Movie Stars

/ Movies /
K. ( & related domains) had folders of the logic “/ Art / Favorites / Visual …”
pKnatz blog has a section / Chat / Art / Movies /
They fit but not exactly. Here I make a post to gather old comments on film stars:

Jennifer Aniston
Nearly Naked

I just wrote bkMarcus a couple of emails which I intend to combine here as my favorite explanation: favorite explanation of the moment, of course.

What is it about Brad Pitt’s Greek woman that holds one’s attention? Jennifer Aniston is pretty I guess. But so what? Lots of women are pretty, especially if you are seeing them on TV or in a movie.

I don’t watch much TV, though I’ll flip channels at dinner time. In particular I don’t watch sit coms: with a few exceptions, all old, all reruns: Taxi, Seinfeld … I doubt that I’ve ever seen an entire episode of Friends; though I’ve paused and chuckled at a couple of incidents: one with a spilled Coke getting confused with a premature ejaculation.

Yet however anxious I am to change the channel, hoping for some sort of mayhem (basketball, football …), I find myself pausing if Jennifer Aniston is on the screen. Why? She’s not doing anything. Probably she’s frowning: her forte.

And here I cite the emails, mixing the order:

Usually if I think someone is attractive I have some idea why, can ID a candidate feature or two. I can’t with Jennifer Aniston. She’s within a hair of being skinny enough to be anorexic, but that alone can’t be it: even though it makes her buttocks articulate.

You’d swear it has a vocabulary.

Suddenly tonight I was inspired. I know why I can’t take my eyes off her for a string of seconds, however anxious to change the channel:

No matter how she’s dressed, she looks within a hair of being naked. Even her hair is almost naked!

2013 05 27 Happy Memorial Day. Jan and I watched a Jennifer Aniston film the other evening: Love Happens, 2009. A few years ago, she was forty. ! And I thought, for the first time, what is it? she’s just as arresting at forty! This attractiveness is unique!
Jan and I have discussed the lasting beauty of plenty of stars: Lillian Gish, as beautiful, personable, at ninety, as she was as fourteen, seventeen, twenty … fifty … Julia Roberts, Jane Fonda … Still, Jennifer Aniston is unique. Somehow she seems just as attractive as she ever was.
2014 01 04 Jan and I mistakenly borrowed the same movie last week, bailed out, couldn’t stand it.
Last night though I had a related thought: watching The Road (alone, Jan bailed out of that one quick): Charlize Theron, coming up around forty in that role, looks as beautiful, as “perfect”, as ever! How is that humanely possible?
Something else just occurred to me: the medieval cathedral builders, used the local teen whore to model the Virgin: the sculptor took his inspiration from the “real”: that’s old thinking; here’s what’s new: it occurred to me: the cathedral attendees would have known that same girl! (or her daughter), recognized her! thought, “Oh, yes”.
2014 07 28 Just did it again, am watching Picture Perfect: stupid story, embarrassing: but I can’t take my eyes off her!
Here she doesn’t look one step from naked in nearly every shot, she looks one millimeter from showing some beaver. A movie could show twenty models spread-eagled, vulva agape, and I’d ignore them all for one glimpse for one hundredth of a second of Jennifer Aniston’s panty-covered crotch. 1990s film, how was she still managing that then? 2017 01 06 I second that: second rate Jennifer, but you still can’t take your eyes off her. There’s other good cast there too: Olympia Dukakis, Illeana Douglas … Kevin Bacon looking absurdly Kevin Bacon. Yeah, he’s the male Jennifer.
2015 05 24 If I revived and networked all my old Macs, made one data base for all emails, I’d know exactly when I wrote the top entry here. Meantime I’ll guess: 1998, 1997. Now it’s a dozen and a half years later and Jennifer Aniston still stops me in my tracks: maybe more than ever. Amazing. I just suffered through one of those endless pop-up celebrity things: stars & stunt doubles. I spent a ridiculous amount of time waiting for the girl running in white panties to be identified: cute little pristine snatch, little public pouch just puffing her lower crotch. Finally: We’re the Millers, Jennifer!

