Any time I see Brad Pitt these days, I find myself asking the same question: “What happened?!”
Once ensnared in domestic bliss, it’s typically the woman who lets herself go. In the Brangelina situation, however, the roles have reverse. Angelina’s sex appeal has ripen with age, thanks, in part to a closet full of slit dresses and puffy red lips; whereas, Brad’s wholesome All-American good looks seem to have faded. The smooth talking cowboy with the twinkle in his eyes from Thelma and Louise has been replaced with this stringy, long hair dude who seven years out is still whining about his marriage to America’s sweetheart Jennifer Aniston. (“I was this guy who used to sit around all day smoking pot.”) He’s one haircut away from announcing he’s wearing a vile of his lover’s blood around his neck.
I don’t care how many kids you adopt from third world countries. He needs to toss out the Fast Times at Ridgemont High surfer dude look and return to his People’s Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” roots. Last thing American cinema needs right now is another Marlon Brando fiasco.
Lipstick and Playdates 