Dear Brett Ratner

It seems as though you took my advice and made Rush Hour 3. Congratulations on that. You, like a Hollywood Nostradamus, were able to predict Chris Tucker’s meteoric rise to celebrity A-list fame and capitalise on it. Who knew he’d be in so many wonderful films since…uh…wait…It turns out Tucker hasn’t been in any movies
since Rush Hour 2. Now that the Rush Hour thrillogy is complete, Tucker will be able to remove the elastic bands you’ve forced him to wear on his scrotum during the last six years. Why else would his eyes be so wide? I bet you kept him in a cage in your basement.

Now he can finally start work on his dream—self-producing/directing /acting an updated adaptation of Lorraine Hansberry’s classic play A Raisin in the Sun.

Damn my eggs…damn all the eggs that ever was!” he’ll shout.

I can see it now. It will be glorious.

I think it is prudent to mention that I’ll never see Rush Hour 3 if I can help it. I’ll certainly never pay to see it. I’ve seen the syndicated episodes of Friends that you’ve stolen Rush Hour’s brand of “humour” from.

After X-Men 3: The Last Stand, I thought it was the worst movie I’d seen in a while. So by default, you were the worst director of recent memory. Now, I realize you may be the worst director in history.

So you turned down an opportunity to direct Ocean’s Eleven citing that you’ve got no interest in making “little movies.” Instead, you’d like to remake Ocean’s Eleven with an all-Black cast, with the characters playing janitors instead of thieves. What planet are you from again?

Now I realize my previous advice was wrong. I’ll offer a new piece of advice—please throw all your cameras, director-chairs and crew jackets off a cliff, ensuring you tether something particularly heavy on to your legs beforehand, you evil monster.

As Always,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy