Well, probably not stupid either. But it takes a certain lack of intelligence to admire Julian Assange at all, and then to jump at the chance to play him when Assange is already well past his public fascination shelf-life date, something which has only gotten worse in the interim between the filming of "Fifth Estate" and its release -- arrogant, conscience-free snoops pretending to be whistle-blowers have poisoned this well before the film even debuts. Nor does Cumberbatch display much common sense when he keeps over-blabbing about his private life and then wonders why he has no privacy left. Not that any of this takes away from the obvious Cumberbatch thespian gifts and peculiar magnetism. I'll still happily watch pretty much anything he appears in. But must remind myself not to look too deeply into the empty vessel which is the actor (any actor) -- the contents can often be less than impressive.

Hey, pedophiles don't even have to die to be canonized by media types: they just have to win an Oscar. Somebody needs to resurrect the film clip of the 2002 Oscar ceremony when Roman Polanski's name is announced as winner of Best Director for "The Pianist." Quite a few of the audience members start looking around to see if maybe Polanski will make a surprise appearance to accept the award -- everybody knows he's a wanted criminal, having pleaded guilty to child-rape, but hey, the rules are different for Important People like movie stars and politicians from Massachusetts. I guess they figured Polanski could be smuggled in via private plane, whisked into the heavily guarded theatre (with police turning a blind eye) in time to grab his statue and run to a waiting limo, then whisked out of the country again before being busted. Wow -- it's just too exciting -- what a movie that would make!

[my last word]
Dare we imagine that O'Camelot might at last be winding down? Can the bile of Joe Kennedy be so watered-down in the Patrick "Ambien-sleepdriver" Kennedy and William "consensual" Kennedy Smith generation, that maybe our grandchildren will know a world without a lionized member of the clan expecting, and getting, a free ride on a plush red carpet of unearned adulation? I'll be dead, and someone will be speaking ill of me, but that would be a small price to pay for my grandson growing up in a world where politics is a Kennedy-free zone.

I think I'll go fire myself now.

[I continue -- part deux]
I'm half Irish Catholic myself (Chicago), but somehow my parents knew all about the dirty Kennedy legacy even back in 1960, when we were sickened by all the Catholics -- especially the nuns -- who were going crazy over the first Catholic president. The name Kennedy was always a watchword for crap and corruption when I was growing up. They say you'll always remember where you were and what you were doing on November 22, 1963 -- I do, and I remember my sixth-grade self making a smart-ass crack about him as we rose from our desks and knelt down to pray when we heard the president had been shot. And on June 7, 1968 a sobbing classmate spat back to me how I had once said that Bobby Kennedy wasn't worth shooting. Apparently I've been speaking ill of the Dead Kennedys for decades! How dare I? What I really want to know is how this reeking family managed to serve up such a rich target environment for nearly a century -- but seem to have simultaneously put something in the water in Massachusetts to ensure that their political legacy will march on unimpeded by common sense and decency. It's breathtaking.

How dare you!? If you can't say something nice, keep your mouth shut! The man is dead, for Heaven's sake! Let him rest in peace, and let his family mourn. Oh, wait -- that's Ted WILLIAMS. You're talking about Ted KENNEDY -- the son-of-a-b**ch whose blood ran colder in his veins when he was alive than Ted Williams' blood does now in his cryonic ice-cube tray. It took me two days to collect my thoughts, but I blew off a head of steam about Kennedy myself on my blog (click and enjoy) so I'm happy to join you in Speak Ill Of The Dead Week.

It is completely frightening to me that I recognized Liev Schreiber on sight, not needing to be told who was hiding under that wig. Perhaps it was the Woodstock association that tipped me off, since I remember Schreiber very fondly in another Woodstock associated film, "Walk On The Moon" in which he played such a simple decent guy who has to compete with the exotic attractions of wild hippiness, as embodied in the Viggo. Appropriately, he wins in the end, wife goes back to husband, hippie is shown to be fundamentally selfish and shallow. A nice film, despite gratuitous focus on naked Viggo-butt. Will definitely give the new one a miss.