Damn it Clive Owen
Damn it, Clive Owen. I just watched your film "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead." I'm planning a 300 person conference for work, so my free time? Severely curtailed. Spending 102 minutes over the course of two evenings (did I mention the minimal free time?) was an investment of sorts. An investment squandered.
Clive, your clean-shaven face on the DVD promised me the handsome visage I've grown accustomed to watching in superior films like "Children of Men." This? You have a scraggly awful beard. I kept shouting at you, "Shave it off! Please? Shave it!" You obeyed when there were but 10 minutes left in the film. I endured Malcolm MacDowell (ew) and some of the worst dialogue ever for a last minute physical transformation? No.
Damn it, Clive Owen. I know you didn't write the awful script, but when you read it didn't it strike you as a bit stilted? Slow? For a thriller didn't the story seem short on thrills? And I know, I know, it was supposed to be broody. You brooded the hell out of it, really you did. But, um, brooding alone does not make a film. A story usually helps. You know, a story that holds more water than most colanders?
Don't do anything like this again, okay? You deserve better. So do I.