Gwyneth Paltrow

I used to hate Gwyneth Paltrow. Well, “hate” is probably too strong a word but I did find her to be profoundly boring, plain, annoying and just generally insufferable, particularly when everyone loved her so much after Shakespeare in Love. For the record, that film was terrible, her performance crappy and her Oscar winning absolutely ludicrous (as most Oscar awards are).

And then, all of a sudden, I loved her.

Well, not exactly all of a sudden.

Sure, Gwyneth’s hit some pretty low points: naming her kid Apple, for instance, and starring in the most offensive and obnoxious film ever, Shallow Hal. I’m sure she was held at gun point throughout the entire, there can be no other plausible explanation.

But she’s also hit some highs.

Her role in Se7en, albeit secondary, was striking (and not only because she and her foetus end up chopped in a box) and I really liked her in both The Royal Tenenbaums and Two Lovers (the simple fact that she worked with James Gray and Joaquin Phoenix gives her serious brownie points).

Unlike other actors, which I used to like but don’t anymore because they’ve become these annoying nut-cases, adopting every child as far as the eye can see and craving ever more media-attention (yes, Brad, I’m talking to you!, although I blame Angelina, that bitch), Gwyn’s been increasingly wise, low-profile and sweet. She’s very discrete about her marriage with Chris Martin (mind you, I wouldn’t be shouting it off roof tops either if I were married to someone in Coldplay), her kids aren’t pranced around for publicity and her movie choices aren’t all bad.

Her blog, Goop, is another reason I started liking her more and more. It’s a beautiful blog, great posts with a lot of focus on restaurants and food which, of course, is a huge plus. Gwyenth’s surprisingly a pretty good cook and I even had her cookbook on my Amazon wishlist for a while (but then decided to be prejudiced and stick to believing that actresses can memorize lines, be pretty and little else, otherwise there’s really no justice on earth).

However, the turning point for me was her guest star role in Glee as the sassy, sexy sub-teacher Holly Holiday. She rocked that part, showed a true penchant for humour she should definitely explore more and, boy, can she sing.

I like her more and more with each interview I read and pics I see, like this one that blew my mind.

Shazaaaam!

This is what every 40-yr-old mom of two should look like.

Perfection

There may be no such thing as perfection but these are pretty damn close.

The stunning Erika Labanauskaite.

Natalie needs no introduction.

Grace Kelly's white frock in To Catch A Thief.

Keira Knightley's green gown in Atonement.

Gone With The Wind aka. the greatest film with the greatest heroine. Ever.

Mad Men... And hot men on bikes.

Best friends.

Me and my BF on a lazy sunny morning.

Audrey Hepburn + Hubert de Givenchy + Paris = P E R F E C T I O N!

Watcha Readin'? Part 2

Parenthood Gone Awry

Although I first read this a few years ago, when it was published back in 2003, the award-winning “We Need To Talk About Kevin” isn’t the kind of novel you easily forget and now that it’s back in the limelight due to its cinematographic adaptation by Morvern Callar’s director Lynne Ramsay, I thought I could recommend it on today’s “Watcha Readin’?”.

Lionel Shriver (pseudonym of journalist-come-novelist Margaret Ann Shriver) writes a disquieting, gripping novel about a mother, Eva, in a desperate attempt to understand why her teenage son Kevin premeditated and executed a Columbine-style massacre in his high-school, reaches out to her estranged husband Franklin and their need to talk about Kevin.

Kevin has, not surprisingly, a sociopath’s behaviour: he has no affection or moral responsibility and pretty much hates everyone in his family and community but the portrayal is so subtle you really tend to dismiss his actions, signs of disturbance and social detachment as being common childish mischief, as Eva did: after the tragedy, suffering from extreme guilt, she questions every aspect of her son’s upbringing, questioning every punishment or scolding.

The central theme for the story is the rationale behind Kevin’s horrific behaviour. “Why?” is the simple question to which none of the characters, including Kevin himself, knows the answer.

With “We Need To Talk About Kevin” Shriver provokes the eternal social debate of Innate vs. Experience: are we intrinsically good and it is society who corrupts us? Or are some people just born evil, no matter what their upbringing? Are we born with character or do we only acquire it through behaviour?

Equally igniting some debate on parenthood, although – thankfully! – in a completely different tone, was this year’s The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas.

The story starts off during a family and friends’ barbecue, when a spoiled 3 year-old threatens another kid and, to everyone’s shock, is slapped by the threatened kid’s father, who will later be charged for assault by the spoiled child’s parents. The reverberations of the slap and the subsequent court case raise all sorts of issues and doubts in the lives and relationships between all those who witnessed it happen.

