Natalie Portman Seems Grounded

Things I learned from the Hollywood Reporter’s gushing interview with Natalie Portman: she’s insufferable. Bruce Jenner inquiring if he could have the clit off the woman he killed in the Lexus came off as more humble.

Portman has a ton of views on a ton of things all of which seem to be based on her desire to seem pretentious. She hates the right wing prime minister in Israel. She’s not super comfortable with the anti-Semitism in France but likens it to the way blacks are mistreated in America, so, zing. She missed the whole Charlie Hebdo assassinations because she was in Kenya touring the first school for girls built by Christian Dior. She can’t remember where she left her Oscar but disavows it as a false idol. She has no television, preferring books. Her ballet dancer husband is her greatest inspiration because he can still get it up for her if she uses her deep voice and tickles his prostate. Her son asks to go to the art museums after school rather than playing ball or video games because he’s even gayer than dad. French is a beautiful language she can’t read or speak so she insists on English at her Parisian dinner parties where everybody talks politics and the genome theory.

I feel like this country [United States] has a lot of religion and a lot of freedom around that; and there [France], the religion is almost like love. Love and intellectualism is their sort of way.”

I don’t know what that means, but I know I want to slap the organic pear shaving out of her hand. Portman spent the rest of the time discussing the movie she’s directing in ancient Hebrew or Aramaic or something that won’t ultimately matter since nobody outside of the Palm D’Or committee at Cannes will ever watch it. Fuck, I want to wash my soul out of with pumice. The only reason to move to Paris is because you’re fleeing rape charges or you really fucking love unpasteurized dairy products. Either way, we’re never sharing bunk beds. I think I used to like Natalie Portman. Now I just want to beat her with Gwyneth Paltrow’s colonic bag. Visit the no-go zones in Paris with a challah of understanding and report back. Your husband will dance a requiem in your honor.

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