One More Pajiba 10 Consideration Post Before the Polls Close (Odes to Rooney)
Obviously, voting on this year’s Pajiba 10 has already commenced and chances are a great deal of you have already participated in that very democratic process. I applaud your enthusiasm as one of your ranks, but, just in case anyone out there can be tempted to change their mind or hasn’t yet voted, I wanted to throw my considerable physical weight around a likely underdog candidate. After all, you have until Monday to finalize your ballot. Bear with me, I’m about to get hella lame.
Rooney Mara is a classical beauty and an old fashioned Hollywood starlet, who really gets into her actressin’. So much so that she was nominated for an Academy Award for her utter metamorphosis from angelic ingenue to demonic ass-kicker in the Americanized The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. But even under all those piercings and the shaved eyebrows, she was still magnetic, still gorgeous. With a career not even a decade old, Mara has accumulated a cache of enviable roles — from Mark Zuckerberg’s muse in The Social Network to the epitome of depression in Side Effects and to Michael Cera’s and Tom Everett Scott’s downfalls in Youth in Revolt and Tanner Hall, respectively — and she’s excelled at all of them. Is it any wonder she was cast in roles where she is deeply coveted? She is covetable.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.