2004 11 16 Tom Cruise: Entertainment Personified

Tom Cruise makes the perfect poster boy for the Hollywood idea of mindless entertainment. When he’s promoting one of his films, or even just talking about one of his friends in the industry, Tom looks just, well, five-thousand-wats entertained. There’s no war in Iraq around here, folks. We didn’t kill no four million people in Vietnam. Global warming? Never heard of it. His eyes crinkle. His eyes twinkle: halogen-powered. His perfect brows come to perfect points of sheet enjoyment.

The early 1960s was a great time for movies. La Dolce Vita had set new paths for Fellini: not as worthy as paths he’d already trod, but he’d already trod them. Yojimbo showed new material from Kurosawa: not as great as what he had done, but also great: and with a new directness of despair. Tony Richardson was up to one great thing after another. David Lean had gained, not lost, a step. And Peter Sellers was about to really show us what he could do. The Pink Panther and Shot in the Dark came right on top of each other. (Has any blond ever looked cuter than Elke Sommer did holding smoking guns, bloody knives?)

I had long admired David Niven for his urbanity. He plays the veteran jewel thief in The Pink Panther. Cary Grant, James Mason, Claude Rains … “Hollywood” on both sides of the pond had a winning hand of Platonic Original gentlemen.

But my admiration for David Niven ground to a permanent halt in The Pink Panther. The script required him to attend a night club performance: and enjoy himself. Some awful performer froze a smile onto Niven’s face with its suddenly stupid little mustache. He’s enjoying that crappy song? sung by that crappy singer? The hell with his urbanity. (Now if Monk, or Mingus, or Miles had been on the stand (in Switzerland? I don’t think so), I might have felt differently.

Blake Edwards’ pieces saw through standard entertainments; yet here was a scene that simply didn’t.

So. Whatever Hollywood pays Tom Cruise, they get back more than they deserve. Laser light endorsement: for mindlessness.

2006 02 27

If you’d like to contemplate a female manifestation of the same type of principle, I nominate Vanna White. We may be bombing the shit out of Istanbul for no good reason, but on the dinner-time celebrity TV magazine, Tom Cruise is incandescently enjoying his celebrity. Around the same hour Vanna White has been parading out on Pat Sajak’s arm, beaming and waving, her smiles outshining the spangles on her gown. Four million dead in Vietnam? Not that Vanna knows or cares about. The T feds just torched some religious nut in Texas? You’d never guess it from the flash of her ass as she walks to the puzzle board. The Wheel of Fortune is perpetual vacation time. There’s Vanna on the beach in Fort Lauderdale! Ain’t life just grand?

2005 05 22

Tom’s been cited as going around crowing

I love this woman!

Excuse me: haven’t we heard about Tom in love before? And isn’t he in his godam forties now?

I’ll watch Tom pretend he’s a future cop or a betrayed spy or a Confederate officer till he’s ninety. And for testimonials I’ll approve as he incandesces into the essence of entertainment. And anybody should be able to parade through any room at least once in their life proclaiming love. But not again the next day.

And not again the next girl friend.

And then again: the next marriage …

Jenny McArthy

I grabbed this image from the mag in the doctor’s office. I’ve been pouring through the mag in awe. I’d told the doctor I was swiping the issue for a scan: true enough: I still intend to grab a Brad Pitt still. But now I’m seeing more and more to write about the magazine itself: People. I may do a piece at Macroinformation on People as the ideal magazine of perfect information.

But could this Jenny McCarthy be real? Sho’nuf. I looked her up.

Jenny McCarthy

When I was in the army my budding friend Michael cracked me up with the question “Is a naked woman intelligent?” Like many a joke, that’s profound: and not easily answered. Sure you can point out that two criteria are mutually irrelevant: there’s no simple relation between nakedness and intelligence, that the question poisons the well by specifying a gender …

Let’s put it this way: if she’s naked, it’s the pussy, not the IQ, that will get noticed.

Is that fair to the naked woman?

And so forth. What I want to ask People Magazine is: what kind of intellectural rigor do those McCarthy mammary tubes signal? Are dresses like that traditionally worn at debates?

