Ed Harris

The IMDB entry on Ed Harris is depressing indeed.  Never outside of a high school ‘fav poems’ list have we seen a more comprehensive collection of pretentious, juvenile horseshit.   Remember that sports movie about the retard whose courage made the team champions?  And that one vanity project in which some shitty actor pretended to be a famous painter: squinting, scowling and misunderstanding? A Beautiful Mind, The Hours and National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets. Ah, Mr. Harris ’tis you.  Truly the only thing missing from his vomitus ouevere is The Day the Clown Cried.  Beyond making films, Ed Harris represents most everything bad about acting celebrity.  Walking around with that pseudo-humble “my favorite book is the Grapes of Wrath” swagger that makes us want to barf.  All the while thinking, “I just have to tell these stories!”  Much like the previously mentioned Zach Braff, Mr. Harris represents an idealized version of the sensitive, artist male, a version that only exists in the mind of teenaged girls.  And what is perhaps worse, he tricks morons like himself into thinking that they are smart as he thinks he is. “Oh, look at this Truman fellow, trapped in his own world without knowing it whilst this God sort of character named Cristof (fucking Cristof! by the way) runs the show.  And this Truman is a man trapped by his reality.  I get it. I get this obvious point and because it took a little work for my pea brain to figure it out I must be smart and this movie must be good.”

We like to imagine that somewhere Mr. Harris sits in his ranch style house, tending to his farming in between those pesky forays into the bloodsucking world of Hollywood, reading script after script in his comfy chair by the fire until he lights upon something that sets his calloused hands a quivering.  Perhaps it is something about the indomitable human spirit or perhaps it is yet another shitty novel turned into yet another shitty movie.  Whatever that film is, it surely shall be awful.

Zach Braff

Braff is the sort of cuddly pseudo-hipster who substitutes having an ironic Three’s Company lunch box and listening to Frou Frou for an actual personality. You know, just because you aren’t a date rapey jock doesn’t mean you need to be such a weenie. We here at deadman/party are living proof. Even if we wanted to buy Mr. Braff a beer, we think he would probably decline and invite us instead to a slumber party where we could wear choo choo train jammies, make s’moores in an easy bake oven, and play an ironic game of Chutes and Ladders. If we’re not mistaken, Braff does a voice over for a golden retriever puppy in some kind of commercial. He is perfectly cast in this role but even though we love puppies, they do not share many qualities with grown men with whom we want to drink.

It is not all bad for Mr. Braff. He seems like a nice enough fellow and if you needed a babysitter or a designated driver, he would be near the top of the celebrity list. If the Thanksgiving table was full, we are sure he would gleefully pull up a Fisher-Price chair to the kids table with nary a complaint (we bet Braff loves mashed potatoes) and if we need to know where to get a horn or a replacement banana seat for a vintage Schwinn cruiser, he would be especially useful. In spite of this, we still believe our friend Annie’s Myspace profile says it best: “People I Would Like to Meet: Girls who don’t list Garden State as their favorite movie.” You did this Mr. Braff, and for that you have earned a punch in the face.