Dear Mads Mikkelsen,
Are you OK?
Much like Hideo Kojima and his fascination with whales, you seem to have a ... thing for mutilating and/or dressing up your eyes. Do you secretly hate them? Are you accenting those caramel-colored eyes? Or do you simply share my love of one-eyed things? (FYI, I have a soft spot for one-eyed cats.)
I first saw you in Valhalla Rising, where you didn’t speak a word. You were silent, strong and brooding. I was into it. I was into you. And you completely validated my feelings towards adopting a one-eyed cat when no one else would. The movie was a total slog, but I finished it for you and your bloody axe.
Afterwards, I looked you up on IMDB and realized you were also in Casino Royale as the main villain, Le Chiffre. “Huh,” I thought as I clicked on a still from the movie to refresh my memory. And there you were again, with your impaired left eye. I barely noticed it the first time around, you looked so debonair. Once again, you pulled it off with elegance and grace. At this point, I wasn’t sure if your left eye was actually like that, but I didn’t care. I was in love.
Let’s fast forward to this year. I sat down with a disgustingly large, warm bag of Cheetos popcorn to see Doctor Strange. “Sure, I guess I’ll watch it for the graphics,” I thought as I shoveled another handful of orange garbage into my mouth. And sure enough, you appeared. I went into this movie experience blind, barely watching any trailers beforehand. You appeared on-screen, resplendent in robes and silver hair. And your EYES. “This is the crowning jewel in your filmography,” I thought. This is it. It’s Fashion Week on Mads Mikkelsen’s face.
But I was wrong AGAIN.
Last night, I reclined on a pile of dirty-ass clothes on my bed while I streamed The Game Awards 2016. Hideo Kojima took the stage and everyone held their breath as a new Death Stranding trailer hit. Airplanes, tanks, tentacles, Guillermo del Toro clutching a baby in a vessel. You know, Kojima stuff.
As the teaser was coming to a close, I saw military men sneaking in a sewer. “Shit’s about to go DOWN,” I yelled to no one in particular. The combat lackeys ran forward and the leader took his helmet off. I gasped. I dropped a cube of chicken kebab onto my lap and let it roll, forgotten, under my TV cabinet. There you were AGAIN.
It was unmistakably you. The high cheekbones, the piercing stare, the cold and distant stare that only my absent father could have. But, what’s this? What’s streaming out of your eyes? Is that oil? Is it tears of a Reaper?
Mads, I know you left your eyes alone in Hannibal. But you certainly do love dressing up those peepers in big-budget films. It’s a mystery as to why, I don’t even know if you’re doing it on purpose, but know that I support you.