If People is in charge of the ambience, they will be.

Hey, checking spellings I just realized: Elke is just two years younger than I! Maybe that’s why I respond to her so well.

2005 06 23 Brad Pitt: So Photographable
pic of Brat Pitt as Achilles
pic of Brat Pitt from People Magazine cover

OK, now: ignore the magazine’s yellow for its price tag in the middle of Brad’s head: you see a fairly standard, generic Vanilla snapshot of Brad Pitt. You do I trust recognize the actor and acknowledge that the picture is “standard.” It doesn’t look like he spent the morning in makeup or that his valet is about to step in and brush lint from his collar. The photographer too could be standard Vanilla: a paparazzi, works for the magazine. For Lillian Gish, DW Griffith kept on full-time employ a special lighting expert just to light her closeups. This isn’t one of those, is it? In fact it could be a snapshot. The kid walking by with the pocket digital could have taken it.

Had I kept my scan of the whole cover, you’d see Jennifer Aniston on the cover’s right side: the oh-so-frequently perfect Jennifer looking a bit glassy-eyed, a little bit caught-in-the-headlights.

In the Troy-wallpaper image, we have a collaboration: a Hollywood team, Brad Pitt … God cooperating, allowing his handiwork to be shown. In the second one we have just Brad Pitt and God cooperating.

Now, follow the paparazzi, the yellow journals of the supermarket, the TV celebrity watches … They show Tom Cruise looking great, George Clooney looking great, Jennifer, JLo … mostly looking great. Then they show Nick Nolte, Jack Nicholson, Robert Mitchum … looking like something backed up in the toilet.

But has Brad ever looked less than perfect? No matter the photographer?

No matter the photographer? That’s a slander against the profession! How many models would dare go near a camera if they couldn’t control whether the shots would be selected by Avedon, by Penn …

Back in the 1960s Philippe deBroca started showing up screen confections centering on Catherine deNeuve. Female had never looked prettier. Years later on TV I remember Dick Cavett meeting Catherine deNeuve on his show for the first time. Cavett seemed taken aback, betrayed by the woman before him: she wasn’t the phototgraphs. You look at the Catherine deNeuve the camera sees: beautiful, perfect, superlative. You look at Catherine deNeive in the room, and she’s just a woman: rather ordinary.

I was myself certain from Fellini’s 8 1/2 that Claudia Cardinale walking on the beach at night was the most perfect female God or the devil’s eye had ever behold. Then I watched her film a scene with Rock Hudson in Central Park. I assure you that Claudia Cardinale would agree with me here: there were any dozen of secretaries at lunch, also watching the stars, who were just as pretty as Claudia Cardinale: or prettier.

There, some of the ideas are sketched. My development stinks. I’ll do better later.

2014 01 04 Speaking of 8 1/2, pronounced by me to the “the greatest movie of all time when it came out in the early 1960s: I have to tout a favorite scene, a favorite tangle of macroinformation, one of my favorite moments in movies, in art, in literature! a favorite profundity: Fellini’s alter ego, the movie director, Guido, so beautifully played by Marcello Mastroiani, holding a bullhorn, is “directing” has cast to dance in an oval on the beach: but everyone in his world is already dancing in an oval on the beach: this “leader” is a redundancy.

I’m reminded of Fellini at the Casa Italiana at Columbia, Satyricon was just coming out: someone objected to Fellini that reality doesn’t look like Fellini makes the world look. Fellini gestured, said “Look around you.” Sure enough: the Casa Italiana was a harlequinade circus!
But, what I wish I could have shown Fellini, it hadn’t looked like that until he entered the hall! The world is not the same without him as with him.
Taste of It’s a Wonderful Life: Jimmy Stewart gets to experience the world without his life in it!

2006 01 15 Bridget Fonda

I love Bridget Fonda.

Bridget Fonda is far more beautiful than she is pretty. For a pretty girl she’s on the ordinary side: which precisely is part of her beauty. It’s not just that she can act, it’s no particular role, no particular script. It’s not that she sometimes has better than competent direction, get professionally edited. Bridget Fonda projects, certainly for me, a sense of Being that goes beyond being an individual mortal, temporarily appealing. She conveys Essence.

It Could Happen To You
It Could Happen To You

She can also look slinky.

Bridget Fonda
Point of No Return
thanx filmbender

Her genius is to project normalcy: and I mean normal here not as sorry fact but as shinning ideal.

She could hold a moment by its stem.
Thomas Harris

Nor surprisingly for someone my age, I loved Henry Fonda before Jane Fonda or Peter Fonda got any public light. Independently, I’m a fan of both, and a big fan of Jane’s. Indeed, I’ve written about Jane in terms not dissimilar from what I just said, and am about to expand on, about Bridget. Jane did and does the human genome proud: insofar as its manifestations can be photographed. (These are actors: I’m talking about image, possibly but not necessarily illusion.) If one were in a room with Jane, she not specially lit, specially made up, given a striking role to play, she might not impress us any more than any other decently gened and not disfigured female. Ah, but have her turn and show the flex of her ass as she did in Cat Ballou … Man, that’s Essence.

Ordinary boobs? So what? She conveys Female!

Peter is unique looking: also decent looking (however indecent the characters he plays) (and may for all I know be). But he’s never made me run off thinking of archetypes. (As Brando did. As Mifune did.)

Between Jane and Bridget, Jane has far and away the more ideal face. Bridget’s eyes are a tad smaller than a chart of human perfection (that is, quintessential AVERAGING) would project. Her mouth is a tad on the large side. Her arms are ordinary female arms. Her breasts, her buttocks won’t stop traffic, cause wrecks.

But somehow Bridget Fonda makes the girl next door look archetypal.

A recent viewing of A Simple Plan spurs me to launch this module. Getting distracted by details of the movie in writing about Morality: Private vs. Public [I’ll resurrect the link,] got me talking too much there about Bridget Fonda. So, I’m going to delete some of my movie comments there and dedicate this file just to Bridget.

Bridget Fonda makes the girl next door look archetypal. She conveys “justness.” “Suchness.”

In A Simple Plan we first view her working in a library, shelving books. Now there is a nice, useful female member of a society. We next see her standing, pregnant and all but naked, as her husband enters the room. She was smiling before she saw him, her smile increases a bit as she sees him. Those milk-filled mammaries are prosthetic, for the role, ditto her enormous belly. Never mind. Bridget Fonda conveys marital contentment as well as any actress ever filmed could have. In the library too. Momentarily she could make a philosopher, a terrorist, an anarchist, an escapee from a lynching think: This is the best of all possible worlds. Look at that woman! She’s content. She’s at home. She’s breeding! She’s not obsessed (as I am) with the crucifixion of Jesus. With Bush. With Nixon. With bombing gooks. With phoney democracy, with the failure of FLEX [to stimulate an anarchic internet in 1970], with the whorish internet [the gov. foisted on us instead], with universities that interrupt without understanding, by a society that winks as one parent steals children from another … By the end, as she has participated in greed, theft, lies, murder … her diminished smile reads differently. What other actress could have it read so? so naturally?

Here’s another tack. It’s been said of the immortal Audrey Hepburn that she conveys a woman in love well. Body? Practically two-dimensional; but what male wouldn’t die to have her in love with him? Bridget too conveys that. She conveys: an ordinary, NICE, woman in love; an ordinary, NICE, woman who’s pregnant … an ordinary, NICE, woman who’s gotten into things over her head.

Think of It Could Happen to You. Pamela Anderson is beckoning to you: might as well be nude however she’s dressed. (Nude isn’t enough: how could you see all the implants just nude?) Forget her: Marilyn Monroe, all bleached, is beckoning to you. The subway passing below blows her skirt over her head. Anyone in their right mind would shove her aside merely to order a hamburger from the Bridget Fonda-played waitress in It Could Happen to You. Or to say you’re sorry to the Bridget Fonda-played assassin turned decent in Point of No Return.

That’s it! What she projects is decency. One of the powers of A Simple Plan is how decent her character started out. The only time I have ever been indifferent to Bridget Fonda was in Tarantino’s Jackie Brown. There, her Melanie seemed to have no connection with decency.

