So 2016 is shaping itself into a big ol' dry hump of a year, huh? Me, oh I'm aight. But this week alone we as a culture have lost David Fucking Bowie and my longtime, not so secret, sigh-inducing, swoon-worthy, lover man, Mr Alan Goddamn Rickman. This I learned this morning in the break room at work while watching Live! With Kelly and Michael. Now I love me some Kelly Ripa. Largely because she and my sister Angie could pass for twins. They look alike, they share personality traits. What's even better is that I've never mentioned this to Angie because Angie really, really, RILLY doesn't like Kelly. "Oh! I love that scent your wearing! What's it called? It's called Ironical by Patty Duke." So anyway. I like Kelly. But she's not the person I wanted delivering such heart-rending news.
I have loved Alan Rickman since Robinhood: Prince of Thieves. Screw Kevin Costner and early '90s Christian Slater. I'll take the evil, surly Sherrif of Notingham! I was 15ish. But by God, I knew what I was about. Then a few years later Kate Winslet let that namby-pamby goober Willoughby sweep her off her penniless feet. But not me, no sir! Ever the dissenter, my heart held court with Colonel Brandon. And I have loved him ever since. I think what really set it in stone was Emma Thompson's combined script and behind the scene's diary of Sense and Sensibility. If you find a copy of it, buy the thing and fall in love with Emma and Alan and Kate and the whole movie crew. It's full of lovely, utterly British and profane one-liners.
Honestly though, I know very little about Alan Rickman's personal life. He wasn't much of a schmoozer, and he seemed quite private. So really, I loved him for his work. For his presence and ability. If an actor's sole responsibility is to make the audience suspend disbelief and truly forget that what they're watching is pretend, then Alan Rickman was one of the world's finest at his craft.
I guess I've always had a thing for older dudes. At least from afar, you know the ones in the Arts and Entertainment fields. And up-close too, cause Hey John! So now I've lost Bowie, who was my Goblin King when I was too young to understand that his tights were hella inappropriate, AND I've lost Colonel Nottingham. What the fuck?!? It's not even the end of the week, let alone the end of the First month of this new year.
Kelly Ripa, if you're reading this, can you do me a solid? If Kevin Spacey or Michael Stipe or Pat Conroy pass on to the Great Beyond anytime soon, can you call your doppleganger Angie and have her break it to me in private so I don't start sobbing at work like some mental case? Otherwise, I swear to God I'm gonna storm your set and flip your little ass outta that chair of yours. I can't take this shit no mo'.