Attention Hollywood executives: Judi Dench should be featured prominently in every movie ever made. You could pair her with Kevin Costner and I’d still buy 10 tickets. (Give her Whitney’s role in a remake of The Bodyguard and I’ll wait in the rain for the special-edition DVD with Judi’s extended version of “Queen of the Night.”) She should be the go-to star for all your casting needs. Want to add a touch of class to She Devil 2? Call Judi. Looking for a true Brit to play a more believable Lara Croft and breathe new life into the Tomb Raider series? The Dame does her own stunts. And don’t even get me started on her potential as the new invisible girl in the next Fantastic Four.
When Judi’s dead, someone should re-edit her past work and throw a bit in to all new movies for good measure. Hell, can’t we just record her reading an entire, unabridged dictionary now and stick a bucket full of motion-capture sensors on her to ensure we have usable footage for future roles she won’t be alive to play? Surely some marketing genius at the Gap will be grateful when they need a dead, classy star to hawk black stretch pants or five-pocket chinos in a vain attempt to prevent a takeover bid from Wal-Mart in 2020.
The truth is, I love you, Judi. I’m sure if you got to know me, we’d be terribly good friends. You’d tell me all about what it was like to meet the Queen, and I’d tell you what it was like when I met Brian Austin Green at a gas station near Scottsdale. We’d share a Bloomin’ Onion at Outback Steakhouse and reminisce about the time I introduced you as Dame Dudi Stench to that group of World War II veterans. I’d steal your cell phone when you’re not looking and program it to display dirty words when you turn it on, then you’d call to yell at me and we’d laugh ever so hard. It could be magical, if only you’d return my calls.