Up until recently, Anne Hathaway was the sort of actress that I assumed inspired nothing but lukewarm reactions, if not outright indifference. In fact, in connection with her career, I always drew images of an elderly couple sitting at home on a Sunday evening, the husband channel-surfing, and pausing to ask his wife, “Who’s that?” The wife will raise her eyes above her reading glasses, briefly scrutinize the television screen, and then say, “Oh that’s that Hatha-something girl.” And then she’ll lower her eyes back to her newspaper to continue reading about the rising price of corn.
But somewhere along the way, I grew to admit that I really like her.
Is it her pale creamy skin that has me enchanted? Perhaps. Although she would be the first translucently hued person who did not have me itching to chase after them with bottled U-V rays and a half-off coupon from Sunset Tan.
Or perhaps it is the effect of those dark doe-eyes and full red lips set against the milky-white of her skin?
Or perhaps her stubborn brunette-ness amid a sea of crispy burnt bottle-blonds?
Perhaps it is her ability to hold her own against the best and brightest of
Or that she was actually believable as an ass-kicking secret agent opposite Steve Carrell in Get Smart? This is of course when juxtaposed against other leading female ass-kickers- i.e., the torturous Charlie’s Angels movies where two of movie land’s most overrated actresses and Lucy Liu giggled their way through fight scenes where if you stared really hard, you could see the ropes and strings lifting them through each scene.
Or perhaps it was that I enjoyed her movies, with only the mildest stirrings of jealousy, where her lips got to kiss lips that the curse of fate has determined that I shall never get to kiss? By this I give you Adrian Grenier in The Devil Wears Prada (before his “look” went from “grunge sexy” to just “homeless and miles from the Y”). Or the ultimate, kissing my obsession (and Oogie’s too)- James McAvoy, in Becoming Jane. I actually cheered for her (instead of plotting her death) and hoped the Becoming Jane lovers would make it. Because who but Jane Austen herself deserved McAvoy?
I guess I do not know why I love Hathaway. Oogie definitely is stumped. But alas, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do.