For the four or so people who may not have heard--Jude Law is in the international celebrity doghouse over a dalliance with his children's nanny. Some of the chat boards the Siren frequents are full of women ready to tar and feather him. You never saw such a hoo-ha in your life. "I used to think he was cute but CHEATERS AREN'T CUTE." "I HATE him now." "Stinking sack of [bleep]." "He's scum." Etc. Etc.
Out of step with the times as a matter of habit and self-protection, the Siren is having an especially hard time understanding the fuss. My moral code most emphatically does not include approval of a bit on the side. But this bit is a consenting adult, not a stepdaughter, not a 13-year-old stoned on champagne and Quaaludes. This isn't even Divine Brown.
The torrent of ire has me flummoxed. Isn't this what hotshot sex symbols DO? Isn't that why you aspire to become a hotshot sex symbol in the first place? I try to picture the late Oliver Reed performing, as Jude has, an extended public belly-crawl over a peccadillo and the synapses immediately short-circuit.
And the Siren is also puzzled about the hate spewed at the nanny. Ladies, here is living proof that you don't have to look like Sienna Miller to snag a dalliance with the likes of Jude Law. (And Ms. Miller's interviews don't suggest her erstwhile fiance was with her for the long evenings of stimulating conversation.) In terms of fantasy, shouldn't that be encouraging?
As for whether the nanny should have resisted any impulse in Mr. Law's direction; yeah, right. Look, I saw the man do a full-frontal nude scene on Broadway in Les Parents Terribles (eighth row, on the side but sightlines just fine, thank you) and suffice it to say I predicted his stardom the instant he jumped up out of the bathtub. I am a happily married Siren but if I were in my twenties, single and working at the Law household I am not sure I would hold out for the Gold Medal in Self-Restraint.
What makes an object of desire is on the movie screen and not in the New York Post. Why should it matter if Montgomery Clift preferred men? He's dead, first of all, and second of all even had we been contemporaries and he been straight it isn't as though an ordinary woman was likely to sweep him off his feet. But when I watch Red River, Monty's all mine. Libby Holman, motor accident, who cares?
Jude Law isn't mine, so I don't mind if he can't walk the line. When the camera discovers him on the beach in The Talented Mr. Ripley, that corpse of a movie wakes at last. He can get back together with Sienna, Sadie, marry the gardener, whoever, who cares.
Whether or not this remake he's filming will be a patch on the original All the King's Men--now there the Siren can summon a little passion.