Bench That Dench

Uh, I mean, ditch that bitch. I guess it's no secret that I'm no fan of Judi Dench.

I don't care that our British friends believe she's one of their finest actresses. I mean, Brits believe Roger Moore can't act.

(Shouldn't become a closet collectivist here, though. It should be: "most Brits," not "all Brits.")

Anyway, let's cut to the chase. Dench's #1 problem is that basically she's nothing but a punk: She's rebelling against beauty itself.

Until a cure for aging is found, one can at least try to age gracefully. Letting one's face implode into a crater with wrinkles around and then smearing eyeliner and lipstick on the remains like whitewash on the ruins of the WTC is only adding insult to injury.

Like so many things, it's either or. Either go for a facelift or forgo the makeup.

And if she doesn't want to dye her white hair, fine. But that doesn't mean she has to opt for a do that looks like it's been nibbled by boogle of weasels. The Donald's do has more dignity.

As for her "acting," I've seen her only in Shakespeare in Love and in those disastrous howlers that pass for Bond movies these days. Nevertheless, in both roles she played a mean old bat, and from her performance as M it's obvious that she can't act, can't even tell acting from frenzied histrionics.

So I can't help but wonder, is she being typecast or isn't she acting at all — is she just playing herself? If an actor's playing the same type again and again, that's basically the only two possibilities.

Either she's had some real bad luck being cast, or she enjoys being a mean old bat because she is a mean old bat in real life. Given her open rebellion against beauty, I tend to think the latter.