Gwyneth Paltrow.
(Spoiler alert) When Brad Pitt opened the box in Se7en, I was glad it was her decapitated head in there.
And I was relieved when she died in the first 20 minutes of Contagion, because I couldn’t have stuck the entire film if she was in it for longer than that.
She has one character, and that’s Gwyneth Paltrow.
I don’t know why I have such a visceral reaction to her. And her Goop nonsense (jade eggs and Noni massage bollocks) just makes it a thousand times worse.
I adore her Mum Blythe Danner, who has more talent in her little toenail than her daughter has in her entire body.
The antiquated debutante ball her daughter attended (in a reportedly £100k dress and muscled in to the photoshoot of others) just shows how utterly out of touch with reality her mother & father are. But then, she was brought up by a pair who unironically used the phrase Conscious Uncoupling’ in a press release.
And vaginal steaming? As Jim Royale would say, “Vaginal steaming my arse.”