgust, but rather because they’d start drooling in my presence and needed to eject the excess saliva immediately. It’s a perfectly healthy physiological reaction, but you try getting a bunch of teenagers to understand the nuts and bolts of how oral hygiene works. Anyway, that kind of trauma could really mess somebody up, but years later I learned to cope with it by following high school students home and beating them with a potato sack full of D batteries in their sleep. Sometimes I’d even try to mix in some comedy for them by saying things like, “Tell your parents it was assault and… BATTERY!” Although to be honest I bet they rarely ever do it. Kids just don’t respond to puns nowadays.

“If you want to find the ur-texts of ‘The Producers’ and ‘Blazing Saddles,’ of ‘Sleeper’ and ‘Annie Hall,’ of ‘All in the Family’ and ‘M*A*S*H’ and ‘Saturday Night Live,’ “ Frank Rich wrote in The New York Times when he was its chief theater critic, “check out the old kinescopes of Sid Caesar.”

Oh, I’m sure they’re great, but you’d have to have suffered some kind of potato sack-induced brain trauma if you think I’m gonna go track down kinescope recordings in 2014. I give up on trying to YouTube something if the autocomplete doesn’t know what I’m looking for by the time I’ve entered the first five characters, there’s no way I’m gonna try to figure out how to load giant reels of hyper-fragile film into the kind of medieval machinery they made the first Iron Man suit out of. Hell, I’m not even sure where I’d find that stuff. If I had to guess I’d say Detroit public school classrooms, but I believe all the roads into Michigan are pretty firmly under the control of merciless warlords by now.

Source: The NY Times

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1.10.14: Former Marlboro Man Eric Lawson – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 11:10 pm February 5, 2014

ERIC_LAWSONHey pal, I’m not moving to Marlboro Country until you guys finally put up a fence to keep out those respirator jockeys from Emphysemia.


The tobacco industry has gotten a lot of bad press since scientists discovered that the human body doesn’t take kindly to you sucking burning embers into it like you’re trying to smoke a salmon in your trachea. Even rugged advertising mascots have done little to convince people that they should buy something that will most likely… you know… murder them in horrendous fashion. For proof, look no further than the time Trojan introduced the ill-fated Jungle Fever condom, the only prophylactic coated with the Ebola virus. Selling the public on suicide’s a steep PR mountain to climb, and it doesn’t get any easier when even the representative of your product up and dies a leathery-skinned death from using it.

Such was the case last month, when former Marlboro Man Eric Lawson died of respiratory failure brought on by chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.

Lawson was an actor with bit parts on such TV shows as Baretta and The Streets of San Francisco when he was hired to appear in print Marlboro ads from 1978 to 1981.

A smoker since age 14, Lawson later appeared in an anti-smoking commercial that parodied the Marlboro man and an Entertainment Tonight segment to discuss the negative effects of smoking. Ms Lawson said her husband was proud of the interview, even though he was smoking at the time and continued the habit until he was diagnosed with COPD.

Oh sure, everybody has a problem with people who smoke when they’re lighting up in a crowded restaurant, or putting out a cigarette on my cheek after I got caught looking at their ol’ lady in a biker bar that I clearly had no business being at in the first place, but nobody wants to call out the fire-eating hippie in the park. Look, that shit gets old after about two minutes. Dude, you’re giving us an appetizer without a main course. Throw a few jokes in there or learn to juggle some babies or something. Even Chris Angel has those killer abs for us to ogle while we’re watching him pretend to float.

Source: The Guardian

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2.2.13: Philip Seymour Hoffman – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 9:28 am February 3, 2014

PHILIP_SEYMOUR_HOFFMANSigh. Someday I’ll win a real award, too. Until then, stealing spelling bee participation ribbons from fourth-graders will just have to do.


Philip Seymour Hoffman, considered one of the most talented actors of his generation, was found dead in his apartment yesterday after a suspected drug overdose.

Hoffman was a legit actor whose presence had an actual, measurable effect on the quality of the final product, and that’s entirely too rare. It’s downright bizarre how much credit and attention we give to actors considering how little they tend to contribute to Hollywood films beyond name recognition and Us Weekly Smoochability ratings. Excluding your Michael Caines and your Meryl Streepses and your Daniel Day-Lewi, most actors are pretty much just expected to not fall asleep on camera and they’re rewarded with riches on par with gifts brought to Egyptian gods. There are dozens of people who put more sweat and blood into any given production than your stars ever will; there are screenwriters to write the dialogue, directors to explain how to deliver it, and cue cards stapled to some poor stagehand’s face if Jennifer Aniston is too consumed with her acai berry cleanse to bother learning her lines. Costume, make-up, lighting, and audio departments take care of the rest on set. Editors will cut it together. Marketing will find a way to convince the public that they haven’t already seen this same claptrap a thousand times before. And, hell, you can probably just tie an actor’s torso to a wooden stake like you’re trying to keep a tomato plant from sagging if they can’t even grasp that “don’t fall asleep” thing. If Megan Fox somehow becomes self-aware and decides she can no longer in good conscience appear in a movie about ninja turtles from outer space, positively none of the film’s already-shaky integrity is compromised. Michael Bay just cracks open the clamshell packing on another Blandly Attractive Lady, plugs her into the circuit board, America collectively eats another Choco Taco for lunch, and exactly nothing changes.

But, uh, yeah. Hoffman kept it proper.

[…] he won in the best actor category for “Capote” (2005). As the eccentrically sociable, brilliantly probing and unflappably gay author of “In Cold Blood,“ Mr. Hoffman flawlessly affected the real-life Truman Capote’s distinctly nasal, high-pitched voice and the naturally fey drama of his presence. Writing in The Times, A. O. Scott described the film as being about a writer’s relationship with his work.

Well, it’s time to do what we always do when I’m too squeamish to make fun of a respected figure who died tragically; make fun of celebrities who barely understand computers *or* grammar by checking out some insincere tweets:


Jim Carrey and the Pure Moods album cover he inexplicably uses as his avatar start things out on a pretty classy note, actually. Then he realizes he’s gone 11 words without referencing himself and proceeds to throw some vague existential tortured artist bullshit out there to make sure people realize that he only did Mr. Popper’s Penguins to draw attention to the very real threat of interspecies choreography mishaps. He wraps everything up with an emoticon of… I’m guessing a snooty French waiter with a stye in his right eye.


I have no idea why Whoopi Goldberg thinks that putting dashes between words turns them into links, but it’s kinda adorable. Still, nobody hits random keys with less linguistic cohesion than Cher:


Holy God, Cher. What alien language am I even looking at? How does a person survive the kind of seismic muscle spasm that produced this gibberish without severe nerve damage? This one has the works; sentence fragments! Lack of proper spacing! Letters and numbers replacing words! Random capitalization! Pointless emoticons! Missing apostrophes! Arbitrary line breaks like she thinks she’s E.E. goddamn Cummings! And for some reason a picture of a birthday cake following the kind of meaningless and irrelevant faux-profound simile that makes Jim Carrey’s new age pablum look like the Tao of Hank Hill. I’m tappin’ out, Cher. You done broke my brainbits.


Source: The NY Times (Tweets collected by E Online)

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12.31.13: James Avery, Television’s “Uncle Phil” – DEAD!

Filed under: Uncategorized —James @ 5:33 pm January 3, 2014

JAMES_AVERYUncle Phil has long been a key square in my patchwork quilt of television father figures, right between Archie Bunker and Inspector Gadget. I was kinda on the fence about including that last one, but by the time I’d reconsidered his square was already landlocked.


Actor James Avery, or Rick Ross if you’re super racist and bad at Google image searches, has died from complications related to heart surgery. Avery is probably best know for portraying Uncle Phil on television’s The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in the 90s. You know, it’s long been my pet theory that the character of Will Smith actually suffered a traumatic head injury during the street fight that supposedly resulted in his being sent to Bel-Air. As far as I’m concerned, Smith actually fell into a coma, and the entire series was simply a manifestation of his fractured psyche attempting to reassemble itself.

You see, jarring trauma had left Smith imagining himself in a landscape diametrically opposed to everything he’d ever known in terms of culture, class, income level, and even geography. He now lives in a west coast “mansion,” which is in actuality a complex psychological structure, a nest, to allow Smith some manner of protection from the onslaught of his upcoming trials. In this new lifestyle he sees what he can become if he can slay his personal demons and escape the poverty-stricken hell that he was born into.

