Monica Bellucci and the goddesses of yesterday
Marilyn whispered that diamonds are a girl's best friend, Charlotte Rampling's sad eyes froze the air, and Ava Gardner walked with a bullfighter. I thank Mónica Bellucci for giving me back the memory of her.
I was overjoyed when I recently saw the appearance of Italian actress Monica Bellucci in the latest 007 movie 'Specter'. The reasons were many, and among them, of course, ahead of everything is her talent. But I would like to highlight two others: the first, to focus on the beauty of mature women; the second, to give me back the memory of those stars of yesterday, -or of the day before yesterday, rather- that cared much less about size than about the depth of her gaze.
Some critics singled out as a startling novelty, a nod to the past, casting a 51-year-old woman in the role of Bond girl in the film's cast. For me there is no wink, but the recognition of an evidence: it is not necessary to look at her ID or the size of her dress to verify that a woman is attractive. It is clear that feminine beauty does not need my approval, or that of any man, but from my humble perspective, the beauty of Bellucci is much more than the sum of beautiful features, strong forms and innate elegance. Because all this is seasoned with the salt and pepper of age; the oil and vinegar of her victories and her defeats; the successes and errors that, by force, she has had to transmit to him half a century of life.
But, in addition, the adorable Italian actress reminded me of the divas of yesteryear, those women who break and tear who gave much less importance to the kilos than to the smile. Long before Miley Cyrus tried to pervert us from a stage with gestures more lewd than exciting, Marylin Monroe was already whispering to us in an equivocally angelic voice that diamonds are a girl's best friends.
There's nothing wrong with Angelina Jolie's smile or Jennifer Aniston's blue eyes, but when Sophia Loren spun around and pierced you with her Neapolitan gaze, the world shook beneath your feet. And it wasn't a matter of weight or height, no; because when you saw Charlotte Rampling's sad smile, the air froze and the heart of the most complete person trembled.
Then there was the most beautiful animal in the world, Ava Gardner, who left the staff astonished and Sinatra with two nostrils at the Flamingo, while she toured the Madrid night holding the arm of a bullfighter. Who can blame Dominguín for running away, later, to tell about it.
These are the times of perfect angels with white wings, of supermodels that feed on glasses of water, of harmonic measurements, of sylphs who faint in front of a good steak. That's why I miss Veronica Lake's hair even more, almost covering her right eye or Rita Hayworth waving a glove around her head as an ivory leg peeks out from her black satin dress.
I know that I am an ancient, that all these women had already gone out of fashion -when not to a better life- in my own youth, but those were the goddesses that a few generations fell in love with. And they weren't hollow-headed blondes, or languid, shadowless nymphs. So when I saw the scene in which Bellucci concludes her appearance in the film, the one in which the Italian actress whispers to Daniel Craig: "Don't go, James…", my blood turned to watery horchata. Mine and everyone in the room.
