As I am sure I've said before, I’m not a big Brad Pitt fan. I mean, he has grown on me a bit over the years – particularly when he stopped taking himself so seriously and got in touch with his inner idiot in the Ocean’s movies. A big change from the Look-at-me-I’m-Brad-Pitt in Legends of the Fall, when we all knew the real star of that film was Anthony Hopkins. But I digress… I took a break last night and watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. All three long hours of it. Long, long hours. To say it was based on Fitzgerald’s short story of the same name is like saying that the world is flat. Anyone who has ever read Tales of the Jazz Age, a collection of Fitzgerald’s short stories, would recognize only the title and Benjamin’s odd aging disease, if you could even call it that. There is no Daisy, no daughter, no old folks’ home – and he was not abandoned by his father. Yes, Dad owned a button factory and Benjamin ended up working with him. The original story is not nearly as far-fetched as the movie – and infinitely more believable. Why does Hollywood take a perfectly good story and think they can improve on it? The next thing we know, Hollywood will remake Jane Eyre, in which Jane discovers that Mr. Rochester has been hiding an alien life form in the attic – who ate Mr. Rochester’s wife – and she helps said alien escape to his hidden spacecraft in the woods. Should she stay with Mr. Rochester or leave the solar system with the alien? Coming soon to a theatre near you.
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