Each of the “children” that he now lives with represent an aspect of Smith’s psyche, forcing him to confront all of the most difficult internal struggles of a young man growing up in the ghetto; “Hilary” is Smith at his most vain and sexually manipulative. “Little Nicky” is his childishness, his inability to focus his talents personified. “Ashley” is his rebellious naivete, a noble urge to reject societal norms that largely lacks the contextual nuance necessary to understand said urge. “Carlton” represents the intellectual gifts that Smith has forced himself to conceal in order to better fulfill the stereotype of the ignorant thug he had played into to survive on the streets of Philly. The key giveaway here comes at the end of the pilot episode, when we see Will, believing he is unobserved in his “mansion” (i.e. his psyche’s defense mechanism), display a seemingly uncharacteristic knowledge of classical music.

Avery, as “Uncle Phil,” fulfills an ambitious triple function; Firstly, he represents a grounding agent for Smith. “Phil” is clearly a stand-in for Smith’s hometown of Philadelphia, a huge, looming presence in the boy’s life. His relationship with “Uncle Philadelphia” (seemingly a laughably obvious portmanteau for the viewer to infer, lazily spoonfed to us by the normally subtle writing staff, but the delicate truth of this will be explained later) is one of tension and conflict, but ultimately love and respect. Secondly, in his “uncle,” Smith sees his own journey complete. That is, to be born of little means but remain resolute and eventually conquer the oppressive forces in his life. Finally, “Phil” is a father figure, a stand-in for Smith’s own absent biological father, his mind’s desperate attempt to pull together some sort of paternal influence to guide him through his trials.

“Jazz” represents the allure to return to his old lifestyle of ignorance and low ambition. Simultaneously, we see in “Jazz” the most explicit dichotomy of the two worlds that Smith is torn between. This is why Smith rarely objects to “Uncle Phil” ejecting him from the “mansion”; He recognizes that “Jazz” does not deserve the sanctuary, and is instead a disease that will destroy everything he is working towards.

“Geoffrey” the butler can be viewed as Smith’s fear of becoming an “Uncle Tom” if he abandons his street life, which is a common fear among those he has grown up with. However, with time, Smith comes to understand that “Geoffrey” has lived an admirable life and is well-respected and loved by the family he serves. The revelation serves to signify Smith’s gradual understanding of the misleading cultural traps he has fallen prey to all his young life. The boy begins to recognize the shades of grey that make up the real world.

“Aunt Viv” is largely unrealized as a character, seemingly the show’s rare misstep in characterization. In truth, she is underdeveloped because Smith already has a healthy relationship with his biological mother and has no reason to construct a surrogate one. She mainly exists to add authenticity and a sense of a fully-formed “nuclear family” to Smith’s delusions.

At “Bel-Air Academy,” Smith regularly puts his new skills to the test, confronting prejudice, temptation, vice, and judgement. It is less a “school” and more a “training ground.” However, to most inner-city youths, there is no distinction between the two. Truly masterful.

Over the course of his ordeal, Smith’s mind tries to convey to him some limited information about the truth of what he’s dealing with by hinting that he is surrounded by metaphorical constructs. It does this by giving these constructs obvious names that reveal their significance and reach beyond the level of coincidence, such as “Banks,” “Butler,” and “Phil.” Furthermore, Smith should be able to sense that his life has been broken down episodically, with major developments usually fitting neatly into a three-act structure spread over 22 minutes of relevant interactions.

If Smith can successfully rise above his own existential shackles he will be rebuilt, renewed, cleaned, truly “fresh” and deserving of the “mansion” he has found himself in. Smith can become a fully-realized individual, a model of human achievement rising from a wasteland of ash and ruin. However, to our national despair, our hero never fulfills his journey: The unmentioned change in actors portraying both “Aunt Viv” and “Little Nicky” (as well as the inexplicable age jumps of several characters throughout the series) are, sadly, the result of Smith’s mind failing to keep together the narrative strands it has developed, a sign that his journey is taking too long and the structure is collapsing around him. Smith’s brain continues to deteriorate as the episodes begin to take on slightly more bizarre or metatextural aspects, but through it all the boy remains oblivious to the truth, lost in delusion even as he strives to overcome the challenges that have become all too real to him after so much time inside his own psyche.

Yes, it’s true that Smith, the psychological construct, eventually makes the right decisions. He has doubtlessly grown. But not quickly enough. After six years his mind has become lost in its own labyrinth of plot and character, unable to wake from the coma it no longer realizes it’s trapped inside. The end of the series is bittersweet: Smith, in his mind, will lead a full life, never suspecting the truth about himself. But the rest of us are left devastated, with a cautionary tale about the always-ticking clock that hangs above us all like an albatross ringing in our ears, begging us to break free of our oppressions while we still have that divine luxury.

