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An Open Letter to Ms. Anjelica Huston Regarding Her Involvement in NBC's <i>Smash</i>

Dear Ms. Huston: I saw you onlast night and I just wanted to send you a quick note that says, "You don't have to do this."
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Dear Ms. Huston,

I saw you on Smash last night and I just wanted to send you a quick note that says, "You don't have to do this."

Here's the thing about Smash: It's okay.

Here's the thing about you: You're Anjelica Fucking Huston. You don't need this shit.

You are a magnificent hawkish goddess sent down from the heavens to glide across the world and do whatever you damn well please.

You need your own show. Nay, the world needs a show that is all Anjelica Huston and only Anjelica Huston. We need a show that is just thirty minutes of you sitting next to a fish tank smiling mysteriously. We need a show that is an hour long procedural of you investigating which item on an upscale French restaurant menu you would like to order. We need an HBO series where you play a widow who seduces all of the men in New York City and then laughs about breaking all of their hearts as you drink wine with Helen Mirren and Bernadette Peters. It'd be like Sex and the City, but without the whining or obsession with romance. So, essentially, it would be good.

I suppose you do some of this on Smash. In the pilot, you do smile mysteriously several times. However, when I timed all the individual mysterious smiles, it only adds up to one minute and forty-seven seconds. That's twenty-eight minutes and thirteen seconds short of what I desire.

Perhaps I'll cope.

As I recall, you sip a cocktail in a restaurant in the pilot. But what food did you order? You are a grown woman of intelligence and distinction. I want to be like you when I grow up and so I need to know what kind of food you eat so I can dream of being able to afford to eat it one day.

I'm counting on knowing your diet, Ms. Huston, because the rest of Smash is so body image issue-inducing. I know of at least one friend who turned the show off completely when Katherine McPhee complained of being too "light" for roles believing it to be a slight on her perfectly slight frame. On the flip side, whenever I saw Megan Hilty's bare arms, part of me was like, "Good for her. She has real arms and didn't feel the need to do crazy amounts of bicep curls before her television debut." The other part of me picked up the dumbbells that have been sitting unused in my room for a year and started doing bicep curls.

When I look at you I see scarab eyes, slick black locks and a person with wisdom and power. I want to follow that diet plan. I want to be like Anjelica Huston.

Finally, why are you getting divorced in the pilot? Why aren't you turning the tables and seducing Jack Davenport? As a twenty-something, there's nothing I want to see more than a sixty year old woman destroying the hearts of younger men. There's no reason why any man on Earth should refuse you. You slink when you walk and purr when you talk and you had Raul Julia on a metaphoric leash in the Addams Family films. The idea that Katherine McPhee and Megan Hilty will get all the sex in Smash is abhorrent to me. I mean, Debra Messing isn't even going to have sex to have a baby. She's adopting one. Sex for all the ladies of all the ages! I need to know I have something to look forward to later in life besides pulling off short hair finally.

That said I will be DVRing Smash. You should also know that I DVR America's Next Top Model and documentaries on baby sloths. Being put on my DVR queue is less of a vote of confidence in Smash and more of an admittance that this show is the kind of thing I'd want to watch half drunk and exhausted at 11:43 pm on a weekday night or hungover and eating a bagel at 11:43 am on a weekend day.

Of course, the best part of watching Smash will be watching you smile mysteriously. Please consider finding more ways to do this if you intend on staying on the show. Or better yet, find a way to make the Marilyn musical all about you. I would take a "Jack Nicholson practicing his lines while wearing a bathrobe" musical number over any Joe DiMaggio-inspired baseball one.


Someone who is probably a little bit too concerned about you.