With a very clever narration through each of the eight primary characters (four women and four men with very different ages, social backgrounds, ethnicities and sexual orientations), Tsiolkas makes each one of them a main character at different stages of the novel, each giving insightful observations and shedding light on the others, allowing the reader to fall in and out of love with each character throughout the book.

A brilliant portrayal of multicultural Melbourne (with no lack of profanity and graphic sex), The Slap exposes the many flaws and cracks of modern families and society and exploits recurring controversial issues: have we become too soft? Can children not be disciplined anymore? How can an apparently harmless (and justified) domestic incident transform a community of family and friends?

Must we handle every responsibility and issue over to a nanny state?

Have you read any of these? What did you think?

Talking Funny

Through a recent NYT piece on female comedians, I read a 2007 Vanity Fair article by Christopher Hitchens entitled “Why Women Aren’t Funny” which left me nothing short of stunned.
Hitchens’ starts off by claiming that, whereas women list a man’s sense of humour as a quality, men seldom reciprocate and won’t be heard saying “Oh, she’s great, beautiful… and, man, does she make me laugh!”. Firstly because men usually don’t find women funny and, secondly, because they don’t really care if they are. It’s all about looks, says Hitchens. Men, he writes, are funnier because they need to be funny, otherwise they won’t get laid. Being funny’s a survival instinct. Women, on the other hand, need do nothing than just “be” to attract men.
I beg to differ.
I don’t know whether Hitchens’ a perv or surrounded exclusively by beautiful women but that whole “just being” thing never got me anywhere.
I, unfortunately, lack many a physical attribute. I’m no Shrek, thank the Lord (and my parents, they had something to do with it after all), but I’m no stunner either. However, for some inexplicable reason, I always end up hanging with the cool crew of beautiful people: since school my friends are so incredibly good-looking you’d think I picked them right off the runway. So, from a very early age, rather than being the pretty girl, I was their little gremlin sidekick.
But I was ok with that because I was funny. I made kids laugh. I was the typical class clown and nothing thrilled me more than hearing the classroom roar at one of my insolent, cheeky remarks that could get me into trouble, sure, but, God, was it worth it!
Plus, I moved around a lot as a kid and changed school every 3 or 4 years, leaving friends behind and having to make new ones all the time. Humour was the best and quickest way to make new friends: girls weren’t threatened by me and boys knew I would be hassle-free and “one of the guys”, so we all got along just great.
Indeed, humour’s been my defence mechanism since forever and, contrary to Hitchens’ belief, being funny is actually a great way to get guys’ attention.
Obviously, you’ll always have your stereotypical alpha-male with an inferiority complex, who’d rather date a brainless bimbo with a pretty face, round ass and great pair of legs and tits than a girl that can keep up a conversation, even if she too has a pretty face, round ass and great pair of legs and tits. But those boys aren’t really my type anyway, so it’s all good.
Risk number two is that being funny is a trip on the fast lane straight into the “friend zone”. That never really bothered me either: I didn’t really give too much a damn about dating until very late in life. Spending lunch-break smooching and walking around hand in hand with a boyfriend seemed to me like an utter waste of time and I’d much rather spend it running after a football or fooling around (in the non-sexual connotation of the expression, of course).
But, overall, those brave few guys that liked me, I know liked me because I was witty and sarcastic. So, either I‘m the exception to your rule, Mr. Hitchens, or living proof that your theory’s bullsh*t.
Hitchens’ then outrageously concludes his article by affirming that women could never be as funny as men because they reproduce and conceive babies whilst men don’t. Because we women carry babies, everything else in life is secondary, wit included. *GASP* Seriously?! It’s just too offensive and despicable for words. It would be like arguing with Tom Cruise about scientology: pointless. Best I just move on…
I must, nonetheless, sadly agree with Hitchens on one thing: funny women are, sadly, an exception.
I know it’s incredibly sexist but women have to work twice as hard behind a stand-up mic because the simple fact that they’re female makes me think “ah, this is going to tank”. I don’t know why it is. Prejudice, pure and simple? If a woman and a man tell exactly the same joke, odds are we’ll laugh at the guy telling it but not the girl, right? A very silly yet credible Stanford University research proved that men and women have the same humour-response system, they find the same things funny, so the problem isn’t so much the message, i.e. the joke, but rather the messenger, i.e. the comedian.
But what if women simply can’t come up with funny material? Hitchens’ theory is that humour, being a sign of intelligence, should not be demonstrated by women, being men threatened by clever women and all… *GASP AGAIN* Wait, what? Jesus!, where did this guy come from? Again, I really don’t know which crowd Hitchens’ been hanging out with but he needs a new batch of friends, preferably from the 21^st century.
So then is it because men, in general, are just better at telling jokes, no matter how good or bad that joke is? Or are women doomed to social bigotry?
This discussion on whether women are as funny as men or not isn’t new and it hasn’t been settled, nor does it look like it will be any time soon but, the sad truth is my main comedic references are, indeed, overwhelmingly male.
However, there is hope! My “funny girl” quota’s been increasing in recent years and female comediennes have become very important and solid references I greatly admire.
Tina Fey is an obvious choice. I absolutely adore her and everything she does, acts in and writes. She is the best thing to have hit the comedy scene in a long time and 30 Rock is one of the funniest shows ever. Plus, she’s gorgeous to boot, that geeky, gawky, gangly kind of gorgeous. My all time favourite funny girl, without doubt.

