Montage Revokes Your License! This Week: Tim Burton by Robert Duffin

Everyone at school knew a Tim Burton. Your Tim Burton might have had big coke bottle spectacles; maybe he collected bus timetables or scoured the playground for discarded coins. However this Tim Burton, the one that went on to become a famous filmmaker, was likely to be in the corner somewhere doodling away on a drawing pad, or inviting people round his house for a Vincent Price marathon. Who knew that one-day this Tim Burton would become King of the Outsiders, style icon to millions, and spawn his own adjective? Yet for many film commentators, in recent years Burtonesque has started to lose a little of its shine. For me however it’s never really had it at all. Tim Burton has become one of the laziest hit and miss directors in Hollywood, and with only three genuinely good films in twenty years, it’s time to call him out.

Burton’s career first flourished under the roof of the House of Mouse. After graduating from the California Institute of the Arts, Burton began working for Disney on The Fox and the Hound and The Black Cauldron. Whilst there he also directed his two famous stop motion shorts, Vincent and Frankenweenie, which Disney deemed unsuitable for children and would only later surface as DVD extras. The shorts did however attract the attention of children’s entertainer and matinee masturbator, Paul Reubens, aka Pee-Wee Herman. Burton was signed on to direct Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, and the first cinematic outing for Reuben’s socially inept buffoon was surprisingly successfully despite generally being expunged from the Burton canon in recent years.

The first definitive entry into said canon is also the first of his three great films: 1988’s Beetlejuice. Only the twisted imagination of a boy who once staged an axe murder with his brother could conceive death as a bureaucratic nightmare rather than an existentialist one. Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin are a recently deceased couple whose house is bought by an irritating family whom they want to remove. As a last resort they invoke the spirit of Beetlejuice, a magnificently malevolent Michael Keaton, who gives one of the finest manic performances in cinema. And of course there is the Burton substitute, this time Winona Ryder, with her “life is a dark room. One. Big. Dark. Room.” The joy of Beetlejuice is the perfectly realised warped world of curling spirals and black and white chequered flooring. However, it would be a long time before Burton ever told such a compelling story in one of his created environments again.

One year later, the success of his low budget spook-comedy would see Warner Brothers hand him they keys to Gotham City to make his Joker movie…erm I mean Batman movie. To first give him his props, Batman comic book writers and filmmakers have rightly adopted the Gotham created by Burton since the film was released. His art deco Gotham was simply the perfect environment to tell the story in, except Burton forgot the story. For a film based on forty years worth of comic book stories, Batman was surprisingly an example of form over narrative. Burton simply doesn’t understand the Batman character and instead chose to turn him into one of his own damaged children, and put the focus on the villain, a move that eventually led to overkill in the franchise. Despite his baddie fetish, Burton for the most part understands The Joker about as much as he understands the Dark Knight. Jack Nicholson doing “Jack” with some face slap on simply doesn’t cut it, and while this instalment is generally well respected it sowed the seeds of the problems that went untouched until Christopher Nolan arrived on the scene with Batman Begins 16 years later.

He followed up Batman with perhaps his most famous and loved film, Edward Scissorhands, a film that I simply don’t get the fascination with. It’s packed with gorgeous imagery, but that’s never been a problem for Burton who is probably the world’s most famous set decorator. Instead it once again trips up on story, and can anyone remember the ins and outs of this film? Distracted by a chunk of undercooked peripheral satire, Scissorhands is marred by a set of characters that have nothing to do. Edward is supposed to be weird, a commentary on teenage awkwardness, yet in a pastiche world where everyone is a caricature, what does he have to comment on? This is just absurd people doing absurd things. And the ending, essentially saying that outcasts will always be losers, sees Burton sentimentally revelling in the grotesque world he has created for himself.

A severe case of arrested development would strike his Batman Returns, which he successfully haggled for complete creative control over. Plotlines are left hanging like loose threads on Catwoman’s fetish costume, but the phantasmagoria of the special effects and set design are never less than stellar. Our obligatory outsider subtext comes in the form of The Penguin who, abandoned by his parents and raised by sewer penguins, comes to represent the neglected and damaged children of society finally wreaking their revenge. Loamy undertones aside, Burton once again spends more time with his villains than Bruce Wayne, whose existence in this story seems to be for the purposes of creating categories of weirdoes. Thankfully this was Burton’s last visit to Gotham, and while he did have a visually engaging stab at the mythos of Batman, again, he simply didn’t get the character. In film noir there are no more heroes, and despite being on the darker end of the superhero spectrum Batman is still a hero and trying to make him into a neurotic recluse was a bad idea.

