Showing posts with label the new yorker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the new yorker. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

EXIT LINES

That's Heath Ledger there, proving all jokes are indeed not funny.

David Denby has written a moving review in the new New Yorker (despite the tasteless cover!!) about Heath in the new Batman movie, The Dark Knight:

"Christian Bale. . .is upstaged by the great Ledger, who shambles and slides into a room, bending his knees and twisting his neck and suddenly surging into someone’s face like a deep-sea creature coming up for air. Ledger has a fright wig of ragged hair; thick, running gobs of white makeup; scarlet lips; and dark-shadowed eyes. He’s part freaky clown, part Alice Cooper the morning after, and all actor. He’s mesmerizing in every scene. . .At times, I was reminded of Marlon Brando at his most feline and insinuating. When Ledger wields a knife, he is thoroughly terrifying (do not, despite the PG-13 rating, bring the children), and, as you’re watching him, you can’t help wondering—in a response that admittedly lies outside film criticism—how badly he messed himself up in order to play the role this way. His performance is a heroic, unsettling final act: this young actor looked into the abyss."
Gosh. This is sad. I'm hardly moved by anything anymore, being a freaky clown shut-in myself, but Heath! We only had a taste. This is Kurt Cobain-kind of sad. I'm so attracted to his seeming craziness and pain. I never knew how much I loved him till he was dead. True of most things actually.

photo courtesy: Reuters