Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Rupert Everett, Sharon Stone, The Onion?

Surely this Rupert Everett essay on "My Life with Sharon" has to parody. Don't you think?
She ignored me. "The first time was on the film Casino." Now she was speaking so softly that I could hardly hear and had to crane forward.

Always speak as quietly as possible. It draws the listener in and makes you look riveting as well as beautiful to the onlooking fans.

Because, make no mistake: Sharon's career was a 24/7 affair. She didn't have to be on a sound stage to be filming. The world was her camera and her alarm clock was the clapperboard.

It was legendary stuff and I adored it. "Marty left the mad scene for last," she continued. "You remember, when my character has that total meltdown?" "How could I forget? It was brilliant," I replied, thinking back to Martin Scorsese's mobster film.

"Well, she came inside me while I was in the trailer before the scene." I giggled awkwardly. Sharon gave me a withering glare. "I was, like, completely possessed. She was right there. I was her. Bobby could tell straightaway. He said to Marty, "How much film do you have?" And Marty said, "We got a full mag!"

"So just keep rolling," Bobby told him. "Trust me." He knew. Bobby knew. "And when Marty said "Action", I blacked out. I have no recollection. She took over. At the end of the scene I was on the ground. I couldn't move and Marty said: "Don't touch her. Leave her for a few minutes." . . .

"There was a pinkish mist over me" Sharon continued. "Everyone saw it. And it's happened again on this film. This could be the last time we speak, you and I."

And all of that is without Everett's suggestion that the sex he had with Stone on camera was not, shall we say, simulated.

But that's not what suggests the parody. It's this too perfect exchange:
"You know what I say when I'm f*** ing a guy?" said Sharon.

"I say, stop. Look at me." I looked at her. "Now. Talk to me." "Talk to you?" I asked, incredulous. "Communicate," she said. "What? While we're - ". "And now… go in and out real slow." "Oh my God, now I know why I'm gay." . . .

"I can turn a gay man straight in five minutes!" "Two bells!" shouted an assistant. Our lips were nearly touching. Our groins locked.

"How long does it take you to turn a straight man gay?" I whispered. . . .

"About ten seconds in some cases," murmured Sharon.

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