It had been six years since Beetlejuice, and Burton had become somewhat of a celebrity filmmaker. Yet to follow up Batman Returns with a biopic of a little known trashy sci-fi director would result in the second of his great movies, and a personal favourite film for me: Ed Wood. The pinnacle of the Burton-Depp creative relationship sees them tell the story of one of the worst filmmakers of all time with a dizzying dose of screwball, sexual deviancy and angora sweaters that Burton pulls off with a surprising level of grace. Wood and his coterie of bizarre friends are a completely engaging creative force, and you almost will them into success even as they “PULL THE STRING!!” and stage intergalactic battles with paper plates. After peppering his films with pseudo-biographical characters, it seems Burton finally found a kindred spirit in Ed Wood and somehow it worked. Sadly, Burton would move on from making a film about schlock science fiction pictures and make one himself, the much-maligned Mars Attacks. Clearly aiming for the satire of Strangelove, Burton’s Martian movie was a tedious spoof that’s only saving grace was an almost antidote- like close release date to Independence Day.

Closing out the 1990s was Burton’s last truly great film, a Hammer style adaptation of Irving Washington’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. An ensemble cast of top quality scenery chewers (Michael Gambon, Richard Griffiths, Jeffrey Jones and Miranda Richardson) skilfully back Johnny Depp’s wimpy Ichabod Crane. Equally eerie and engrossing, the claret splattered Sleepy Hollow would be Burton’s last great achievement before the onset of his millennial malaise. Post-2000 it has been a drastic case of diminishing returns from an already uneven filmmaker. There was the out of control spiral that was the calamitous remake of Planet of the Apes, the Greatest Hits of Tim Burton aka Big Fish and worst of all, the supposed perfect pairing of Tim Burton and Roald Dahl. Talk about careful what you wish for. The breathtaking realisation of the titular factory was inevitable, but what we didn’t expect to see was the moment Depp and Burton began to believe their own hype, captured forever on celluloid. Post-Jack Sparrow no one was about to lecture Johnny Depp on how to play a quirky character, but Burton really should have stepped in when the words “creepy paedophile” or “Michael Jackson” were mentioned. Awkward, not funny, and even positively sinister, hopefully sometime soon they will find a cure for box office blindness and call these two out for that particular creation. So while the 90s were a steady to and fro of hit and miss, the 00s have been a nosedive.

Yet despite his output getting slowly worse Burton has never been more of a cultural icon. The entire emo movement in pop culture have adopted him as their most celebrated pariah, with Edward Scissorhands and Jack Skellington (from Nightmare Before Christmas, based on Burton’s drawing but directed by Henry Selick) adorning t-shirts and hoodies that lurk under all the ridiculous fringes. Burton has become king of his own band of misfits who identify with his outlook on the world. Of course a group who define their identities with appearance would turn to one of the greatest stylists in cinema, but the ability to create pretty pictures doesn’t mean you can tell a story. Burton is an affable person in interviews, with admirable politics and an abundance of artistic talent for sure, but he is not a storyteller. In some ways he’s like a more talented George Lucas; he can create amazing worlds and characters, just don’t ask him to do anything interesting with them. Next up is another one of those “dream collaborations” as Burton, with Depp in tow naturally, tackles Steven Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd musical. A perfect marriage of director and topic? It doesn’t matter now, because Mr. Tim Burton…Montage has revoked your license.

Montage Revokes Your License! This Week: Gerard Depardieu-By Sandra Dupuy

Once upon a time in the thriving dump of Châteauroux, France, there was an unruly young man born of alcoholic working-class parents. Blessed with awkward charm and a bubbly personality, his lust for life took him from rag to riches, mean streets to stardom, tarts and thugs to theatre. Yes, Gérard, it is you we are talking about.

You were once a respected actor, one of the best French cinema had ever fostered. You weren't classically handsome, but your sturdy physique and your onscreen charisma could be compared to that of a young Jean Gabin or a steamy early Brando. You also displayed a rare mischievous 70s sensibility, as well as a flair for difficult but rewarding career moves. You're now a winemaker-cum-wino billionaire with a Gargantuan gut and a brain the size of a pickled grape. You pick your roles the way you wear your clothes, dreadfully. O Gérard, what happened to thee?

