I’m doing this one Gossip Girl-style (cause I’m nothing if not a teenage girl):
Spotted on the 405: Eddie M, going the extra mile this morning to promote his latest comedy abortion. Guess no one told him Meet Dave’s friend request was denied.
You know what they say, Starship Dave: in this town, you should never get a big head. It only leads to trouble. And freeway delays.
Until then, you know you love me.
XOXO
The Jay
*h/t to the evilschultz Twitter file for bravely snapping this picture and not getting into an accident in the Sepulveda Pass. Your journey to the wastelands of Culver City was not in vein, good sir.
(Follow me on Twitter @jasonamatthews)
Apparently, by no sane measure of logic, adding a kid to a movie franchise will liven up a tiring concept and reinvigorate a series for the millions of people who once breathlessly paid to watch the adventures but whom now shrug a collective “meh” to the whole deal. Further, the mere sight of a plucky young boy or girl boldly entering the grown-up fray will reduce audiences to a puddle of mush and insure a long life for the series. It matters not that the series was born and received without the need of a kid, and was probably successful due to not having one. It matters not that the introduction of a kid stunts the natural progression of the characters and swings the emphasis from an adult-oriented storyline to one of beleaguered parents and/or guardians risking life and limb to save said plucky kid from situations that are only necessary because the script called for the damn plucky kid to begin with. It matters not that kid is not so much plucky as he is really annoying. Apparently, all that matters is that people love plucky kids.
Sure, there are exceptions to the rule (Shortround in Temple of Doom comes to mind), but generally speaking, adding a kid to a movie franchise equals creative death. Such is the concern many geeks across the world are having as news comes in that 
The point is that Newt had a reason to be in the movie. She advanced the Ripley character and provided crucial plot points for the movie. Now on the other hand, take the African American girl from The Lost World who showed up out of nowhere as Jeff Goldblum’s daughter. What did she bring to the movie? What was her purpose? Nothing. She was there to add a kiddy element to the picture. To put her in jeopardy so that Goldblum could be heroic in saving an oh so PC black girl. She was there for that stupid gymnastics routine. She should have been there as raptor food.
When you’re dealing with Anne Heche you know what you’re gonna get, and in some respects, that’s kinda nice. You know you’re getting a very pretty, (in a slightly mousy way) above-average actress who at any time may decide to go walking in the desert for a week, speak all of her dialogue in a space language, or bang the script girl or best boy depending on what she had for lunch that day. Basically, you wager all of her talent against the risk of the crazy. A lot of people take that bet and do well. I thought she was great in Wag the Dog, Birth, Donnie Brasco, Volcano, Return to Paradise and Volcano (suck it, Dante’s Peak). But whomever puts their chips down on the Heche line has got to keep in mind what they may potentially lose, should they win (This contradiction is much like the Rosie Perez theory of winning and losing from White Men Can’t Jump, except Anne is infinitely less annoying.).
That got me thinking about other people who have no right to complain about their problems. For example, does Jennifer Aniston really have a reason to complain about her marriage falling apart? She married the sexiest man alive and then let him make a movie with the hottest creature on earth. What did she expect was gonna happen? That their respective hotnesses would be repelled like the plus sides of two magnets? She brought this on her self the moment she became Brad Pitt’s lady.
I’ve been finding myself enjoying the trailers for Eddie Murphy’s new “I can’t believe I’m in a Martin Lawrence Big Momma rip off two weeks before the Oscars. Maybe I should congratulate Alan Arkin in advance” comedy Norbit. Obviously, this concerns me greatly. I generally hate Men-In-Drag movies. And I downright loathe Men-In-Big-Women Drag movies. I don’t so much mind seeing Tom Hanks or Kurt Russell play the
But back to Eddie.
Renee Zellweger: Dammit, did I forget to sew my eyes open today? I knew I forgot to do something. Ah well, hopefully no one will notice.
Patrick Dempsey: Seriously, the hair? Looks good?
Well, I did not see this coming. But maybe it’s just me. The other day I was walking down the street when suddenly I had a panic attack because the whole sky started turning black. Where was the sun going? Then later that night I couldn’t understand why I was so tired at the end of a day. And then my stomach starting hurting, but I’m not sure why I was hungry, after all, I ate once already that day. Why do these things always happen to me? Why do celebrity marriages always end in tragedy? I’m so confused, and scared.
This whole union was, for lack of a better word, inevitable. I would venture that not a soul that follows pop culture would have suspecting these kids would be the next Newman and Woodward. Or even the next Tori Spelling and that first guy she married and then divorced to be with the guy she’s with now who knocked her up and convinced her to bail on Lifetime movies to run a bed and breakfast in NoCal, even though Lifetime residuals were the only thing keeping her from selling her stuff on eBay, and oops, too late (I think his name is Tom, or something). The Spears-Federline dissolution was so inevitable, I had refused to write about it. I’ll make jokes about Reese Witherspoon having talent before I spend brain power and typing time on the thought that this match made in trailer-trash Hostess Heaven would last beyond the release of her next album (which, by the way, is due out early next year). I just didn’t want to waste my time.
