Happy Birthday, Adam Sandler, you perpetual man-child, you.
Somehow it turns out that you’re 48 years old, and not, as I would have guessed, 25 going on 12. Given your turn, of late, toward middling, family-friendly “comedies,” I probably should have been better prepared for your inevitable middle-aged-ness, but knowing that you’re pushing 50 still comes as quite a shock. After all, your Billy Gilmore schtick is etched as deeply into my brain as anything from my impressional youth could be; You’re just so goddamned convincing as a bone-headed fuck-up, that, well, It’s hard for me to imagine you as anything else. It’s not fair, I know – you’re a great dramatic actor – but if that’s the price you’ve got to pay for your decades-long success, I think you’ll agree it’s probably worth it.
You’ve made some great movies, some terrible movies, and some terribly great movies. You wrote “The Hanukkah song,” which was funny the first dozen times. You’ve had a pretty outstanding leading-man career for someone with as much a yiddishe punim as yours.
You’re 48 years old today, and as long as you keep making movies, I’ll keep watchin’ em.
For you, sir, I’ve got nothing but respect.
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