Ordinarily Bridget Fonda seems to be the very ground of decency.

I just wrote something in another blog under another name where I make similar comments about the girl-next-door “normal” appearance projected by Naomi Matts. I guess I love her too: but I made the point first to my darling Jan Lynn: now that’s who I really love!

2012 08 27 I’m just watching Single White Female, half a dozen years since I wrote the above, and I second everything I said about Bridget Fonda! Jennifer Jason Leigh is also very good, occasionally a great actress, though sometimes she’s just annoyingly annoyed looking. Here the two of them are very well cast, the movie, however absurd, well-filmed … And boy-oh-boy do I love Bridget Fonda!

2003 01 23 Woody Allen: Mighty Aphrodite

Woody Allen emerged as an extraordinary standup comic in New York in the 1960s. I heard of him but never went to see him however many times I walked past the room where he performed: it was right in the NYU neighborhood: Greenwich Village: 4th Street or so, not far from Washington Square. I hung in jazz clubs and in the Whitehorse, not comedy clubs. After a while Woody started appearing in movies, then making his own: and very well too. And Woody was, and remained, and has become, more ubiquitous: I’d see him around the Village. He once flirted with my girl friend: talking about himself and how neurotic he was. In the ’70s I’d see him uptown too. Now we all see him at the Knick games: and elsewhere: and in the scandal news: sucking on his thirteen year old adopted daughter’s pudendum when Mia Farrow walks into the room.

I had the movie habit in those days and saw everything he did. Touted it, coerced friends to go see. (I actually had a few friends in those days.) By the later ’60s his stories were appearing in the New Yorker. Great stuff. Screamingly funny. I read every one. Practically split my guts, even when too sick to laugh.

He didn’t really talk to us.
In not talking to the actors, he creates their own neuroses.

Radha Mitchell on Woody Allen

Going off to Maine to teach cut into my movie consumption. Getting back to the Apple as a young father I never quite caught up again, and founding FLEX put the kibosh on everything that cost more than a penny for me. Still, up to (the great) Manhattan [1971], I’d seen every one.

Woody was making movies at a regular beat. They all turned a small profit, never got huge audiences. Yearly more or less, there’d be a new title. More and more slipped by that I remained virgin to: however highly recommended. In the ’80s I saw Hannah and Her Sisters with bk: in Bryn Mawr, bk attending Haverford, practically next door. I was overwhelmed. Woody had become such a great film maker: his ensemble direction put him in a rare class of directors. (M. Night Shyamalen seems to have been born to that class: directors who can fill a set-room with actors and make every one of them PRODUCE: all at once: seamlessly blended.)

For years bk recommended this and that Woody Allen movie to me. I believed that they were great: but I was broke, I was busy. You can’t write story after story, novel after novel, found institution after institution, all without making a cent, and still frequent a lot of clubs, theaters, and concert halls. I’m the artist who can’t afford to so much as go to the museum any more. If I were still stocking shelves in the super market I’d worked for in high school, I’d have seen all this stuff.

Last night I stick Mighty Aphrodite into the VCR I wouldn’t even have but for a gift from bk. Mira Sorvino had won Best Actress, back in 1995. What Woody Allen did in that film makes me sick: and prompts me to fashion this module: a raspberry in a folder I call “favorites.”

Let me paraphrase a Russell Baker NY Times op-ed satire from the late 60s, perhaps early 70s. Actually, it may be more reconstruction than paraphrase. He wrote: Coop’ should get the girl. Gregory Peck should get the girl. Alan Ladd should get the girl: or not, if he’s to be the lonely hero. But Woody Allen should never get the girl.

I second that in spades.

I don’t mean in real life. The guy’s smart, the guy’s highly sexed. The guy’s clever. The guy can make himself appealing. The guy can fuck every girl in NY (other than my girl friends) and every starlet, I don’t care. Go Woody. I don’t care if Sam Goldwin required blow jobs from every starlet in his studio: Sam Goldwin should not himself play the romantic lead in the film. It’s not that it’s not realistic; it’s un-filmic. It’s not fictionally satisfying.

