... Because I have a new old man crush!
AN OPEN LETTER TO DONALD SUTHERLAND
Dear Mr. Sutherland,
Why must you insist on being so amazing? I mean, really. You're making other actors feel bad about themselves.
I was clued in to your absolute greatness when I first saw you as Professor Jennings, the pothead professor, in National Lampoon's Animal House. Only you could make smoking pot look cool. And then you made me want to turn to a life of crime after watching Outbreak, because evil-ass corrupt military heroes never looked so good. And then as the kind-hearted Mr. Bennett in the remake of Pride & Prejudice. I then thought to myself, "okay, this man knows what's what."
Um. Yeah. And then along came Tripp.
I'm pretty sure Dirty Sexy Money would burn down without you. Sure, all the actors and actresses more than hold their weight. But let's be realistic: no one has the confidence, the skill, or the experience that you do. I can't imagine anyone else playing the role of Tripp Darling... every time I do, I wake up two days later, bleeding out my ears.
It's not just your confidence, which you exude with a very subtle grace, but it's how laid-back you are. You the character you play. In many new shows, it takes actors and actresses to really tap into their character, to know who exactly they're supposed to be. With you, you were Tripp from the first words you spoke. I'm so totally convinced that you're Tripp Darling that I expect to see you flying one of Tripp's many airplanes or buying some multi-billion dollar hotel or something. I walk away from every episode going, "damn. Now that's acting."
I hope you're taking notes, Lindsay Lohan. Or better yet, don't. This girl doesn't want to see you gracing any silver screens in the near future.
Oh, Donald (may I call you Donald?). If only you weren't old enough to be my grandfather. If only you and I lived within walking range. If only you didn't have a son (old enough to be my father) who could kill me with a napkin or his car during one of his drunk-driving stints.
Our love is forbidden. You'll have to settle for a gift basket.
Or this letter, as I don't know your address and 4-1-1 won't give it to me.
Faithfully yours,
R.C.
Why must you insist on being so amazing? I mean, really. You're making other actors feel bad about themselves.
I was clued in to your absolute greatness when I first saw you as Professor Jennings, the pothead professor, in National Lampoon's Animal House. Only you could make smoking pot look cool. And then you made me want to turn to a life of crime after watching Outbreak, because evil-ass corrupt military heroes never looked so good. And then as the kind-hearted Mr. Bennett in the remake of Pride & Prejudice. I then thought to myself, "okay, this man knows what's what."
Um. Yeah. And then along came Tripp.
I'm pretty sure Dirty Sexy Money would burn down without you. Sure, all the actors and actresses more than hold their weight. But let's be realistic: no one has the confidence, the skill, or the experience that you do. I can't imagine anyone else playing the role of Tripp Darling... every time I do, I wake up two days later, bleeding out my ears.
It's not just your confidence, which you exude with a very subtle grace, but it's how laid-back you are. You the character you play. In many new shows, it takes actors and actresses to really tap into their character, to know who exactly they're supposed to be. With you, you were Tripp from the first words you spoke. I'm so totally convinced that you're Tripp Darling that I expect to see you flying one of Tripp's many airplanes or buying some multi-billion dollar hotel or something. I walk away from every episode going, "damn. Now that's acting."
I hope you're taking notes, Lindsay Lohan. Or better yet, don't. This girl doesn't want to see you gracing any silver screens in the near future.
Oh, Donald (may I call you Donald?). If only you weren't old enough to be my grandfather. If only you and I lived within walking range. If only you didn't have a son (old enough to be my father) who could kill me with a napkin or his car during one of his drunk-driving stints.
Our love is forbidden. You'll have to settle for a gift basket.
Or this letter, as I don't know your address and 4-1-1 won't give it to me.
Faithfully yours,
R.C.
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