1.) I start reading this brilliant piece in The Atlantic:
This may also be why plenty of moviegoers (my mother-in-law, for example) will tell you that they cannot stand Jim Carrey. A noisome vacancy at the heart of him, a dreadful resounding hollowness, repels them—for a man who regularly pulls down $20 million per picture, his (ahem) “unfavorables” are abnormally high. But they’re getting at the core of his genius, these sensitive souls. Carrey’s dream sequence of movies is a prophecy, a warning that this clanking ego-apparatus in which each of us walks around, this fissured, monumental self, half Job and half Bertie Wooster, cannot be sustained. Out of his own seemingly bottomless disquiet, Carrey writhes and reaches into the bottomless disquiet of his audience. An oracular bum holds up a handwritten cardboard sign in Bruce Almighty: LIFE IS JUST. We know we’re frauds; we fear a reckoning is due.
2.) Random flipping around, the first thing I come across is Bruce Almighty.
Trouble cannot be far behind now.