I shall return soon, with professional womb in tow

My plan to populate Hogwarts' janitorial ranks with the fruit of Michelle Duggar's womb proceeds apace. I am in the Colonies presently, hatching plans with Walnut. Wish us luck.

S.

My friend Mel is suing himself.

Mel Gibson, the witty and urbane Latin-flinging blogger, is being threatened by the lawyers of Mel Gibson, the pompous, talentless actor. Now, I may be Hammersmith-born, but I do have a rudimentary understanding of your American Constitution. I had thought that satire enjoyed protection under the First Amendment, particularly if the satirical product brought no income to its author.

Apparently, the incandescent minds at Quinn, Emanuel, Urquhart, Oliver, & Hedges lack familiarity with the law. One of the respondents at Mel's Musings has kindly provided links here and here regarding the workings of fair use law.

I shall watch with baited breath, and provide such comfort as I may. We faux actors must stick together.

Alan

Snape, Actually

Sipping grappa this evening . . . not a good state of mind in which to view the latter half of Love, Actually. Surprising as it may seem, I've never viewed the blasted thing all the way through. I repeatedly tune in on that scene wherein three lovely American girls seduce a rather dysmorphic looking Englishman. Ridiculous!

The entire movie is a fantasy. Have you seen it? That Handbag interview I did, they called Love, Actually "one of the biggest British films of all time." One of the biggest! One of the most over-populated, certainly. I counted scenes -- I'm in fewer than one in ten. The whole thing was a bewildering chaos. And, poor Emma! Emma Thompson is a lovely actress, but you wouldn't know it in this movie. Wardrobe dressed her in a grey potato sack and Curtis told her to mope. "More moping," he'd cry. "What's that -- a half-grin? We'll have none of that!"

***

Kate, you asked: "Snape or Rickman?" Truth be told, I could not write a Snape-only blog. I'll tell you a secret: I haven't read a single Harry Potter novel. Take a look at how I responded to Ms. Muskoron in that Handbag interview:

Q: Have you read all the Harry Potter books? Are you a fan?

A: You can't stop turning the pages, can you? But I haven't read them all - I have to try to catch up as we film.

Brilliant response! You can't stop turning the pages -- you'll note I said nought about reading the pages. Fat lot of rubbish, if you ask me.

Alan

I would have been stellar in "Chasing Amy"

Doulgas's blog-article, short story, piece, whatever the hell you call these things, started me thinking about religion.

To be precise, I recalled how fine I looked in wings.



Great look, horrendous film. Yes, I know I've done worse. I'm still trying to live down Quigley Down Under, but Laura begged me to take the role, and how could I refuse that delicious button nose?

In case you are fortunate enough to have missed Dogma, it starred yours truly as Metatron. What's a Metatron? One of the Lord's hit men. An angel. Can't you tell from the bloody photo?

I wanted the role of God, naturally, but Kevin Smith gave it to some woman, some singer who capered about like a Tinkerbell-wannabe at a Peter Pan audition.

Let's talk about another Kevin Smith movie, Chasing Amy. Smith will tell you he didn't know me back then, but it's a lie. I wrote him several letters of praise after Clerks. I'd heard about Chasing Amy through the grapevine, and thought: a young man falls in love with a beautiful lesbian, and he's so charming, she falls in love with him and renounces her lesbian ways? I am that young man! But not young enough for Smith, apparently. He gave the role to Affffefe. Ffflk.

Try again, Alan. It's not that difficult. Type the damned letters.

He gave the role to Ben Affleck.

Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking: Joey Lauren Adams is twenty-five years younger than you. I can feel you out there, cringing, getting -- what is it the children say? -- getting all squicked out. But please, please, consider: Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt are twenty-six years apart, and Nicholson doesn't have half my style. Or looks. Or ability.

It rankles.

Excuse me. I'm going to pour myself a glass of Port and watch Truly Madly Deeply. Again.

Alan

On this, my inaugural missive

I give to you the words of that legendary Argentinian fantasist, the immortal Borges:

There was no one inside him; behind his face (which even in the bad paintings of the time resembles no other) and his words (which were multitudinous, and of a fantastical and agitated turn) there was no more than a slight chill, a dream someone had failed to dream.

Such was Borges's conception of playwright and archetypal stage actor, William Shakespeare, and such is the frigid truth of any actor's existence. For we are, at our cores, hollow men, waiting to be filled by our next character, our next role.

We are lonely, lonely men, and you should love us, every chance you get.

Alan