Movies may inspire us to realize that
you can’t trust what you see either.

Through Annie Hall and Manhattan, I didn’t mind. Besides, Woody was only thirty or forty something then. In Mighty Aphrodite the great clown is sixty!

When they still wrote romantic leads for Carey Grant at sixty, I was (almost) still for it. Paul Newman can wow all the chicks at seventy. I don’t doubt that he really does in real life too. The least Woody Allen should do is find some thirty year old Woody look alike and cast him. (Find one that can act, please.) I don’t care if he clones Mel Brooks! Just clone him at thirtyish.

In this movie, not only is the sixty year old Woody married to Helena Bonham Carter. (Oh my God: to die for.) But he winds up with Mira Sorvino, long legs, round ass, and big forward jutting boobs, getting a jones for him. He and Helena have Mira’s baby. Then he knocks Mira up too. It all started because his (Mira’s) baby is so smart and so good looking. Now we’re supposed to believe that his baby with Mira is also not only smart (no problem) but good looking! Please.

Actually, Woody Allen is beautiful. As only brains can be beautiful. But good looking? The fiction stresses genetic probability. Worse yet: some schmuck of a ‘copter pilot is paying for the kid’s rearing: as Mira’s tolerant husband.

I’m pleased to see Woody and his daughter/wife at the ball game. I don’t care who else he’s seduced. But not in my fictions, dammit.

If you’re going to be an idiot
(which we all are),
it helps to be a genius at it.

Yahoo/Reuters Entertainment News recently had Allen saying that he was a failed artist: couldn’t act, couldn’t play jazz … Well he’s good enough for ordinary Dixieland. And he left out what a great writer, wit, comic, director, etc. he is. But Boy, is he right that he can’t act. And it gets worse as he gets older.

Then again, he may be over-stressing the importance of acting. I concede that some of the comic business in Mighty Aphrodite that he takes on with his own body, like getting mauled by the pimp, he timed beautifully.

And I hope Woody sees this because there’s one moment in the film that is pure, pure jazz. Helena Bonham Carter is saying something or other, and acting her fuzzy hair neurotic shtick, when Woody puts Brubeck’s Take Five on the track: written by (and sax solo by) Paul Desmond. Now that’s 24 caret music: but matched with Helena Bonham Carter’s solo: oh, Man. It went the complexity of that great 5/4 composition one better. Priceless.

2006 08 04 I laughed myself sick over Woody’s short stories in the New Yorker, 1967 or so onward, and watched “all” of his movies too, missing only a couple … till I stopped being able to follow movies at all. Now, catching up a bit via tapes and DVDs, not the same but better than nothing (and better than theaters in a couple of respects), Woody’s work has been pissing me off as much as anything, as you may see from the above. Ah, but now I’m on a Woody binge. I love how he works with Scarlett Johansson: Match Point is an interesting movie in many a respect. There’s a new one coming out: and I’m just getting around to seeing Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex: But Where Afraid To Ask for the first time: thirty-six years late!

When it comes to sex there are certain things
that should always be left unknown,
and with my luck, they probably will be.

Woody Allen

2004 11 13 A reviewer at the Guardian, English of course, found the usages of Match Point to be off: alien, not native. Fellini once explained that he wouldn’t make a movie in Hollywood because he would have no idea what tie the character should be wearing. Exactly. But I’m not sure the Guardian’s criticism applies to a Woody film. Here just now in Sex, he has a sequence in Italian. Woody plays Fabrizio. speaks Italian, poorly, for Fabrizio, wears his coat over his shoulders with his arms not in the sleeves … and so forth. A moment before Woody had played a fool in a feudal court. Woody didn’t look feudal, Woody didn’t look Italian, didn’t sound Italian, hadn’t sounded medieval … Woody sticks out like a sore thumb no matter what he does. Attacked by a giant breast, Woody defends himself and civilization with a crucifix! What has Woody got to do with a crucifix? It’s very funny.

Ah, so you say that Match Point wasn’t supposed to be funny? that Woody wasn’t a character in Match Point? that Match Point shouldn’t have had any sore thumbs? Are you sure?

