Come Back To The Five-And-Dime, Scarlett Jo, Scarlett Jo

JA here - I just finished watching Woody Allen's Scoop. You know something's gone wrong when you turn to the person you're watching a movie with about 3/4 of the way through and express a desire to have said movie end with the lead actress being murdered. I mean - just think of it! It would've been wonderful. Hugh Jackman and Woody Allen could've walked into the sunset saying that it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and Hugh could become Woody's (oft shirtless) muse... at least until the inevitable second film, apparently, where Woody would tell Hugh to suddenly act like Woody Allen and I'd wish Hugh to be offed by the final reel as well.

I'm taking several factors that fell into place just now as a sign that I should do a post crying out for Scar-Jo to regain her senses. Well actually... just two factors - one, just having watched Scoop, and two, having looked on IMDb to see what future horrors she's got up her sleeve and seeing The Other Boleyn Girl is directed by Justin Chatwick, who was also the director of the BBC mini Bleak House, which I am smack-dab in the middle of right now and very much enjoying. Yes, that's all it takes to get a rant out of me. Consider yourselves warned!

I digress. I know Nat liked Scarlett in Scoop, so perhaps I am, well, shitting at the guest table here. But no no no no no. Dreadful. Her every line reading was like someone took their fingernails to a chalkboard and then the chalkboard fell off a cliff and exploded in a fiery ball of chalkboard shrapnel which flew into my ear canals and deafened me for life. And so I thought back to the last thing I saw her in, and realized she was in The Prestige, and that I couldn't remember a single moment of her onscreen time besides when she unveiled that skimpy magician's assistant outfit. Va va voom blah. Has Scar-Jo been swallowed by the twins, I ask myself?

But I'm still holding out hope. I love Ghost World Scarlett, I love Lost In Translation Scarlett. Hell, I even liked In Good Company Scarlett. One of the twenty films she's making for next year needs to remind me of that Scarlett. The one who seemed effortlessly real in front of the camera, and smart beyond her years, and charmed me with that throaty voice and sideways grin.

I mean, it's like I'm the Enid to her Rebecca (seriously, I'm so anybody's Enid, if you'll just let me be), and this is the part of the movie where we think our friendship's fallen apart, thinking that we just don't have anything in common anymore. She's decided she needs to assimilate into the world a bit and has to stop being so gosh dang caustic all the time, which results in, say, The Island happening. Shudder. Come back to the freaks, Scarlett! We've grown, too, I promise. We can totally get that apartment together now. I'm not playing with the hearts of middle-aged record collectors anymore! Now you can put down the bottle of bleach and the terrifying cleavage-strangling outfits, and just be natural again. Please.

I've gotta say, though - I know you still got something, Scarlett, cuz I am gay as all get out and this pic over to the right makes me wanna make babies. Ahem. Finis.
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