There are moments when I feel like Antonio Salieri in Amadeus. I sit on the couch, feeling confident, strong, attractive, talented. Then I skim the television channels and find Channing Tatum, modestly acknowledging his newly-appointed title as “the sexiest man alive.” Sonofabitch! If the title were given last year, I would feel utter contempt for such a hack. But the man made me laugh and smile this year. He also happens to make the ladies quiver with one shift of an ab muscle or an upper lip.
I think back to Mel Brooks, who once said that we don’t go to the movies to see reality. We go to see beautiful people do extraordinary things. This is true for both genders–more so probably for us men, who still cannot stomach a romantic lead under the age of 32 or above the size of 3. It’s been the trend since “moving pictures” came into existance (there was lurid, nudie pictures before the 20th century).
There is the female equivalency to Baywatch in the shape of sulking, sparkly vampires and shirtless werewolves that transform without the dependency of moonlight. (These films would not be as popular if Jacob had a beer gut and ten extra years.)
Yet, I grow less eager to besmirch the talents of any of these cats, even if I has yet to witness a single interesting performance to come out of Robert Patinson’s vomitous expressions. Patinson earns some level of respect by chasing the indie circuit–even partnering with directing legends like David Cronenberg and Verner Herzog. Do these auteurs see a hidden greatness–or a simple box office potential?
In 1997, the girls went apeshit crazy gaga for Leo, Matt and Ben. There were arguments, somewhat legitimate ones, that each was a one-note wonder, whose talents were inequitable to their cheekbone placement. Then Leo made The Aviator, Matt made The Bournes and Ben stopped trying in front of the camera and impressed from behind it.
This year Channing Tatum has joined the ranks of hunks and became, in some ways, a full-fledged thespian. He’s no Brando or Newman, but there’s more to him than just looks. It’s easy to hate those born with such luck: looks graced by God and talent to match it. Trifle jealously would make me hate Channing Tatum, the damn hunk who can make me laugh in 21 Jump Street and smile in Magic Mike, while making the female side smile even brighter to the point where drool trickling.
It speaks volumes that the pretty boys sometimes receive a heavy backlash. I’ve been wrong before, more times than I care to share. Ten years ago, if someone told me that James Franco–the stiff dude from Spiderman–would become a headliner, even an Oscar nominee, I would laugh in their face. (If they mentioned he would be the worst Oscar host ever, I would believe it.)
There’s obviously a huge number of hot actors and actresses who already dreamed of delving into acting. Most of the folks either never achieve the dream or get a shot and fail faster than Heidi Klum (a failed actress) could declare them “out”.
In part 2, I highlight the pretty boys that went legit, took risks, and capitalized on the heartthrob status to make the Hollywood multiplexes a better place.
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