At the beginning of the 70s, Alain Delon (Le Samourai, 1967), Jean-Paul Belmondo (A bout de Souffle, 1960), Catherine Deneuve (Belle de Jour, 1967) and Jeanne Moreau (Jules et Jim, 1962) were already established as French icons and consumate thespians. The Nouvelle Vague was long gone, and French cinema needed a breath of fresh air. You put a spell on the big screen in 1972, in Bertrand Blier's erotic road/buddy movie Les Valseuses/ Going Places, stealing the show from a zany Patrick Dewaere and a bimboesque Miou-Miou. With your long hair, your cheeky grin and your self-assured yet sensitive performance, you were the new sensation.
Les Valseuses boosted your reputation, and after great collaborations with Italian mavericks Bernardo Bertolucci in 1900 (1976), and Marco Ferreri in Rêve de Singe (1978), you worked with up-and-coming French director André Téchiné in Barocco (1976), and again with Blier in his 1979 Buffet Froid, a masterpiece of absurdity.

You were ready to tackle the 80s with the fierce enthusiasm of a bull bolting into the arena, accumulating films like others eat croissants. 1980 was the first of many increasingly ambitious, then pompous, then tedious 'Depardieu years'. Every director under the celluloid sun wanted you. Alain Resnais with Mon Oncle d'Amérique, Maurice Pialat with Loulou, and François Truffaut with Le Dernier Métro gave you some of your best parts, in a mix of arthouse experiments and blockbusters à la française. But you already displayed a lack of restraint which would later become your downfall. Claude Zidi's Inspecteur La Bavure, a vulgar Farelli-Brothers-type comedy, shot the same year, did not compare with the aforementioned classics, though you were almost funny in it.

You then moved from social experiment to period drama, portraying French Revolution hero Danton, in Polish prodigy Andrej Wajda's eponymous film. All of us kids in Primary School had to suffer your phallic nose and high-pitched voice for three long hours, supposedly because Danton was a great historical document. We secretly cheered at the end of the film when a dignified Danton, his curly-haired teddybear head ready for the chop, said to the executioner: « Show my head to the people, it is really worth it» (he was probably talking about his bouffant perm). Thank God, we all thought, no more Depardieu for another year!

Not content with acting, you decided to plague the shiny happy people of France with your own creation, a rigid and humourless staging of Molière's ferocious attack on religious hypocrisy, Le Tartuffe (1984). Your film, austere though not devoid of visual quirks, such as the clash between your tarty make-up and your black biggot outfit, didn't agree with French critics' sensitive stomachs, and they panned it.

The end of the 80s were a reasonable vintage, and Claude Berri blessed you with the rôle of the hunchback in Jean de Florette (1986), a moving adaptation of Marcel Pagnol's classic. The overwhelming shadow of the great Raimu (writer and director Pagnol's favorite interpreter) looming over you made your part even harder to play, but you met the challenge with a tear-jerking performance. You came back to Blier with the grating 1986 Tenue de Soirée (where you played insecure Michel Blanc's junkie whore), and acted in another great Pialat, Sous Le Soleil De Satan (Cannes' 1986 Palme d'Or). Cinematographer Bruno Nuytten's first directed film, Camille Claudel, showcased an extraordinary performance by Isabelle Adjani as 19^th century pedantic poet Paul Claudel's misunderstood sister. The film also displayed your barely tolerable act as Camille Claudel's paunchy and aging lover, sculptor Auguste Rodin.

The weight of years was starting to have an unforgiving effect on your increasingly plump person, and your booming wine business didn't help. You drank heavily, partied loudly, and rode your motorbikes carelessly, multiplying driving accidents and inebriated appearances on French talk-shows. In a word, you'd gone from fit to fat, and people started calling you «gros Gégé».

1990 was the year of your resurrection. You picked up the rôle of Cyrano de Bergerac where French theatre actor Daniel Sorano had left it, in the dust, and redynamised a classic. Director Jean-Paul Rappeneau cleverly adapted Edmond Rostand's play by using most of the original dialogues, and changed the bizarre love triangle into a fantastic fresco full of filth and fury. Your efforts paid this time, and you were awarded the prize for best male performance in Cannes.

