Mean Girl to the Rescue!

How'm I gonna save the world when the world ain't ready?

Friday, July 20, 2007

Dear Clive Owen:

I like you. Really, I do. You're pretty much the only actor I have any remote interest in, especially since Ralph Fiennes has revealed himself to be some sort of sex addict. You were so great in those BMW films on TV and the internets. I loved you in Croupier, as the assassin in The Bourne Identity, the filthy bank robber in Inside Man and the guy in that movie where you live out in the woods but return to your former criminal ways to avenge your brother, played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, after he gets ass-raped and kills himself. I forgive you for making that stupid Jennifer Aniston movie (she is so not hot enough for you), and that Julia Roberts movie I didn't see (ditto) and I'll even overlook your blinding white teeth in The Children of Men (are those veneers, or did you just get them whitened? So needless - you were hardly a candidate for The Big Book of British Smiles).
But what I cannot forgive, sir, is you shilling for Lancome.

Do you need the cash? Really? Because IMDb lists a lot of new projects on your resume. And -- don't take this the wrong way -- but you're hardly men's cologne ad material, are you? When I think men's cologne, I think of those Davidoff Cool Water guys (although I see that Sawyer from Lost is one of those guys now, and that's a whole other story of inappropriate hawking). Or maybe an Acqua di Gio guy, since I can't find any ads that don't have Sawyer in them. Anyhoo, my point is, you're not pretty enough to be a cologne guy - you're rugged. You're supposed to smell like pine trees (preferably from cleaning my kitchen floor), or woodsmoke or something. Maybe of gun powder, or hot steel from sharpening knives. If you smell like anything that isn't those things, it should be your deodorant, or perhaps the Irish Spring you used in the shower. But a guy who spent a week in a bank vault isn't a guy who cares about cologne.

And, yes, I realize that Clive Owen isn't actually that guy. But still.

In closing, Clive Owen, you are no longer my movie boyfriend. You are on notice, and within a hair's-breadth of being dead to me. We won't even discuss the fact that Lancome is not cruelty-free.


Mrs. Harridan