Duplicity

Why won't Julia Roberts show us her tits?

Is there some deformity there? A third nipple? An areola now discolored and worn from breastfeeding those monstrous twins?

I wouldn't be so petty and licentious about the slight if not for her condescending defense of overly clothed thespianism. It's one thing if you're ashamed of your body, but quite another to cast aspersions on the artistic motivations of others by suggesting drama becomes "documentary" when an actress chooses to shed her garments. As a matter of fact, the best performances are the very ones that blur the line between fiction and documentary. And the rawness of being "in the raw" assists in getting a little closer to that "truth" that all good actors seek - being "naked", "exposed",  and unafraid to express.  

I'd go easier on poor Julia if she hadn't been proudly and prominently putting her gals on high volume cleavage display ever since Erin Brockovich. She didn't even show them in a film called Full Frontal for chrissakes! I mean, really, what a fucking tease.

For those of us old enough and fortunate enough to have lived back in the 1970s (the golden era of American cinema and the last remnants of a free American society), the obligation of an "A-lister" to expose her breasts on screen was a right of passage, a badge of honor, a (a)moral imperative, if you will, for any serious actress who claimed leading lady status. Jane Fonda, Julie Christie, Jill Clayburgh, Vanessa Redgrave, Faye Dunaway, Susan Sarandon, Catherine Deneuve, hell, the list of who didn't appear in the buff would be easier to compile.  

It was almost mandatory. Zounds, Julie Andrews did it in 1981!

The rest of the '80s was not quite as loose and fancy free however. A new prudishness was sweeping the nation. Nothing was fun anymore unless you were a tyrant, a Jesus freak or simply lived to bleed money from the less fortunate. It was the era of Reagan, Meese, Falwell, Tipper Gore, AIDS, John Hughes and the great resounding death knell of hell-bent freedoms and wild abandon. We became a nation of jailers, greed-monsters and morality police.

Which is why we regretfully never got to see Winona Ryder's rack. Her "acting"? Oh, we got plenty of that. But her "talents" remain mostly hidden to this day. Both of them.

Here in 2009, Hollywood has gotten so lame they barely make "R" rated movies anymore. When shit like cigarette smoking, dick jokes and bong hits give you an immediate PG-13, you tend to go light on the tits and trim to preserve the core 10-17 year-old demographic.

The crime in all this is, as a responsible adult, I will more than likely never glimpse the funbags of Amy Adams, Scarlett Johansson or Jennifer Love-Hewitt despite them wielding sexuality and coquettishness like a cat-o-nine-tails across my ass and a pair of stiletto heels on my testicles.

Talk about duplicity!

And how convenient that we are! Because that's the title of the latest tit-less atrocity from the always puzzlingly overdressed Julia Roberts.

I no longer care for films like Duplicity. Their forced cleverness always mocks me and plays too many childish games with my conventions and sensibilities. Not everything has to be a goddamn red herring! Then there is the absolute rage I feel when I figure out the oh-so-twisty plot about halfway through and am unable to reach out and bitch slap the screenwriter and director for being too goddamn cute with their unsophisticated ruse.

Don't get me wrong. I loved The Sting. The Game was very enjoyable. House of Games is pure Mametian genius. Michael Clayton was one of the better films I've seen in years. There's just something so phony, cold and uninteresting in the cat-and-mouse and cloak-and-dagger of corporate capers like Duplicity. The drama and tragedy are lost because you can't muster any feelings for the bloodless individuals playing the con. They're coy and calculating, yes, but joyless and emotionally inert. The set-ups and scams are filled with vague vocational exposition and high tech mcguffins. It all rings very hollow. Much like the pursuits of the culture it captures. But that's unfortunately not the film's point. It wants to be sassy, sexy and clever. And it's a load of slick crap. Tom Wilkinson and Paul Giamatti are sadly along for this hodgepodge of split-screen quadrants, chronological monkeyshines and an embarrassing, slow-motion sissy fight to open the film.      

It was also a grave bit of miscasting to place Clive Owen opposite Julia. Ol' Clive is many things - talented, suave, droolingly handsome- but human or relatable? No way.

And the same goes for Roberts' femininity. She plays the icy unreal to a fault. She had the same exact role in Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (a much better film by the way) - always relying on aloofness instead of warmth. She could use a dose of the earthiness she claimed in Brockovich again, instead of being the earth visitor from Planet Julia.

And at the risk of sounding like a sleazy porn producer in a polyester suit, she could show her tits now and again if she really wanted to be put in the pantheon of serious actresses. Just look how human Nicole Kidman seems at times.

 

Comments

[Cindylover1969]

"as a responsible adult, I will more than likely never glimpse the funbags of Amy Adams, Scarlett Johansson or Jennifer Love-Hewitt despite them wielding sexuality and coquettishness like a cat-o-nine-tails across my ass and a pair of stiletto heels on my testicles."

http://www.egotastic.com/entertainment/celebrities/amy-adams/amy-adams-topless-video-004728

[C. Adolph Moores]

Awwwww. Thank you Cindylover1969. That was rather thoughtful.