So why oh why did you have to throw yourself into the first Hollywood merde passing by? Though Andie MacDowell's commitment brought sensitivity to Peter Weir's shallow rom-com Green Card (1990), your fleeting part, if entertaining, was a jumble of clichés about the French, which your poor performance corroborated. Once again, Gérard, eet eez not true zat all French people speak like zat, and zey don't always plant tomatoes on zeir balconies while drinking a leetle glass ov Saint-Emilion eizer.

It all went downhill from there. Rappeneau, who had offered you Cyrano on a silver plate, only gave you a small part in Le Hussard Sur Le Toit in 1995. Let's face it: your horseman would have been huffing and puffing all the way up Provence hills in a Sancho Panza manner, while Kylie Minogue and Juliette Binoche's former hunk, Olivier Martinez, with his natural elegance, made up for a shocking lack of talent. You also swapped adventurous directors for expensive production makers like Claude Berri (Germinal, 1993), or plain bomb droppers like Gérard Lauzier (Mon père ce héros, 1991), Steve Miner ( My Father The Hero, its 1994 mediocre Hollywood remake), Jean-Marie Poiré ( Les Anges Gardiens, 1995), and good old Zidi again (Astérix et Obélix contre César, 1999).

As for commenting on your choice of Norman Jewison's 1996 rubbish (and self-explanatory) Bogus, with poor support from weepy Whoopi (Goldberg), and Ariel Zeitoun's unwatchable Bimboland (1998)), the chatterbox I usually am is speechless. You even managed to catch the uneven Ridley Scott on a very (and I'm choosing my words carefully here), very bad day. Agreeing to play Christopher Colombus (who, in passing, was a Genoese navigator, not a French ned) in 1492 was such a stupid decision my brain still cringes thinking about it. Did you really think Vangelis's three note score would save the day?

Poor Gégé, with your regular binges, your devil-may-care attitude and your ill-advised picks, it looks like you're on an icy slope, about to slip into oblivion. Having Fidel Castro for a friend may help you puff on free cigars, but it won't resurrect your wheezy career. O Gérard, were art thou? Haste ye back with mesmerizing material and powerful performances for your license has now been revoked! And frankly, mon amour, I don't give a damn!

Montage Revokes Your License! This Week: Julia Roberts, by Emma J Lennox

With a smile to launch a thousand romantic comedies, Julia Roberts' career seems hinged on her natural beauty and her 'girl next door' charms. And this is exactly the reason I can't stand her over- sized grinning, maniacal, celluloid presence. Readers may suspect the green ink of writer's envy, but trust me the issues go beyond skin deep; in fact it goes to the heart of the Hollywood star system.

In the late eighties Hollywood was obsessed with female -bonding, tear -duct- moisteners such as Mystic Pizza and Steel Magnolias. Roberts was the perfect everygirl in search of womanhood, usually stumbling into heartbreak or an early grave. Either way millions of snotty noses buried themselves into soggy hankies. But it was in Garry Marshall's Pretty Woman (1990) that Roberts became lead actress stock. Only in the most twisted, shady, drug fuelled offices of sunny L.A would a rags to riches story of a prostitute become a saccharine romance. There was Richard Gere with a dozen red roses as Roy Orbison crooned “pretty woman, walking down the street...” (and for $50, getting in your car). Suddenly businessmen everywhere were potential 'knights in shining armour' with a special get out clause: 'I thought I could save her.' Thankfully realities of this situation were revealed by Hugh Grant's divine attempt at a Hollywood remake five years later.

Roberts had progressed from girl to woman and now she was not only pretty but sassy, loud and a force to be reckoned with. A spate of romance films interspersed with thrillers would secure Roberts with the highest price tag in Hollywood, reportedly $20 million per film at her most popular. Her star had ascended, she had the looks, the bravado and the right PR, but something was amiss behind those vacuous, shining eyes; the talent. Roberts needed a 'serious' film and nothing said cloying gravitas like a British directed period piece with unreasonable accent requirements. In stepped Stephen Frears with a retelling of a classic tale in his film Mary Reilly (1996). Only in the most deluded, cloudy and doomed British production offices, would anyone believe that the character of a house maid was more interesting than Jekyll and/or Hyde. Whilst the narrative of Robert Louis Stevenson's infamous split personality unfolded in the adjacent room, Mary Reilly was scrubbing the kitchen floor. Roberts approached the role with a pursed mouth, dull eyes and a shaky Irish lilt. Charisma couldn't carry this one and Roberts found herself completely out of her depths. Critics and audiences hated it alike but this didn't inconvenience Roberts. She was on The Letterman Show talking about lipstick and dating Mathew Perry from Friends.

