Open (And Unwilling) Love Letter #7: Hugh Grant

Dear Hugh Grant,

I have tried not to love you.

It really is so uncool to like floppy-haired you. The bumbling you of Four Weddings and a Funeral and Mikey Blue Eyes. The whole first half of your career is one big sloppy kiss to 13-year-old Anglophile girls. So, when I grew up a little, I resolved to disdain you and your Notting Hill, romancing Julia Roberts while she plays herself (which she seems to really like doing) persona. I mean, sure, you'd done Sense and Sensibility, but everyone knows that Jane Austen gets an automatic pass. I was done with you.

But then you went and revived your career. By being kind of an asshole. Your opening scene in Bridget Jones's Diary became a palate-cleanser. Suddenly you were playing the likable unlikeable in About a Boy and Two Weeks Notice with the kind of flair that seems to indicate some interesting things about your actual personality (especially since both you and Helen Fielding have admitted that "I'll bet you did, you dirty bitch" was something you actually said in real life).

It's like you added just enough acid to your persona to become ideal for every 24-year-old Anglophile girl. You're about to play it again in American Dreamz and I will go and see it, despite my reticence. Because you've broken down my try-as-I-might resistence. I've started to give things like Love Actually a pass. And that's some sappy pap, Hugh.

I just wanted you to know that I've given in. I'm not going to pretend anymore. I'm accepting the fact that when you and Colin Firth fight in Bridget Jones's Diary, it's like the benevolent spirit of Jane Austen is sponsoring male mud-wrestling and the only winner is me.

Love,
Stephanie