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.