Right now the one celebrity I most dread leaving her house is Angelina Jolie. Because I know she’s too famous to ignore, and people will be curious about what she’s wearing, but nine times out of ten lately I have nothing to say about her clothes.
I mean, this happened. It’s black. It’s fine. It’s there. It exists. It is made of atoms. Jessica Simpson would wear it, if the skirt were short. The necklace is great, the hair is limp. She’s just so exhausting for a blogger. What new angle is there on her? Most of the time it’s like she’s not even trying, and worse, she’s aggressively not trying. And we complain constantly about the celebs for whom the effort sits on their brow like a visible film of sweat, an unseemly exertion, but Angie is the opposite: She absolutely wants you to know that she doesn’t really care, because she is Angelina Jolie, and she figures you will love her or obsess over her or chase her down the red carpet (sorry, Seacrest, but you will never live that down) no matter what, so screw it, let’s just throw on some billowy this and some plain-old that and maybe run a comb through the ol’ hair, assuming that scamp Pax has not jammed it into an air vent somewhere.
And she’s probably right, we do all still care, and she knows it, and the more we care the less she wants us to think she cares. Because she’s that girl in high school who thinks visible caring is uncool, and ends up wasting herself on a C-minus average just because she believes doing homework and actually studying to earn good grades looks so needy. I actually suspect she keeps things boring when she’s there in service of Brad, rather than out on her own (see: the Salt and The Tourist outfits), and I suppose that’s an act of benevolence on the surface, but to me it’s dysfunctional. Like, “Oh, honey, no one will notice you if I go all-out, so I’ll just play it quiet.” Girl. We notice. You know it.
I also enjoy how she seems to try and create this rapport with the camera that says, “That Bradley, he is just incorrigible, with his hockey player haircut. You see it. I see it. We are as one.” But the worst part THERE is that he is not creating interest here EITHER because it’s not even as bad as he’s ever looked. I actually saw this and went, “Oh, now nice, Brad is handsome again.” This is what has become of him: such greasy lows that we look at this coif and think, “What a wonderful improvement.”
See? I mean, here, I’m not even sure he showered. And there is Angie. It’s red. It’s fine. It’s there. It exists. It is made of atoms. Jessica Simpson probably would not wear it, true, and the hair is better. And at least it’s shapely, sort of. She is wearing her standard expression of smug serenity and benign disinterest, and all I can think to talk about is whether Brad’s pants fit. Zzzz. If Moneyball gets nominated, I hope for something braver than caftans and blouses and spaghetti straps. It’s the least she could do. The real act of kindness here, anyway, is to draw attention away from whatever Brad will be doing to his head at that time. So DO IT, Angie. Wake us up.