The world and its hairdresser may be agog over The Pitts but in the words of an A-lister with more charisma and sex appeal than the pair could shake a stick at, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ I find the curious case of Benjamin Button and his high maintenance (soon-to-be-ex?) spouse curiously unappealing, not to mention more predictable than the plot of Mr & Mrs Smith. With £200 million to divvy up between them if it all goes pear-shaped, the fees for any Hollywood star-in-crisis support system needed to get the poor lambs back on their red carpet feet will be loose change, and it’s not like the kids will go hungry if they split up. What’s deeply depressing is the certainty that speculative tittle tattle about dreich Jennifer’s part in the sad saga will increase fifty-fold; the only permutation untried, unless I missed it in Heat, is some Jen-on-Jolie girl action. Sadder still, an area the size of Sweden will be deforested to provide the newsprint to report this tedious media ménage’s latest twist. I know. I know. Now I promise never to mention Brangelinaston again.
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