Avery was also the voice of Shredder on the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon, which was a show about turtles who had been mutated and then became martial arts masters in their teenage years. That’s a dumb idea.

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12.14.13: Peter O’Toole – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 7:18 pm December 16, 2013

PETER_O'TOOLEHey, remember back when movie posters actually required getting the stars together and taking pictures, forcing them to willfully tolerate being around each other? Seriously, look at this insanity: None of those guys are even in the same time zone, and I’m pretty sure Jet Li isn’t actually a sentient watercolor painting. You really expect me to believe Dolph Lundgren’s schedule was a little too packed for him to swing by for a few snaparoos?


Actor Peter O’Toole, legendary Irish-born and English-schooled star of Lawrence of Arabia, has died at the age of 81. Hey, you know what I don’t get about them Irish? The whole cabbage thing. You’re not lettuce, cabbage, and you never will be. I see a head of you sitting out on the counter and I think that maybe I’ll make myself a delicious BLT. You know, treat myself after a hard day of salting the lawns of my enemies. But then I get close to you and suddenly it smells like someone’s cooking crystal meth in a Louisiana outhouse. You look and taste like wet dollar bills, cabbage. Even your name sounds like some kind of flesh sack for incubating sea lampreys. Anyway, O’Toole was a pretty great actor. I feel like, in hindsight, I could’ve emphasized that a little more here.

O’Toole’s portrayal of Lawrence was followed in 1964 by the role of King Henry II in “Becket,” opposite Richard Burton as Thomas Becket. Both men were nominated for the best actor Oscar for the film, but both lost.

The pattern of Oscar nominations, but no statuettes, for O’Toole is unmatched. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” he once said.

Yeah, that’s why you can’t trust award shows to make the right calls. The people casting those votes all trade in political favors and demonic sacrifices. And I have no problem exposing that, even though it’ll probably cost me that AVN Award for my role as ‘Hapless Pizza Boy’ in Dirtpipe Conquistadors 17. Now they’ll probably give it to that guy who played ‘Stressed-Out Business Executive Who Just Needs Someone to Help Him Relax Before the Big Meeting’ instead. Pft. Goddamn Harvard boy; no respect for the working class.


Source: CNN

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11.30.13: Actor Paul Walker – DEAD!

Filed under: Dead —James @ 7:59 am December 3, 2013

PAUL_WALKERThese movies may be stupid, but at least Walker had the common sense to stand under his own name. Jesus Christ, Rodriguez, is branding just not important to you at all?


Actor Paul Walker, seen above in part of the 40% of that poster that isn’t Vin Diesel’s schnoz, died on Saturday from a tragic bout of irony. You see, Walker was part of the Fa3t and Fur10us film series and he died while riding in a speeding car, which is both sincerely tragic and recklessly dickish. I felt the need to spell that connection out for you because, if you’re anything like me, you have no idea what these movies are: It turns out my brain is programmed to cross-reference Vin Diesel, Ludacris, and The Rock and mentally trashcan any point at which all three converge. So far it’s only happened for the Fa3t &nd 4ur1ŎU$ movies and a really weird sermon I once heard about the three wise men.

Walker and Roger Rodas, who was believed to be driving, died in the wreck on Hercules Street, a wide business park road, in the community of Valencia inside the city of Santa Clarita, about 30 miles north of Hollywood, according to Walker’s publicist and CNN affiliate KCAL.

In a pretty classy instance of C.R.E.A.M., Universal Pictures wasted no time announcing plans to complete the 5ấ3t &nd 4ur1Ŏü$ installment Walker was working on at the time of his death, most likely by throwing some mountain goats and a typewriter in a cement mixer and hoping that an extensively rewritten script eventually falls out. So how will Walker’s absence be addressed? A mid-film sex change/recast to internet crush Jennifer Lawrence? A harrowing return to his home planet? An endless parade of face-obscuring lens flare after face-obscuring lens flare? Universal Pictures CEO James Schamus responded to the rampant speculation by Instagramming a picture of himself sodomizing a bag with a dollar sign on the side of it. At this point the leading theory is that the bag was filled with money, although this cannot yet be verified.

One thing’s for sure: Your dumbass roommate is still gonna go see this mess, “just to make fun of it,” because he doesn’t understand that Hollywood can cash ironic checks just as easily as sincere ones.


Source: CNN

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