Reading Paul Donnelley’s Fade to Black, A Book of Movie Obituaries leads one to wonder, wistfully, how the film greats of today will eventually meet their doom.
Come on, it’ll be fun!
George Lucas. Crushed to death under a huge pile of money. Last words: “More!”
Lindsay Lohan. Crushed to death under a huge rock of crack.
Javier Bardem. Crushed to death under his own face.
Werner Herzog. Perishes of heat prostration while hiking into the heart of the sun.
Kate Beckinsale. Just quietly forgotten to death. Last words: unknown.
Tim Roth. Inner vileness.
Luc Besson. Sudden crushing sense of inadequacy.
Arnold Schwartzenegger. Eaten alive by own bicep. Last words: ironic quip.
Dario Argento. Raped to death by his own shadow. Well, it makes as much sense as anything in INFERNO.
Nicole Kidman. One of these days that face is going to snap like an elastic band. God help Keith Urban if he’s standing nearby. Last words: “Ow.” Age: no man can say.
John Hurt. Chestburster. Either that or he makes the mistake of going to sleep lying down.
David Thompson. Already dead. We just haven’t told him. Last words: that book about Nicole Kidman.
Stanley Kubrick. Faked his own death in 2000. Will be discovered hiding in a tea-chest, strangled by his own untrimmed beard and fingernails.
John Travolta. Finally goes supernova, before collapsing in on himself.
Tom Cruise. Thetans. Last words: “I was right!”
Sharon Stone. Karma.
Oliver Stone. Shock, after making good film. Age: 104.
Mel Gibson. Fractures skeleton during a botched attempt to induce the Rapture.
Lars Von Trier. Smugness. And giant scorpions.
Eli Roth. Ass-eating virus.
Michael York. The heat death of the universe. Age: still 35.
Meg Ryan. Smirking.
Tom Hanks. Passive smirking.
Martin Scorsese. Will finally descend to sub-atomic level — no wait, that’s THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN. Scorsese will probably ascend to heaven without actually dying, like Elijah.
Michael Bay. This one’s mine.
Feel free to suggest your own.
But keep it clean!