Deep down inside everyone – I’m making sweeping generalizations for the sake of my argument, here – lurks an idea for a movie they would kill to see become reality. I am no exception to this rule. If you know me well, you’re probably already sick to death of hearing about this plot. If you don’t, well, hold on to your butts, because have I got a pitch for you.
It is called, quite simply, Three Creepers And A Chica.
Alan Rickman, Jeremy Irons, and Tim Curry are flatmates in, oh, let’s say New York City (that is where these movies tend to occur). Much to their collective theatrical chagrin, they awake one morning to find a baby girl in a basket on their doorstep. The sensible one (Rickman) wants to do the sane thing and call the po-po. The party animal, however (Curry), strongly suspects the kid may be his and insists they keep her until things are sorted, despite the fact that none of them have any sort of child-rearing experience (that’s rearing, not sneering). Can they keep the adorable tyke’s existence a secret from their nosy landlord (Steve Buscemi)? What happens when two Child Protective Services agents (John Malkovich and Kevin Spacey) get thrown into the mix?
Three Creepers And A Chica. Make it happen, Internet. Spread the word.