One of the many things that make Cary Grant feel angry and humiliated in Bringing Up Baby is Katherine Hepburn‘s decision to refer to him as “Mr. Bone.” I thought of this because poor Jennifer Aniston must feel angry and humiliated by the tabloid media’s characterizing her as “Mrs. Bone” — i.e., a woman who rarely if ever sleeps alone, and who never seems to settle.
The best acting she ever did was in The Breakup, but after that, what? I don”t like submitting to tabloid chatter as topics of mosquito conversation in my head, but when I think of Aniston I really don’t think of her work. I think of her bouncing-ball personal life. The associative dramas in her life aren’t about performances but when if ever will she finally stop shopping around? She’s like a 21st Century incarnation of what Mary Astor and Tallulah Bankhead were known for in their day. Their excitable cavortings, I mean. Except Bankhead killed in Lifeboat and Astor had her Maltese Falcon performance to point to.
The fact is that even among those who’ve never so much as glanced at a supermarket rag Aniston’s rep is that of (a) someone whose prime artistic opportunity days are probably behind her, (b) who’s never going to make another Good Girl (which wasn’t that great to begin with) and (c) who, at age 40, is basically competing with Sandra Bullock for Sandra Bullocky-styled romantic roles and that’s all. The only thing she might be ale to do and really get rolling with again is another TV series.