Prose For a French Actor

            So I may have a slight fascination about an actor. Notice the emphasis on the word “slight.” I’m sure that’s all it is. Truly. This actor, he isn’t exactly well-known in America. Not yet anyway. But he’s done a lot for someone so young. He’s directed. Produced. Made an indie film.  A strangely likeable guts and gore, darkly lit, low-budget film. A fairly popular TV series. Some historically-themed films. A lot of theatre in his home country.  Pretty respectable stuff.

            Have I mentioned yet that he’s French?  No? Mon dieu! Comment négligent de moi! (Don’t judge my French. While I’d love to rattle it off as if it were nothing, the French language and I have a love/hate relationship. I love it and it hates me. I nearly get hives just thinking about learning it!) He's a Parisian. He’s not just French, but the stereotypical Frenchman (at least in my opinion). Scruffy. Dressed as if his clothes were just thrown on. (But impeccable if the situation calls for it.) Hair made to look dirty. Bad hair day? Wear a knit cap, rakishly pushed back on the head. Various degrees of unshavenness, with rarely a smooth face. The cooler French brother to the American hipster. Hmmm, which now that I think about it, maybe the hipster movement was stolen from the day-to-day French look to begin with. Smokes. A lot. And as he is très French, he makes no apologies about it and won’t ask your permission about it either. In fact, he will light up in the presence of signs clearly telling him not to. But worst of all? He’s 29. Yes. I said 29. I can practically hear the beginning strains of “Mrs. Robinson” as I type this. “Coo-coo-ka-choo-Mrs.Robinson…”

            He’s impossibly tall and lanky. However, don’t confuse “lanky” with “scrawny.”  In a movie he may convincingly portray a man who will go down after one punch, but in real life you imagine he will throw the first and last punch. Lovely arms. Lovely abs.  And true to his Gallic ancestry, he’s dark. With eyes so big and blue you notice them immediately. They will pierce your soul with their intensity. Framing those gorgeous orbs are eyelashes so long and lush any woman would give their boyfriend to have them. Or just to stare into them. They give him an air of innocent charm, which is a dangerous thing to an unsuspecting female.  An air of vulnerability that he uses well in his films.

            Then there is the hair. In Shakespeare’s day sonnets would have been written about it. Your fingers itch to run through it the first time you lay eyes on that heavenly black mass. It’s thick and wavy, ending in curls at the nape of the neck. (He has a habit of running a hand through it, as if it bothers him and he wants to keep it off his forehead. I think he does it to appear deliciously rumpled. Bedhead. You might even imagine being the cause of that rumpled gorgeousness. IF you were the imaginative type, that is.) Sometimes he shaves his head for movie roles and you would think that would ruin the perfection. Like Sampson losing his strength once his long locks were cut. But it doesn’t. It sets off his features even more. Those eyes pop. So much so that you almost don’t miss that black mass of perfection that would make the best security blanket of all time. That security blanket that you could just hold onto and enjoy the ride… Ahem… Sorry I got a little off track there.

            Then we get to his mouth. With full lips that just beg to be bit and sucked on. Er, I mean kissed. That’s it. Kissed. A lot. A lot, a lot.

            He has incredibly large and long, long … fingers/hands. (Now where did you think I was going with that sentence?)  These hands could take one of yours as you stroll around Paris, or cup your face as he’s about to kiss you. Or hold you when you cry at a silly movie. And while you do not do this, of course, but if one were prone to daydreaming about what those hands and long fingers could do while otherwise engaged in say a bedroom, or up against a wall, or in an elevator, or riding in a car, those orgasm-inducing hands of his. *wipes brow* Well, let’s just say it is a good thing you aren’t prone to daydreams.

            Then you watch him in a romantic comedy where he finally kisses the heroine and that kiss makes your toes curl and your teeth ache - Just.From.Watching.It. And it might affect other areas on your body from your toes all the way to your teeth, but you won’t mention that. Because you never, ever give in to the aforementioned daydream. You might, however, possibly imagine what the real thing would be like. Which makes you stop to think: If he is French, but is, what we Americans call “French kissing”, then it truly isn’t French kissing to him, right?  It’s just Regular kissing. Yowza! You realize your teeth are aching again and you need to stop imagining. Immediately.

            He rather adorably allows himself to act the buffoon if it will make a joke work or get a laugh. A mixture of Laurel/Hardy meets Charlie Chaplin. He is always quick to praise his fellow actors and put the accolades on them.  And while he hangs out with the “boys” (and looks like he thoroughly enjoys raising a little hell), he posts beautifully artistic pictures from wherever he is. Almost, dare I say it, romantic. He will also post really sweet, thoughtful stories from newspapers for us to read. He supports the arts (even ballet). This side of him is completely at odds with the hellion you have pictured in your head.

            And I did mention he is French, right? Which means he speaks the language of love - fluently. While I may catch one French word in 100 that’s spoken, the magnificence of the language is not lost on me. In his films and photos he can look as innocent as a choir boy; scarily intense; or goofy.  He can be charming, romantic, or funny. Certainly a great actor as he flawlessly morphs into each character. And he’s got the scowling look down pat. That aloofness only the French seem to pull off so seamlessly. He can look like he’d rather slit your throat then have to talk to you, and the next moment smile so charmingly it is as if the angels from above are singing - your song. And only the two of you exist. In a meadow full of flowers where the sun is shining brightly and baby bunnies are hopping around your feet while bluebirds sing above your head, with little fawns coming to lay at your feet. (Might as well go with the Snow White theme to her Prince Charming, right?)

            During one movie scene, he’s passed out in bed and when he wakes up - the way he sits up in bed is so unlike anyone else and yet so childlike - you imagine he’s been doing that since he’s been sitting up in bed. Did his mother see that and smile to herself because that’s how he’s always been waking up?

            And maybe your heart smiles a little at the image that evokes. Because you can see the little boy still in the grown man and you find yourself thoroughly charmed by this talented actor.