Sheryl Nields' pix for Esquire make a good case for Charlize Theron being the sexiest woman (yes, alive). Here is an excerpt of Theron's interview with herself:
A man's voice plays over the credits on an otherwise blank screen. This is the writer, speaking to himself
The Chateau Marmont is the kiss of death in a celebrity profile. I see the words Chateau Marmont, and I just stop reading.
ESTABLISHING SHOT of the CHATEAU MARMONT, chichi hotel on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood.
It's like opening a movie with a voice-over. Who listens?
EXT. HOTEL COURTYARD -- DAY
The sun falls evenly on empty tables set for lunch. The hotel bears the practiced look of a European castle, re-created where it should not be.
No, be positive. It's good. You have a table outside. You got here first. She will meet you at the table, and you will stand and look her directly in the eye. Don't look her up and down. There will be plenty of time to look at her. There will be pictures in the magazine. People only look at the pictures anyway.
CLOSE SHOT of the previous page of this magazine. A hand turns the page revealing photos of CHARLIZE THERON, Esquire's Sexiest Woman Alive, unveiled in full for the first time -- supine, in a black bra, on a bed somewhere.
Maybe I should buy her something. A token. I like to give gifts. That's really true. I should write a column on that. Gifting. Don't make verbs out of nouns. That would be a good rule. I could give her candy. Or cigarettes. She smokes.
EXT. INTERSECTION, L.A.
Men are at work. CHARLIZE THERON, 32, sits in traffic in her SUV. She bangs the steering wheel in frustration. She has dressed in a rush, clothes yanked on: tight halter, clingy top, shorts up to here. Gigantic sunglasses. She looks at the clock, then slides her hand -- longish, slender, adorned by a single tiny ring -- across the seat, pulling an iPhone from her purse, and dials her publicist.
I'm late. You need to call and let him know I'm on the way.
And find out how you pronounce that name.
EXT. HOTEL COURTYARD
CLOSE ON CHARLIZE's face. She looks into the camera and pulls off her sunglasses.
She stands, waiflike and hard-edged all at once, in front of the WRITER, who sits at a table between two hedgerows. A pack of Marlboro Lights sits in the clean ashtray, unopened.
No. Not bad. Just late. Everyone is late.
You weren't. You were probably early.
I've been late before. I promise.