Once upon a time, Alone In The Dark [see earlier entry] was an Oscar contender. It had plot, it had dialogue, it had breathtakingly beautiful visuals, an award-winning cast, and a climax guaranteed to leave neither a dry eye nor a dry seat in the house, and it did not have Tara Reid pronouncing Newfoundland weirdly. This was the movie that Christian Slater agreed to star in.
But then the Movie Fairy appeared in a ray of blue light, and told him he had a choice: he could have all that, or she could transfer every drop of coherence, intelligence, cinematography, pathos, and remote value to the universe, from his movie about evil CGI-created pseudo-velociraptors, to this little vaguely historically accurate film over here about the last great male-actor to play a female on the Shakespearean (well, Restoration) stage, which features pretty costumes naked people, English accents some of which are real, Claire Danes showing her boobie being awesome, Rupert Everett being the king -- in drag at one point -- and a bisexual male protagonist (sociological arguments about whether the word even existed at the time aside, he sleeps with men and women) and a main het relationship that's so filled with genderfuckery it might as well be slash (there's a love scene that arises out of her asking him what men do together, and him trying to explain -- and then demonstrate -- it in terms of who's the man and who's the woman), and no one had to get nailed to anything saying Newfoundland at all.
Christian Slater, because he loves me very much, told the Movie Fairy to give it all to Stage Beauty; he could handle starring in a worthless piece of crap if the world got to see Billy Crudup sprawled on a bed with a sheet pooled halfway down his ass. Chris, we salute you.
Yes, this entire post was basically an excuse to say I GOT SERENITY TICKETS WHEE!.