Sexy Sarah Silverman was nothing short of groundbreaking when she started doing stand up. Unfiltered and brash, she’s shockingly funny, leaving even the most open-minded audience uncomfortable: nothing’s taboo or off limits. You don’t know whether to gasp and cringe or laugh and applaud.
She famously jokes “I was raped by a doctor, which is so bittersweet for a Jewish girl.” It’s all there, wrapped into a one-liner. “Come on”, she adds, “who’s going to complain about rape jokes? Rape victims? They barely even report rape.” Cherry on top.



Kristen Wiig is another SNL girl that is funny through and through. Although I’m not quite sure she does stand up, her SNL characters are wonderful (Dooneese will make you wet yourself, seriously) and her self-depreciating humour, which delights me to bits, made the relatively crappy Bridesmaid worthwhile.



And there are others: Wanda Sykes, Catherine Tate, Mindy Kaling, French and Saunders, even Ellen DeGeneres, despite her God awful, annoyingly obnoxious talk show (what’s with all the dancing?!) made me laugh to tears with her HBOspecials. And then there are female comediennes ranking my all time favourite TV characters: Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Elaine Benes, Jane Lynch as Coach Sylvester, Kristen Schaal as the adorably awkward Mel on FOTC…
I honestly believe women can be as funny, it isn’t a gender issue. It’s a social issue.
Men, in general, are ballsy, outspoken, candid and somewhat thoughtless and inconsiderate, whereas women tend to overthink, care too much about others’ opinions and feelings, prefer to withdraw and keep a low-profile. I am aware this is a simplified generalisation and that there are obviously exceptions to both genders but, come on!, it’s been so overdone only because it’s true: a ruthless businessman is a competent go-getter; the women, a stone-hearted bitch. It’s no different in comedy: a man tells a dirty sex joke, it’s hilarious and daring; if it’s a woman, she’s a crass whore.
As we grow up, humour becomes increasingly about sarcasm and mockery: being funny becomes synonymous with being mean, even if it’s being mean to no one but yourself. Girls don’t like being mean. We’re all sugar, spice and all things nice, right? Truth is I’d rather offend someone than pass the chance of getting a laugh, even if only my own. Eyes almost popping out of their sockets in shock is the new laughter.
It’s a man’s world, right? So, girls, grow a pair and be funny!!

Why I’m Craving Oysters and Pinot Grigio

Although it’s been playing since the early summer, only yesterday did I get to see Les Petits Mouchoirs (Little White Lies), written and directed by the oh so handsome Guillaume Canet, who you might remember as Virginie Ledoyen’s boyfriend in The Beach and know as Marion Cotillard’s husband.
Les Petits Mouchoirs is part drama, part comedy about a group of thirty-something well-off Parisian friends who choose to keep their yearly tradition and head off to gorgeous Arcachon for a couple of weeks of sea, sun and wine-soaked vacation, despite leaving behind one of their number in intensive care after a horrific motorcycle accident. This tragedy and moral dilemma sets the tone for the rest of the film, where characters debate and doubt everything, from their sexual orientation to the text messages they send.
A French version of The Big Chill meets Secrets andLies, actor-turned-director Guillaume Canet’s sophomore film was despised by critics across the board who deemed it unoriginal, clichéd, too long (154mins) and underwhelming when compared to Canet’s highly acclaimed debut thriller Ne Le Dit à Personne, also starring Francois Cluzet.
I, however, very much enjoyed Les Petits Mouchoirs, laughed whole-heartedly and sobbed in the tear-jerking finale. By exploring the relationships of this group of long-term friends, the film really spoke to me and focuses on the feeling many of us late-twenties, early-thirties share: it’s that stage in life when you realize things haven’t quite turned out as you hoped for and find yourself thinking “I really f*cked up, didn’t I?”. I guess most young adults can easily relate with the film’s characters: they’re just like us, a chain-smoking, wine-drinking and oyster-eating French version of us. But the best part is that, even though life is sh*tty, even though we all have skeletons in our closet and even if we tell each other little white lies – because we’re pride, ashamed or protecting others – well, the truth is that, somehow, friends, the real ones, stick with us no matter up: we’re locked together by their bonds of love and that’s what makes life worth living. Cliché? Sure. But true, thank God, very true.

