Tag Archives: blond

Tilda Swinton

31 May
Tilda Swinton by Craig McDean

Tilda Swinton by Craig McDean (I know, I thought it was Bowie, too)


Okay, now I’ve got that one out of the way, we need to talk about Tilda Swinton. In the wake of Cannes’ preview screenings of We Need To Talk About Kevin, people have been fawning all over her, and there’s no wonder why.

The film is going to be sooooo great. Based on Lionel Shriver’s 2003 bestseller of the same name, the epistolary novel is an itchingly unsettling stare-out with the hideous paranoias (and realities) of parenting and being a child. Just as the great Celine Dion says, the book is for all the children in the world and all the parents in the world. That is: fucking everybody. In theory. Funnily enough, the author, Lionel Shriver, doesn’t have any children. It’s easy to see why, though, if her expectations of childrearing are signalled in the book. I’m not sure Tilda is the best person for this role: she seems too stoic, too distant. However, without giving the game away, it’s going to be easier for audience to feel safe from Kevin if his evil is not solely manifested by his nature, but attributable to his nurture/his mother. And I have a sneaking suspicion that Tilda’s not as harsh as she comes across on mainstream celluloid.

If you haven’t already art-wanked over all the Derek Jarman collaborations, you’ll recognise Tilda’s androgynous, razor-featured visage from small, yet integral parts in Hollywood fare such as The Curious Case of Benjamin and The Beach. Oh come on, you definitely know her. She’s snogged both Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio. AND she’s probably the most boyish person George Clooney will admit to snogging – as can be seen in Burn After Reading – and also won an Oscar for another performance alongside the coffee-flogging eternal bachelor, in the fantastic thriller Michael Clayton.

Her sex life is seen as controversial, because she has children with an older man and sex with a younger man and they all live happily in the same wind-whipped mansion up a hill in Scotland. But TBH, it just makes her sexier: that a woman with no obvious interpretation of femininity (just look at the hair) can fuck who she likes, is so refreshing. Even if she’s not sleeping with women, she remains a role model to any woman who is a bit of a misfit, but (unlike Gaga, who wants to paint us all as freaks and monsters), doesn’t self-identify as one.

Her hair sums it all up. Ginger or icy blonde, it’s always a perfect combination of mess and precision.

Boris Johnson

3 Apr
Boris Johnson

Boris Johnson

This week, Boris Johnson was on BBC Question Time to talk about how the world is going to shit. Each week on QT, there’s someone sitting in the ‘cunt chair’. The chair moves, but essentially, there’s always a cunt on the show. Be it Danny Alexander, Nick Griffin or Kelvin MacKenzie. This week, it seemed as if Boris was in the cunt chair (he was the only Conservative who didn’t look like a mouse there).

But, as much as his party’s policies are as comfortable as a lemon-juice enema, his rhetoric is astounding. He’s quick witted without trying and can dig himself out of the stickiest situations. I saw him at People’s Question Time in Camden last year and he was hilarious. The fair Mayor of London didn’t know his microphone was on throughout the meeting, so the whole hall was treated to his blustering insults, (mostly aimed at RMT union members) ‘poppycock’ ‘tosh’ ‘oh grow up’. His hair had just been cut, especially for the event – another GLA member actually mentioned this – and he kept on burying his bonce in his hands. If any other politician was seen with their head in their hands, it would be front-page news, indicative of some sort of breakdown. But when Bozza does it, it’s just him being his idiosyncratic self.

This messy style would look great lesbians’ heads. We’ve seen an intense specificity in hairstyles over the past 7 years – Emos, you have a lot to answer for. But really, what’s sexier, the person who spends hours carefully straightening, gelling, bouffing, back-combing their hair, or the person with shaggy, imperfect bed-head? The hair makes a scarily powerful buffoon look approachable. It could work for you, too.

Keira Knightley and Elisabeth Moss

31 Mar
Keira Knightley and Elisabeth Moss

Keira Knightley and Elisabeth Moss

The Children’s Hour, written in 1934 by Lillian Hellman and now showing at London’s Comedy Theatre, is a flawed play. It’s difficult to believe that a child could bring about the demise of a whole school and three adults’ lives simply through a bit of gossipmongering. But once you get past that, Ian Rickson’s production is mostly made of brilliance. The set, an imposing gothic structure, turns to shit as the characters’ lives do likewise. Living legend Ellen Burstyn, who’s been onstage for half a century, doesn’t seem weathered, but seasoned and perfected through experience. Her voice, though crackly and heartbreaking (who can forget her turn in Requiem for a Dream?), carried so well it felt like she was crumbling beside me. Elisabeth Moss, usually mousey and timid as Don Draper’s secretary, Peggy Olsen in Mad Men, was unnessecarily shouty during the first act, but perhaps this would be different when not viewed from the second row. The seating wasn’t all bad, though. Not only could I see the spit from the actresses’ mouths, but the tears rolling down their faces.

Bryony Hannah who played the catalyst of the tears, made the role of an annoying taddle tale excruciatingly annoying, and the bloke who played the frustrated fiance was bearable. Keira Knightley, though possessing an accent with an almagated provenance of Boston, Bangor and Louisiana, was faultless, non-verbally. By clutching a cardigan and cowering, she manages to evoke a plethora of emotions; fear, fright, apprehension, relief. And she’s so bloody gorgeous that Elisabeth Moss wouldn’t even need to stare at her for the audience to believe there’s some lust going on there.

And kudos to Keira for putting herself out there. Many other actresses of her supposed milieu could never manage or dare to tread the boards (I mean you, Jessica Alba) and you can tell that this is where she feels most in control of her own performance.

If you haven’t caught The Children’s Hour, then don’t worry. The 1962 film, which featured Audrey Hepburn in Keira’s role, Shirley MacLaine in Elisabeth’s role and James Garner as the bloke. It’s fantastic – the only thing you’ll be missing out on Ellen Burstyn’s incredible performance.

Ahem. Now to the important part. The hair. Keira’s attracted lesbian glances since the Domino-era crop, and although her current hair (for the role)  is dowdy, it is very lesbiany. A bluntly-cut bob is that perfect “I’m so pretty/lesbiany that I genuinely don’t give a fuck” and the hairclip shows restraint, a desire to stick within conventional societal boundaries (of sexuality? maybe). Elisabeth Moss’s hair isn’t so much lesbiany as resentful-lesbiany. It’s screaming “I AM NOT A LESBIAN, LOOK, I CURL MY HAIR”