It's not a crime to lack acting abilities but it isn't something you should parade in front of millions either. It's best to try and keep it covered up, like an ingrown toe nail, or a patch of mould on the ceiling, or your insane uncle Thaddeus. But the Hollywood locomotive is an unstoppable machine, fuelled by the power of image and ego. The camera, we were told, loves Julia Roberts, and so it lingered, investigating every pore of the woman's face. The bigger that smile got the smaller the characters became. In one pulp romance after another from My Best Friend's Wedding (1997) to The Runaway Bride (1999) Roberts was playing Julia Roberts; the Hollywood star. Nowhere was this more painfully obvious than the bile inducing, industry love fest, Notting Hill (1999). Roberts played Anna Scott, the fictional 'world's most famous actress' who falls in love with a humble British book shop owner, Hugh Grant (the world's most self- effacing womaniser). It was a thinly veiled love letter to Hollywood on how we adore to adore the stars. Roberts wasn't given the role for her acting, not even for her looks, the part belonged to Roberts because of her status, and that was something no character actress could provide.

In 2000 Roberts finally got credit where credit wasn't due for portraying the real life ball breaker Erin Brockovich. It was clearly Oscar winning faire, from the evil corporations to the struggling single parent, and not even its TV movie quality could detract from Robert's moment in the spotlight at the Academy Awards. There she stood, Oscar clamped in hand, gushing platitudes about “sisterhood” and unleashing terrifying bouts of laughter. If this was the girl next door, you would tell her politely but firmly to leave, before changing the locks. Oscar had it charms but really it was affiliation with Steven Soderbergh that informed her next career move; Roberts got cool. Out went twinkly eyed Gere and in came Brad Pitt, George Clooney, and John Cusack, to name a few. More importantly Roberts' roles decreased from scene swallowing automaton to ensemble player; a much more shapely fit. It's a hard task disliking a person through their entire career, and inevitably something will break through the defences. For me it was film number thirty six, written by Patrick Marber and directed by Mike Nichols in 2004: Closer. Julia Roberts completely failed to annoy me in her role as philandering photographer, Anna, though there was much to dislike about her. For the first time Roberts was allowed to be unlikeable, which had a conversely appealing effect.

What Closer highlighted was the wealth of bland roles Roberts has taken in her career. Partly Hollywood is to blame; they love the fairy tales of their own manufactured myths and Roberts was placed on a pedestal as a star attraction of Tinsel Town. Yet she seems a rather shallow idol when placed next to former silver screen heavy weights; Lauren Bacall, Ava Gardner, Vivien Leigh, Audrey Hepburn, Marylin Monroe, to name a small handful. It's a sad truth that actresses have to work extra hard to avoid being objectified as solely 'beautiful' and it seems Julia Roberts is only just finding this out. It is, however, too little too late as this pretty woman's license has been revoked.

Montage Revokes Your License! This week: Willem Dafoe

O Willem, would thou hast not given in to temptation, and from temptation be delivered from evil (Speed 2: Cruise Control, Body of Evidence,) thou wouldst not have been the first to die here on these pages. As it stands, however, Biblical lamentations aside, Willem Dafoe’s license must be revoked. Yea and verily his particular talent cannot be denied, as it is showcased in dozens of quality films, but the truth of it is that when Dafoe makes a rotten choice, it is as the corpse that poisons the spring, so thoroughly does it muddy his previous achievements.