Nothing Spreads Like Fear

Little tip for all you germaphobes out there: go equipped with gloves, mouth masks and hand sanitisers because Contagion will scare the living sh*t out of you.

I usually keep a safe distance from excessively star-studded casts (in this case, it’s Matt Damon, Kate Winslet, Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow, Marion Cotillard, Laurence Fishburne, Bryan Cranston…). Rarely are they synonymous of quality. In Contagion, however, it works: you focus on all characters equally and let the leading role be played by the invisible, highly contagious, deadly, nameless virus.

It all starts with Paltrow’s character Beth Emhoff who, after a business trip to Hong Kong, seems to have little more than jet-lag and a cold but inexplicably has a seizure, dies within hours as does her son, soon after her. Around the same time a man on a bus in Hong Kong dies with exactly the same symptoms as does another man in China, and yet another in Chicago, and so on and so forth The pandemic spreads with harrowing speed whilst labs struggle try to find a cure and society shatters, with looting and rioting breaking out into war-like grim scenarios, frightfully similar to the unnerving images of New Orleans post-Hurricane Katrina. The count-down narration and the very recognizable Soderbergh-style fast-paced editing further increase the tension and idea of haste, which are major features in the film.

The chilling part is that this plot isn’t all that unrealistic. We’ve seen the H1N1 scare, the rate at which HIV takes lives in Africa, how quickly our daily streams of connection and every personal and professional relationship which make our life possible, ironically can become the vehicle the destroys it.

Being a germaphobe myself (you’d be surprised with the techniques I’ve come up with so I won’t (directly) touch anything unsanitised or untrustworthy): I can only reassure myself with Jason Solomons wise words: it’s a disaster movie, not a documentary.

Still, bleach rules!

Submarine

Set in 1980s Swansea, Wales, “Submarine” is a coming of age comedy with both genuinely funny and bitterly sad moments but, most of all, with the ultimate soundtrack, composed exclusively of Alex Turner’s melancholic ballads.

The main character, Oliver Tate, coincidentally played by an Alex Turner uncanny lookalike, Craig Roberts, is struggling between discovering love and sexuality with his dark, pyromaniac love interest Jordana, and trying to save the marriage of his parents, beautifully played by Happy Go Lucky’s Sally Hawkins and Noah Taylor, which is jeopardized with the arrival of his mum’s first love, an obnoxious new-age self-help guru.

The IT Crowd and The Mighty Boosh’s Richard Ayoade’s directorial debut has been unavoidably compared to Wes Anderson or Michel Gondry and I believe it’s a good thing: although it may not be deeply original nor flawless, it’s a great, entertaining film. And who doesn’t love a bit of welsh accent once in a while?

 

Rosie, You're Killing Me!

Love, love, love!

Tirado daqui.

The 5 Things I Take From The Tree Of Life

1. Brad Pitt should play nothing but movies set in the fifties. Do I hear Hot Overbearing Parent anyone?! Hubba hubba!

2. I want a kid just like Laramie Eppler.

3. Nothing will relax you more than two and a half hours of National Geografic-ish shots, Brahms and Berlioz.

4. I want Sean Penn’s house in the movie. Without the depressing silent tension, though, thank-you very much.

5. Cannes trumps every other movie award, time and time again.

Não é um filme.
Não é uma história.
É arte. É uma opus que comprime toda a História do Mundo e da Humanidade em duas horas e meia.
São as memórias dos personagens e as memórias do próprio mundo, o início da existência da terra, do mar, do espaço e as arrebatadores nebulosas.

É a luta entre a admiração e respeito contra a perplexidade e a emancipação. A veneração por Deus torna-se num raivoso solilóquio. O temor pelo Pai frustrado e severo que não sabe traduzir o amor que tem pelos filhos que acabam por se virar contra ele.

