Penelope Cruz is a beautiful woman and a fine, award winning actress. ‘Broken Embraces’ directed by Pedro Almodovar which I watched on DVD last night is an engaging movie.
My dilemma is that my lasting memory of the film is certain to be that Penelope’s breasts are as lovely now as they were in her movie debut ‘Jamon, Jamon’ nearly 20 years ago.
How unworthy is this observation? Does it qualify me as a dirty old man? Probably so, at least on this side of the Channel. It must be an Anglo-Saxon trait born of decades of feminism and political correctness to worry about such a harmless thought-crime – if that it were?
Four hundred years ago metaphysical poet Andrew Marvell would have been happy offering Penelope the same deal as his coy mistress in spending 200 years to adore each breast if he “had but World enough and Time.”
And Old Testament Solomon in Song of Songs would have crooned, “Your two breasts are like fawns; twins of a gazelle, that feed among the lilies.”
On second thoughts the day I become immune to such delights, I’ll consider taking a one-way ticket to Zurich and book in at Dignitas.