Eric Christian Olsen is stalking me

I'm being stalked by Eric Christian Olsen.

How else to explain the fact that he's appeared in the last three movies I've seen?

When he appeared in License to Wed as a perceived rival for Mandy Moore's affections, I thought nothing of it, except "Oh, hey, that's that guy." His name escaped me at the moment. All I remembered was that he had three names.

When he appeared in The Hot Chick as a two-timing jock, I thought, "Hey, that's funny, Eric Christian Olsen (I had since figured out his name) appeared in the last movie I saw."

But it was when he showed up in Eagle Eye as a deadbeat dad that I asked my two other viewing companions to pause the movie. I had to share with them the funny coincidence.

Or was it? Is Eric Christian Olsen really stalking me?

It's stuff like this that I love noticing. There was no way I could have known this actor would be in all three movies. He's made only 15, and I happened to watch three of them in a row. License to Wed and The Hot Chick were things I picked up at the library, not knowing for sure, but making an educated guess that they would be currently unreviewed on my website, meaning I could claim them. When I was back at the office and discovered that, indeed, they were available, I went ahead and watched them.

Eagle Eye, on the other hand, was the end result of walking the aisles at Blockbuster last night with two friends. Our host owns a BluRay player, so we thought it would be good to rent something that might benefit from that format. (Unfortunately, I can't recommend Eagle Eye in the least.) I had no way of knowing Mr. Olsen would show up, especially since he's only in it for 30 seconds in one scene.

Now, if he shows up in The Death of Mr. Lazarescu, a 153-minute Romanian drama, which I've had from Blockbuster for two months, and which we're finally expecting to watch tonight, then I will be really surprised.

While I'm having a little fun at Mr. Olsen's expense, I did think I should mention that he is the only reason to recommend a truly terrible movie I saw a couple years ago -- but he's so good that I really would almost recommend watching it just to see him. He plays the younger version of Jim Carrey's Lloyd Christmas in Dumb and Dumberer: When Harry Met Lloyd. And even though this is, as I said, a truly terrible movie, his impersonation of Carrey is so delightfully spot on that I think any fan of Carrey's -- or even any fan of a good impersonation -- should try to catch a couple scenes on cable just to marvel at it.

I didn't plan it this way, but a post about the last three movies I've seen seems like a perfect opportunity to introduce you to a slight change on my blog. In my "Most Recently Seen," "Most Recently Revisited" and "Most Recently Reviewed" sidebars, I've just started including the last three entries in each category. This way, if you don't check in on my blog every day (and really, who does?), then you'll get a slightly better idea of what I'm watching/rewatching/writing about. Since, you know, it's possible that this interests you, though maybe not.

"Why then, Vance, does it say you saw Eagle Eye before The Hot Chick, when in this post you just told us the opposite?"

I'm glad you asked, young padawan. (This is the first and last time I will use the word "padawan" in my blog.) It's the system I've developed for determining my viewing order. If I watch part of one movie, then the entirety of another movie, and then finish the first movie, the first movie comes in after the second movie on the list. It's not which movie I started first -- it's which movie I finished first. Since I just finished watching the last half hour of The Hot Chick, I can't rightly say I "saw it" before Eagle Eye, can I?

Hey, I've gotta have a system, and this is as good as any.

The rule of three ... weeks

There's a scene early in Ken Kwapis' License to Wed in which Ben (John Krasinski) and Sadie (Mandy Moore) are trying to book a wedding date in the church of Reverend Frank (Robin Williams). Frank flips through his scheduling book with a look of concern on his face.

"It looks like we're booked out for the next two years," says Frank. Ben and Sadie look glum. Then, as though it were planned all along, Frank "remembers" some sort of near-term cancellation and consults his book again to verify. "Yes!" he says. "You can get married three weeks from tomorrow!"

What Frank "remembered," and what was in a sense "planned all along," is that three weeks is the exact right timeframe for the plot of a movie.

In real life, one to two years would be the perfect amount of time for a couple who just got engaged to sort out all the details, like geographical location, venue, guest list, cake decorator, musical accompaniment, and take-home novelty item with their names and wedding date emblazoned on it. But in a movie, that won't cut it. The sense of urgency can't survive one to two years of screen time.

I noticed the rule of three weeks in another wedding-related movie I was also recently forced to sit through in order to review it: 27 Dresses. There's no scheduling gridlock at the wedding venue that forces this one, but true enough, George (Edward Burns) and Tess (Malin Akerman) spring it on Jane (Katherine Heigl) that they will be getting married three weeks later.

The examples I happen to be remembering are from wedding movies, but they just jump out at me because of the unrealistically short planning period between engagement and betrothal. Numerous films you've seen take place during a period of approximately three weeks -- or at the very least, three weeks from the point in the plot when a certain key conflict is introduced.

I'm actually familiar with the need for this timeframe myself. I have no aspirations to be a screenwriter, but I have written one script, and I get ideas for numerous others every day. (I guess I share this last thing in common with most people who are big movie fans, especially those who live in L.A., which gives them the sense that they somehow have a greater chance of turning these ideas into reality). One of these many ideas of mine that took traction, and which my wife, who is a screenwriter, developed into a script, was originally envisioned by me as occurring over several years, in part because there's a key aspect of the plot that I thought necessitated it. However, she convinced me that the viewer wouldn't feel the driving sense of urgency (it's a thriller, after all) if there are large pockets of time that get skipped over on screen. Even though her version of the script doesn't totally work, in part because of the three-week time frame, I am still no less convinced that it has to be this way in order to eventually work.

What's so special about three weeks? Well, it's not a month, but it's also not two weeks. I should probably clarify that rather obvious statement. It's long enough that the characters can grow and work through their character arcs, but short enough that they've got to be on an accelerated time frame, which requires them to act instead of thinking things through. Let's face it -- when you go to the movies, you want to see characters act, not think. Look what too much thinking did to Hamlet. All the great thrillers, action movies and farces have one thing in common: Most of the characters would not do what they end up doing if they had the luxury of thinking things through.

Now you'll probably want an example of a movie in which the opposite was true: the characters had too much time, and the flow of the movie suffered. Okay, let me think.

TEN MINUTES LATER

Okay, I couldn't think of one. And it's not because they don't exist. They probably do. But see, I don't remember those movies. The rule of three weeks is so powerful, so widespread, that screenwriters seem to follow it on instinct. And oh yeah, there's probably a whole chapter on it in each of the major screenwriting books.

So what will be the happy medium between three weeks and several years in my wife's and my prospective script? If we can't find it, no one will remember our movie either, because it will never get made.