Mas os actores principais do The Tree of Life são a fotografia, a música e a forma como ambos estão conjugados: o Requiem de Berlioz arrepia, a Lacrimosa do Preisner envolver, o épico Moldau de Smetena exalta…

É perfeito.

And The Award Should Go To... Ricky Gervais!

Já lá vai mais de uma semana desde a 68ª edição dos Golden Globes mas eu só há dias é que tive oportunidade de ver a cerimónia e, claro, as roupas já que, há que admitir, esta cerimónia vale mais pelo desfile no tapete vermelho do que pela entrega de prémios (sem prejuízo de ter adorado o reconhecimento devido ao Glee, Chris Colfer e Boardwalk Empire).

The Good.

Emma Stone. A surpresa da noite, pelo menos para mim. Longe vão os tempos de colegial inocente do Superbad: Emma Stone transformou-se num epítome de sofisticação, classe e elegância. O vestido faz jus à reputação de Calvin Klein de que less is more: simplicidade nunca foi tão chique.





Aaaah, a minha January Jones. A mulher mais linda do momento. As duas últimas temporadas do Mad Men estão ainda na minha wishlist da Amazon por isso tenho dado uma pausa – ainda que forçada! – na minha obsessão por aquela que já disse ser a melhor série de sempre. Mas a imagem Ms. Jones está longe da Betty Draper amarga, uptight e retrógrada. O corte sexy, a cor vamp: Versace no seu melhor, um clássico da femme fatale! *Clap! Clap! Clap!*



The One Who Can Do No Wrong. É o meu novo título para a Lea Michele. É – a par da January Jones – a minha girl crush do momento: na nova temporada do Glee ela está absolutamente deslumbrante, física e vocalmente, e voltou a brilhar com Oscar de la Renta, tal como nos Globos do ano passado. Reencontramos o cor-de-rosa coral do CK da Emma Stone mas longe de ser simples, este vestido é a definição de va-va-voom! E o penteado complementa-o na perfeição. Adoro. Adoro! ADORO!




Mila Kunis. E pensar que esta menina dá voz à Megan do Family Guy! Linda! A cor é magnifica, o corte sofisticado. Well played, Miss Kunis.



Maria Menounos quase passou despercebida mas é das minhas predilectas no desfile detsa última edição dos Globos. Apesar de a achar excessivamente magra, não posso deixar de me apaixonar por este vestido, ultra leve e feminino com um corte sexy: a combinação perfeita.

The Bad.

Eva Longoria. Demasiado decotado. Demasiado apertado. Demasiado comprido para a figura liliputiana da recém-separada de Tony Parker, que ficou a isto (*polegar e indicador juntos*) de ter o kit perfeito.

A Natalie Portman tem tudo para ser infalível: uma beleza inigualável, talento em bardas (ganhou para um dos filmes que mais anseio ver de que já aqui vos falei), um sentido de humor inesperado… Mas desta feita, confesso, desiludiu-me, ainda que vestida pela genial dupla Viktor & Rolf. Não sei se é da flor, se da horrenda mistura de cores, se do penteado desenxabido… Bem sei que não é fácil ser-se glamorosa quando se está grávida mas podia ter feito melhor, muito melhor.



A Christina Hendricks tem sido uma constante desilusão nos desfiles de red carpet. Uma diva no Mad Men mas um flop nas cerimónias. Aquele cabelo indomável não dá com o acessório do vestido. Master WTF! Ela bem que se queixou de não ter designers que a quisessem vestir por não ser o típico tamanho ultra-mini-anorético das restantes estrelas hollywoodianas: tenham dó da rapariga e arranjem-lhe um designer decente! ASAP!



A-D-O-R-O a Julianne Moore. Se fosse homem estaria irremediavelmente apaixonado por ela. E também já aqui confessei ser fã do Alber Elbaz mas este vestido deixou-me boquiaberta. Aquelas mangas?! Todo amarrotado! Não terão forrado a seda!? Enterro a cara não mãos: é que não percebo. Não percebo.

The Ugly.

Heidi, não é a praia, amiga. É prova que nem às mulheres mais bem feitas do mundo tudo lhes fica bem. O que é isto, santo Deus!? E a maquilhagem?! Pintaram-na à luz das velas?!

