A man! A man has tried to kill himself! His life has become so unbearably bleak that he stared into the pit of misery and felt compelled to end it, seeing his precious, fragile life as so worthless that it was no longer required to continue, aiming to snuff it out like a flickering flame.
Of course, because the man in question is actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers, we must see this as a titillating and ultimately amusing thing. No sympathy here. No-one wants us to be sympathetic.
And so, hilariously, Rhys Meyers was rushed to hospital by ambulance after his suicide attempt, which we’ll now pass off as a dreadful example of attention seeking. After seeing him act, we can’t possibly believe that he meant it. Have you seen Velvet Goldmine? Exactly.
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You’re off to a bad start when the title for your latest John Travolta starring blockbuster is a play on one of James Bond’s more reserved offerings.
From Paris With Love is another movie from the Luc Besson production line (story credit obligatory), this time involving some secret agents, terrorist plots and John Travolta looking like something Marlon Brando ate.
At its core, it’s a continuation of his character from The Taking of Pelham 123 (except playing for the other side now) still unhinged, erratic and clearly having a ball. It’s the most fun he’s been on screen for quite a while.
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If you like The Ring and you love Identity, then you’re probably not the type of person that we’d ever like to meet you agoraphobic cheese-eating loon.
Still, Shelter should be right up your alley. Julianne Moore – that ginger one from everything – plays a forensic psychiatrist, who discovers that all of one of her patient’s (Jonathan Rhys Meyers – drunk/Tudor) multiple personalities are murder victims. It’s got everything you could possibly want from the people behind the aforementioned The Ring and Identity, all wrapped up in a nice thriller package.
We’ve got five copies of the film to give away to you lucky readers on Blu-ray. All you have to do is answer a question. An easy question, mind – we wouldn’t want to hurt your heads.
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When Jonathan Rhys Meyers isn’t running around New York unknowingly looking for his stupid musical prodigy son, he’s punching Frenchies in the face. It’s his passion, don’t you know.
Chances are you read that opening sentence and thought to yourself – “Yet another thing I have in common with that weird-eyed actor.” Well who doesn’t share that lust? Right? We absolutely love punching things that are French – be they sliced potatoes or Sarkozy ex-wives – we just want to give ‘em the ol’ salty knuckle.
Of course – we’d never do it publicly. That’s where Meyers loses us.
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Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the actor that everyone knows as 'him out of Mission: Impossible III; not that one, or that one, or that one, or that one – the other one', is one drunk bastard.
So drunk is Jonathan Rhys Meyers, in fact, that he's got arrested for it after staff at Dublin airport told him that he was too drunk to fly on Sunday and he kicked up a giant drunken stink about it. What's even more embarrassing is that Jonathan Rhys Meyers had previously claimed that he'd given up drinking long ago, although scientists are now claiming that Jonathan Rhys Meyers may have been working off the Irish teetotal model, which still allows you to get shitfaced on booze for up to four days a week.
That last wisecrack was brought to you in association with the Society For Painfully Outmoded National Stereotypes, by the way.
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Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the actor that everyone knows as 'him out of Mission: Impossible III; not that one, or that one, or that one, or that one - the other one', is one drunk bastard.
So drunk is Jonathan Rhys Meyers, in fact, that he's got arrested for it after staff at Dublin airport told him that he was too drunk to fly on Sunday and he kicked up a giant drunken stink about it. What's even more embarrassing is that Jonathan Rhys Meyers had previously claimed that he'd given up drinking long ago, although scientists are now claiming that Jonathan Rhys Meyers may have been working off the Irish teetotal model, which still allows you to get shitfaced on booze for up to four days a week.
That last wisecrack was brought to you in association with the Society For Painfully Outmoded National Stereotypes, by the way.
