Jean Dujardin, "Lucky Luke," WTF?

Apparently, the solution to many of life's problems is to bitch and complain until things go right. After spending the majority of the week complaining to all who would listen (and those who would not), my Lucky Luke DVD came in yesterday.

Of course, Murphy's Law intervened, and I spent a few hours hooking up my region-free DVD player. I should probably explain that my parents bought my TV before I was born; it has no remote, knobs, and faux-wood siding. It's a glorious example of late-1980s aesthetic. And it's a pain to hook up modern technology to it (DVD/VCR, region-free DVD player, and cable).

But being a plucky gal who'll push up her sleeves and get things done in the name of Jean Dujardin, I got everything settled and sat down and watched the weirdest movie ever.

Mind you, I love and actually get Rocky Horror Picture Show and enjoy John Waters movies. But Lucky Luke was a huge, sexy WTF-slap in the face.

That's how my bangs look in the morning

It was a visually stunning movie, and I really, really liked it, but what the hell? Maybe it's because I'm not French or maybe it's because I've never read the comics, but, again, what the hell?

So, aside from the perplexing French-Westernness of it...and the fact that Mrs. Dujardin/the chick from "Un Gars Une Fille" (she's a bitch on that show so she's naturally a bitch in real life, according to my brain. Just like how Brad Pitt and Edward Norton are actually the same person), I highly recommend this movie. Mostly because Jean Dujardin is hella hot in it.

Yippie cay-ay, and all of that stupid cowboy nonsense!

(Oh, and I've been asked by my partners to ease up on writing about Jean Dujardin. So, there goes that blog about how he's a handsome, dark-haired Frenchman with a swell cleft in his chin and I'm a pretty, smart, wonderful bibliophile brunette who hates sheep and muddy boots and isn't that strange?).

I wouldn't care if Jean couldn't read...or constantly wore gardening gloves.