It’s a happy birthday to Jim Carrey, who turns 46 today, and probably celebrates with some yoga and a romp with Jenny McCarthy in a kiddie pool or something. He might also catch 45 seconds of Son of the Mask on cable, smile bemusedly to himself, and deeply exhale. At the very least, looking forward, he’ll likely have a better Valentine’s Day than he has in years past.

Carrey has been in relative hibernation since The Number 23, but I hold nothing but anticipation for where the true sunset stage of this guy’s career. Whatever you think of his rubber-faced tent-pole comedies (hit-and-miss, in my book, though slightly more of the former), Carrey has at least shown a desire to mix it up, making bold choices that sometimes totally work (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), sometimes kind of work (The Truman Show) and sometimes don’t really at all work (The Majestic). While audiences have thus far been resistant to Carrey in darker and/or melancholic roles, I think he will still continue to occasionally venture out on thinner limbs than most of his actor brethren, and thus serve another generation of writer-directors quite well.