Someone’s been sticking in my craw lately, and I don’t mean that in the good way (is there a good way?). And I don’t mean the guy eating soup, either; that dude’s a fine little actor.
But seriously, once slender and sensitive brunette brother Wilson-the-younger, fixture of Wes Anderson films, bringer of indie cred? You are behaving in a way that embarrasses me. Not only embarrasses. Like I said, you’re sticking in my craw.
Perhaps it’s because you seem to have lunched on Matthew Perry circa The Vicodin Years. Or you’re wearing a fat suit to see if people treat you differently (they do!). Or maybe Mike Bloomberg’s attempts to ban salt have your salvation in mind (as my mom gently explained when I really needed it, “Time to quit with the Doritoes, sweetie.”).
Whatever the cause, you’re looking puffy. Remember when you starred with Drew Barrymore in the otherwise dubious Home Fries and you were all adorably awkward and tall and lanky and didn’t shill for the man? Call me superficial, but I had a big crush on you then.
And then, later, when you embodied the onetime tennis star of the dysfunctional Royal Tenenbaum family with such glorious pain and ennui? You played against your bro with the nose quite nicely—even, perhaps, quietly surpassed him what with the perma-sweatband and possible incestuous love for your possible sister.
But then, fast forward a few years—okay, nine of them—and you’re talking to me about AT&T (a company with such sparse indie cred that Richie Tenenbaum would have refused to front for them during his athlete years even under the paternalistic, money-grubbing influence of Royal) and you’re so middle-aged and smarmy I can barely look at you!
Why, Wilson bro, why? What happened? Did you need the money that bad? Are you that hungry?
Hey, I even liked you in Legally Blonde. But now you remind me of the creepy dad who hits on the babysitter, and a girl has to draw the line somewhere.