When did Julia Roberts get so damn boring?
Think back to Mystic Pizza, tallest of the trio of girls (although paling to the shiny spark plug that is Lili Taylor), colt like legs and brow in need of some shaping, teetering on unibrow. But you couldn't keep your eyes off her.
Of course Pretty Woman, the handguide to hand jobs and porn star career starter for misguided girls. She had the smile, big teeth nestled in bigger gums and a throw her head back belly laugh. And the hair, amber waves of wave.
Loved Sleeping with the Enemy, mostly because I’d always dreamt (still do) of a cute bungalow with a claw footed tub like the one her character moved into once she fled an abusive husband. That and the dancing to Van Morrison with the romantic, poetic drama teacher from the college. Pure chick gold, except for the slapping around part.
I first lost faith in Closer where she was woefully miscast in a sexually charged, shouty role next to the petite, scared looking Jude Law. The breathtaking Natalie Portman went and stole that show, her on screen interactions with yummy Clive Owen the stuff of Oscar® nominations and Queen Amidala wet dreams.
In real life Julia got married, got divorced, got married, got pregnant twice and went green. Made a compost heap on Oprah. Scolded the paparazzi. Stopped brushing her hair. Last night I caught a repeat appearance on Letterman. She’s become the sour in puss, the clam in Clamato, an AC-TRESS in the overly theatrical and thespian fashion. Annoyingly unlikable yet smothered in star quality sauce, she's caught the Sarah Jessica Parker “I’m-a-New-York-product-of-the-theater” way about her in interviews now.
Dammit, I miss Daisy and Vivienne. Erin Brockovich, her crispy fried hair and tits.
And don’t get me quoting Steel Magnolias.
But hell, if you don't have anything nice to say about anybody, come sit by me.