Either the three-day weekend has caused some kind of misfiring in the space where our hearts should be, or today's New Yorker profile of Alec Baldwin is actually a rather touching portrait of a misguided but talented middle-aged actor whose side we're now inclined to take against loony tune Kim Basinger. Of course, he's angry and arrogant, but hearing him list the litany of bad films that scuttled his ambitions to be a Hollywood leading man ("In '93, I did the remake of 'The Getaway,' with my wife. That was a bomb. I did 'The Shadow.' That was a bomb. In '94, I did 'Heaven's Prisoners.' That was a bomb. In '95, I did 'The Juror.' That was a bomb.") is sorta sad.
So is the idea of him writing a memoir about "divorce and the law"—very much against the advice of his friend Marci Klein, who apparently told him: "Nobody cares. Nobody wants to hear about your divorce anymore." Of course, there's still time today for the profile's author Ian Parker to receive an incandescently and irrationally raging voicemail from Baldwin about his portrayal, at which point we'll go back to voyeuristic indifference.