I watched Confessions of Shopaholic yesterday. I wasn't feeling intense enough to watch Gulaal and certainly not breezy or bored enough to watch Pink Panther 2. The movie turned out to be strides better than I'd expected. It had several funny parts, and I do love the formulaic improbability of chick flicks. Isla Fisher as Rebecca Bloomwood is alright, no great shakes. This role had Reese Witherspoon's name all over it. The clothes were very New York leathery-skinner socialite offspring variety, think Nicole Richie circa her Simple Life days.
The winner for me was the beautiful, almost-delicate, lovely Hugh Dancy as Luke Brandon, Rebeccca's editor and love interest. He is...ok, I need to stop or I'm going to have a verbal orgasm. Look for yourself.
So naturally, I come home and Google his hotness expecting his real life interest to be very Emmanuelle Chriqui-ish. And what do I find? He's engaged to the asexual, dry-bread blandness that is Claire Fucking Danes. You know how sometimes you look at a person and get annoyed. Claire is that person for me. I don't understand the purpose of her in Hollywood. She's so damn annoying to look at. She reminds me and could easily fit the part of those annoyingly masculine, flat chested gym instructors who think having curves is a sin and who will chirpy-talk you into murdering yourself on the treadmill and finding your inner wind with some unpronouncable yoga pose. And she's got a certain Gwyneth Paltrow 'I'm above looking pretty, let me embrace the coarsest, harshest looking side of myself' thing going. As I type this post, he's beginning to look less attractive to me, just because he finds Claire Danes attractive. He's not my type,. That's right, HE is not MY type. I spurn you Hugh Dancy, spurn!
Working that gym instructor look.