Patient: Kevin Costner. Diagnosis: Delusions of Grandeur and Overall Yuckiness. Though Costner’s career has been nothing if a total muddle, there’s one thing that’s crystal clear: America doesn’t care about him anymore. After enduring drivel like The Postman, Message in a Bottle and For the Love of the Game (I exclude Waterworld because I actually think it was a darn good movie), even the most forgiving folk promised to boycott all future Costner exercises-in-ego. Which meant, of course, that Thirteen Days, his Cuban Missile Crisis drama which opened in December, tanked miserably and didn’t rack up the acclaim he clearly expected. So Costner railed against American audiences in interviews and decided that the movie was, uh, better suited for Cubans. He took the film to Havana, had a screening of it and smoked cigars with Fidel Castro, and according to one eyewitness, is “touring Havana incognito. Many people say he is going round Havana undercover, and is interested in seeing a game of baseball or, maybe like Hemingway, going fishing.” Only one problem—the Cubans don’t like the movie either. Said the Cuban state news agency about Thirteen Days, “The North Americans are presented yet again as the saviors of the world, while Cuba appears in the film, according to some critics, as mere decoration in a sugary film of pure Hollywood style. With more dialogue than action, the film tends to send the spectator to sleep.” Looking back, the Elian Gonzalez brouhaha would have been a lot simpler if we had just traded Kevin for Elian. (Wouldn’t I make a great Attorney General?)
Patient: Jennifer Aniston. Diagnosis: Overanalysis, Low IQ. You just married Brad Pitt, scored a TV-package deal that sets you up for life and are one of the most recognized women in the world. And you’re still complaining? Said Aniston in a recent interview: “There’s been a real intense overhaul—about family, work, everything…I feel, half the time, like I’m one of those teen-age girls…Feeling stupid, feeling good enough, feeling adequate, asking, ‘What am I doing?’—it doesn’t go away.” But at least Jennifer isn’t as bad as…
Patient: Gwyneth Paltrow. Diagnosis: Too Many Disorders to List.
IN THE KNOW SUPERSTARS
It Boy: Christopher L. Pierce ’01. Girls love Chris Pierce. Boys love Chris Pierce. Everrybooodddyy loves Chris Pierce. And why not? He looks like the sixth Backstreet Boy, concentrates in bio-chem but knows how to throw a damn good party, and is an all around fun-loving kid.
SOMAN’S SHORTS
www.somanintheknow.com. An insomniac’s dream…How excited are you about Josie and the Pussycats? I hear it’s terrible, but in that campy wonderful way. I’ll be first in line…Christina B. Rosenberger ’02, my former co-editor and now Arts empress, made the astute observation: “My roommates and I are wondering WHY the model Giselle is going out with Leonardo di Caprio. He isn’t attractive any more (a frat boy paunch without the frat boy is twice as vulgar) and she has plenty of her own money, is the undisputed queen of the super-models and should be able to get any one she wants, or at least get the one she wants to the gym. So we need an explanation. Personally, I think she should pull a Gwyneth and find a trust-fund.”…One of my blockmates asked at dinner the other night, “What are the best hook-up songs?” (translation: “Which CD should I slip in on Friday night after I bring back a pre-frosh from the Grill?) I thought of Janet Jackson’s The Velvet Rope, but that’s kind of kinky. Any thoughts?…So I saw Memento last week and can’t shake it. It’s about a guy with short-term amnesia who’s trying to track down his wife’s killer; in order to keep track of events (since he can’t make new memories), he takes lots and lots of polaroids. One of the most ingenious scripts to ever be filmed. You’re not In the (K)now if you don’t schlep over to Kendall to see it…Last week I talked about how much I hate MTV. Now you allll have a reason to hate MTV. While filming a sequence for a new Jackass-style special called “Dude, This Sucks,” the stars accidentally flung human feces at two girls. (How does one “accidentally” fling poo-poo?)