First let us look at Dafoe’s winning achievements, for there are many. Platoon was an early success for young Willem, and the pairing of the oft-described “craggy faced” actor with the then-talented Oliver Stone pulled at the heartstrings and outraged audiences with its gritty telling of some of the less savory aspects of the Vietnam War. (Funny how no on has ever managed to make a “nice” Vietnam movie-say a “Hogan’s Heroes” about the Vietcong? But we’ll get to that later.) The iconic image of Dafoe’s Sgt. Elias Grodin, arms raised in ragged desperation as he is gunned down by his psychopathic colleague in the jungle is not easily wiped from the movie-goer’s filmic consciousness. Likewise, his performance in Scorsese's Last Temptation of Christ garnered controversy and cries of blasphemy for the actor, but more importantly, it was an interesting film and Dafoe was just plain good in it. He went on to do more mediocre and non-starter films, but also a tonne of really cracker productions like American Psycho, The English Patient, and Auto Focus, where he plays the creepy John Carpenter, the perverted foil to Greg Kinnear’s Bob Crane, the pulpy-headed star of “Hogan’s Heroes.” (See, we did come back to it.) Dafoe even does comedy well, playing the misanthropic seaman Klaus Daimler in The Life Aquatic and excels at vampyric longing when he asks “Is that Greta Schroeder?” in Shadow of the Vampire. When taken in the long view, Willem Dafoe is a great actor, capable of making bold choices and fulfilling his promise with intense, crepuscular performances in interesting films of wildly varying degrees of watchability. This is why he must be sanctioned.

Let us look at Body of Evidence, shall we? The watchword here is Madonna. Admittedly, this was before Madge was branded “Box Office Poison” with a red hot poker, but one can imagine Dafoe in his agent’s office, flipping idly through the script and nodding eagerly at all the graphic sex he will be performing with his leading lady. One is less sure of Dafoe for doing the film after asking “And who do they have me performing cunnilingus on and raping?” Upon hearing the words “Madonna,” most sensible actors, if not only fearing for their sexual safety, would at least politely decline and drive home at top speed for the hottest shower they have endured, but no, audiences were treated to Dafoe munching away happily at Her Madgesty’s crowning glory while everyone else in the film (Joe Mantegna, Julianne Moore, Frank Langella and Anne Archer,) acted better and didn’t have to apply any unguents after filming wrapped.

Next we have The Boondock Saints. Oh glory be that this movie was ever made. Considering that the director/screenwriter was a first-timer on both counts with a dodgy sense of right and wrong and even more suspect claims to talent, it seems little wonder that when released the film was given so little credence. Sure, the script was Hollywood’s Next Big Thing when it was written, but scripts that languish in obscurity for years do not great movies make, in particular when hands are thrown up in the air and the novice writer is asked to direct on a tiny budget with no release date in sight. So why then, did Willem Dafoe, bright Hollywood star, take the role of evidence-licking, crime-scene dancing, walkman-loving Agent Paul Smeckler? What part of “Um, so, we er, won’t be able to pay you at scale, and uh, we kinda messed up the shooting schedule, so we, like, have two weeks, and stuff. Can I stay at your place?” did Dafoe like? Maybe his girlfriend was a Norman Reedus fan. (Improbable. No one likes Norman Reedus.) Maybe he liked the idea that people who kill people should be killed, (does raise the issue of mental health problems,) or, just maybe Dafoe really thought that he was, yet again, playing in an edgy thriller that would challenge his limits as much as those of his audience? Audiences were challenged, all right. Challenged to sit through a film of such preachy pap and egotistical jawing that it was not hard to discern that the writer/director was a baboon loose from the zoo who had managed to get hold of a camera and six ounces of cocaine. Willem, Willem, what were you thinking?

Sadly, this brings me to the third undulating blemish on Dafoe’s CV, and his most recent outing in British cinemas. Mr Bean’s Holiday stars the egregious Rowan Atkinson as the titular boob in a comedy malfunction dealing with child abduction and film set disruption. Was Bean so good that Dafoe called his beleaguered agent and said ‘Dammit, get me on the next Mr Bean film or it’s your ass.” Was working on the assured blockbuster Spiderman franchise such a mind-warping experience that he had to go the other way and do a Bean movie, ten years after the first one bombed? Not even the role makes sense. Dafoe is Carson Clay, a film director whose latest project is foiled time and time again by Bean’s buffoonish bumblings. Clay is a bog standard villain who doesn’t even get the girl. Maybe Dafoe thought there would be graphic sex scenes, because other than showing that he has an under-developed sense of humour, taking this role makes no sense. So roll up your sleeves, Mr Dafoe, and put down that script, for your license has been revoked.

Editor's Note:
In future, when making comments, it may prove useful to us if you add your name and something constructive to your ill-conceived insults so that we may respond in kind to YOUR shitty criticism.