I admit Christina Ricci was growing on me a couple of months ago. Then this happens. She shows up at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Gala looking like a whored out E.T. Meaning, if I stuffed her into my bicycle basket and rode over a cliff, I probably wouldn’t fly. Instead, my body would fall just long enough to reach terminal velocity before hitting the ground with an anticlimactic thud. Fortunately, my plan wasn’t to cast an unfamiliar ...