Tina, Tina, Tina. Minha querida, minha adorada e idolatrada Tina Fey, a prova de que uma mulher pode ser inteligente, bonita e ter sentido de humor. Mas esta roupa: ai, mulher! Estavas a ir tão bem em eventos anteriores… O que é que te aconteceu?! Ainda por cima com L'Wren, um dos estilistas mais promissores da nova geração!



A Olivia Wilde dá todo um novo sentido à expressão OTT. Estou a sangrar dos olhos com tanto brilho. E aqueles sapatos, dourados ainda para mais, com aquele vestido?! És a parola da noite, parabéns.



Renée Zellweger. Euh… não há palavras.



Ó Michelle Williams, nem a tua carinha laroca te safa. O Valentino deve ter chorado quando viu a viúva de Heath Ledger nesta figura. Nem sei que diga. Malmequeres, a sério?



Halle Berry, já todos percebemos que tens um corpo fora deste mundo, para quarentona então, é de fazer inveja a modelos de 20 anos… Mas lá porque és gira escusas de andar em lingerie S&M à luz do dia. Há crianças a ver isto. Alguém dê um casaco à senhora, pelamor da Santa.



E…. drum roll… a vencedora sem paralelos nem concorrência é... a Helena Bohnam Carter! Deixo-vos com a imagem que vou só ali lavar os olhos com lixívia e já venho.

"Cinema Is The Most Beautiful Fraud In The World", Jean Luc Godard

Fui ver no Domingo o The Town que, sem ser espectacular, tem pormenores excelentes e sobretudo um killer cast, com o meu tão querido Jon Hamm, um Ben Affleck muito credível e likeable e uma interpretação brilhante do Jeremy Renner (do The Hurt Locker).

Mas o problema da minha ida ao cinema este fim-de-semana não teve nada a ver com o The Town.

Um conselho amigo: NÃO vão ver este filme às Amoreiras. E porquê? Primeiro, porque as salas são uma m*rda. Depois porque fazem intervalo não só a meio de uma cena, mas a meio de uma fala de um dos protagonistas! E sobretudo porque nos obrigam, ao engano e sem avisar!, a levar com uma curta metragem que, de tão má, mais parece uma longa, uma penosíssima e eterna longa, de seu nome Shoot Me. Apesar de secretamente desejar que o título fosse inspirado no estado espírito do espectador, cujo pensamento permanente durante a exibição desta curta é: "Alguém me mate, pelamordeus!", não é mais do que um trocadilho com fotografia e morte: tão espertos, estes realizadores tugas! A representação e o cenário são tão inverosímeis que arrepia. O guarda-roupa e maquilhagem da Maria João Bastos, que faz supostamente de tia chique, são de tal forma exagerados que a descredibilizam completamente. Há no meio uma série de clichés forçados (a tensão à mesa de jantar, a cena de sexo altamente previsível e a sensualidade in your face do quarto de revelação com luz vermelha, que já vimos mil vezes...). Pasma-me que um filme fraco ao ponto de ter de ser impingido à socapa antes de outro filme tenha ganho em Maio o prémio do público no festival de cinema independente de Milão.
Go figure.

The Town



Shoot Me

Obituário em Dose Dupla

Arthur Penn (1922-2010)


Tony Curtis (1925-2010)

Os cinéfilos sofreram esta semana duas grandes perdas, Arthur Penn e Tony Curtis.
Ambos são incontornáveis referências da era dourada de Hollywood, e cada um deles ligados a duas das mais importantes referências da 7ª Arte para mim: Bonnie and Clyde, que Penn realizou e Some Like It Hot, que Curtis protagonizou.
Já aqui partilhei convosco o meu fascínio por este filme. É impossível não ser levado pela história de amor e aventura que nos permite saciar o lado mais arrojado do nosso imaginário, quando desejamos ser, por uma vez que seja, um fora-da-lei a viver no limite, desafiar as autoridades e romper as regras... E, claro, a roupa da Faye Dunaway.


Mas foi com outro célebre fora-da-lei que o irmão de Irving Penn se estreou no cinema. The Left Handed Gun conta a história do Billy the Kid, interpretado por um absurdamente belo Paul Newman. Vi este filme há largos anos e hoje, com todo o sentido, fiquei cheia de vontade de o rever, assim como o fortíssimo The Miracle Worker.
Mas fiquei com mais vontade ainda de repescar um dos meus DVDs mais rodados, o Some Like It Hot, para mim das melhores comédias de sempre (“Well, nobody’s perfect!”) com a irrepreensível e intemporalmente hilariante dupla Curtis/Lemon e uma Marilyn Monroe no seu type cast de sempre: burra mas deslumbrante.