Jennifer Aniston
2016 08 02 I just watched Rumor Has It. Throughout I kept thinking not just how beautiful she is, how much I love her, but what a great actress she is. I don’t mean profound roles, I don’t mean Bette Davis or Meryl Streep. No, I’m wowed by how effectively she works off the tiniest facial expression, nuances of mood. And her body matches her face in perfection. All the actresses work out these days but she must work out to perfection: her crotch, her bottom, her thigh … and that Hair! My God!
By the way, Shirley MacLaine was simply fabulous as her grandmother: and I never liked her much before. As an old broad she tickles me.

2017 02 25 I’m marvelling at The Switch, I double down on all of the above. But I simultaneously marvel at other featchers, other cast members. Julliette Lewis is fabulous, reminds me of Illeana Douglas. The guys, the male actors, are pretty good too.

overlapping post, alternate categories
/ Survival / Family /
from IonaArc 2005 01 19

The entertainment industries comb the populations for stars and starlets so that audiences may be exposed to select beef and tush. By the time we have TV as well as movies, Playboy as well as the Sunday rotogravure, the entire population will be unable to love its actual spouse.
Furthermore, once the female trods the boards, she will become incapable by cultural reason after economic after social reason to bear her otherwise normal number of offspring. Now there’s no genetic guarantee that beauty breeds: but better looking than average parents do tend to have better than average looking kids. Ditto intelligence, ditto motor skills. The guy with quick feet, quick hands, nimble wits will have a better than average chance of feeding his kids. If he’s a star, he could feed them: if he had any.
Narcissists, public or private, don’t breed at the normal rate: even if the narcissism is imposed on them by circumstance. Pamela Anderson wouldn’t pass her silicon implants on to her offspring: at least not genetically; what she very well might pass on is a tendency to buy silicone implants: together with an ability to pay for them. But: how many daughters does she have?

Beauty provoked hate as much as love, for beauty was unnatural,
an offense against the mud and scars and blood of common life.
Bernard Cornwell

A 1960s DW Griffith festival stimulated me to fall in love with Lillian Gish as I had with no other actress since Gulietta Masina (for her Gelsomina). Dorothy Gish too was wonderful, as were all Griffith heroines. Lillian Gish made twelve movies for Griffith in 1912. Her career in theatrics spanned seventy-five years. In her nineties she wore the same dress size she had worn at sixteen, and I for one could see her Orphans of the Storm or her Broken Blossoms in her ancient face. But how many more Lillians and Dorothys issued from her loins?
Rock Hudson … never mind Rock Hudson. (Besides, his acting consisted mainly of standing there (keeping himself in some sort of shape, I’ll admit.) How many little Humphreys did Bogart breed?
Of course it’s complex: looks is one determining factor: but you can have no looks, no hands or quick mind, but if you’re rich enough, you also tend to forget to replenish the earth (overrun it, that is). It’s even more complex: being an alpha-kleptocrat, even a poor and powerless one, tends to lure one out of the gene pool. An unemployed American WASP dropout with no discernable talents, compared to brothers of other colors around the world, will tend to breed closer to Donald Trump’s rate than to that of any farmer from ancient Sumer or the pre-Columbian Mississippi.

Maria Bello
2016 08 05 Bellissima. Never mind my Italian, I don’t really know much Italian.
: I first fell in love with her in Thank You for Smoking, great sketch, wonderfully done. And now I’m paused 3/4 through A History of Violence, marvelous. I’ve also seen some roles for her that I gagged at, but she’s wonderful to love, and worthy. Go, girl.

Rita Hayworth
2018 04 23 Charlie Chaplin was my original film god. Fred Astaire followed naturally. Sure I liked some of the dancing girls, but never the way I loved the dancing guys: and acrobats from the silents. As decades accumulated Michael Jackson added himself naturally. But now YouTube revises my values: Rita Hayworth is peer to the guys.
And as sheer moving sculptre, her hips are non pareil: as is her bush, her bottom. But it’s her face, and her expression, that’s pure film.



About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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