Is it me, or does Robert Downey Jr. even BREATHE sexy? I love how he wears his fame so indifferently, like it’s just one of the many suits in his closet. As famous as he is, he still reminds me of a freshman theater major, wide-eyed with giddy disbelief, “Can you believe we get CREDIT for this?!” (Holla to my fellow NU drama mamas, like the DIVINE Ms. M.)
I saw RDJ in person once in the backseat of a car, at the corner of Wilshire/Sepulveda in Westwood. (I was glad to see he had a driver. Just say no to DUIs, right Lohan?) He rolled down the window, handed a homeless dude a fat wad of cash, nodded and drove off. Generous. Anonymous. GORGEOUS.
But let’s talk Sherlock Holmes. I liked it! Pal Adra and I had a whale of a time. It’s Sherlock Holmes, re-imagined as a Ninja, and aptly directed by a master of British movies wherein people beat each other to a bloody pulp, Guy Ritchie. I thought the NYT reviewer was right to say it feels like an extended teaser for the sequel. But those 134 minutes FLEW by and I was glued to my seat, in spite of a serious need to pee for the last 40 minutes or so. (TMI? Too druckin bad.)
Even Jude Law was utterly charming, in spite of recent appearances to the contrary. And now, thanks to Holmes, I feel compelled to be more observant. (Though you claim to be single, the blonde hair on your jacket tells me you either have a girlfriend or a golden retriever. But golden retrievers rarely wear Chanel #5… Case closed.)