Word out of MTV is that Megan Fox will be starring alongside Mickey Rourke in a movie called Passion Plays, which comes from writer turned director Mitch Glazer. Some of you may know Glazer from … nope. You don’t know him (unless you’re one of the six people who saw The Recruit,, in which case you know of his work, and you hate him for it).
It’s an interesting premise, if you don’t subscribe to the theory that “interesting” actually means “engaging or exciting and holding the attention or curiosity” (in this case, I think, interesting means: To be tarded. Twice). Set in 1950’s Los Angeles, the movie will about about an angel under the thumb of a ruthless gangster who is saved by a trumpet player down on his luck. Megan Fox will play the angel; Mickey Rourke will play the down-on-his-luck trumpet player.
The hook, here, is that Megan Fox isn’t playing a figurative angel; she’s meant to be a “caged circus freak with angel-like wings growing out of her back. She’s a freak and she’s on display.” Well, now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?
Well, to be sure, the idea of a love story between Mickey Rourke and Megan Fox is compelling, if by compelling, you mean: Something slightly nauseating that I have absolutely no interest in seeing. Mickey Rourke — like victims of hot grease fires and low-rise jeans on overweight people who need the rise — makes me uncomfortable. It’s hard to look at him for any length of time, and the idea of him making out with Megan Fox is a bit like watching Laura Dern make out Eric Stoltz from Mask. But then again, at least Rocky Dennis had some charisma. Rourke just looks like he smells like Pall Malls and day-old Right Guard.
Now, let’s imagine what it must feel like to make out with him.