In Touch magazine recently did a scientific study and concluded that Scarlett owned the best pair of bursts in Hollywood, followed closely by Jessica Simpson and Salma Hayek. “I’m sure my mom will be proud,” says the honoree. “You work hard making independent films for fourteen years and you get voted best bursts.”
According to another survey, Scarlett has the second-most-kissable lips in the world, topped only by the epic mouth of Angelina Jolie. And a British poll found Scarlett to have the best female bum. “No!” she objects. “There are plenty of girls with nicer butts. There are plenty of girls who work harder for nicer butts.”
“What about my brain?” she asks. “What about my heart? What about my kidneys and my gallbladder?” There is, no doubt, a fetish Website devoted to Scarlett’s gallbladder — which, by the way, fellas, is all natural. But, being a general-interest magazine, Esquire has been bold enough to look past the disconnected parts.
We have taken in the totality, the gestalt, and we have concluded that Scarlett Johansson — lips, butt, kidneys, and all — is the gorgeous woman alive. I uncovered the tributes to Scarlett’s anatomy while preparing for a little project we had planned
To surf the Internet together and have Scarlett critique all the worshipful and/or scary sites devoted to her (like the one that spells out Scarlett with an s for sappy, c for colorful, a for adaptable, et cetera). Well, actually, surfing the Internet was my plan. Scarlett said no.
That’s one thing I learned early: Scarlett may be charming, but she knows what she wants. And she did not want to look at the Internet. Instead we are playing pool at Corner Billiards in lower Manhattan. When I met her here, I took out my notebook. “Just don’t write anything pervy,” Scarlett advises me.
Which seems a little like Hillary telling a New Republic editor, “Don’t write anything political.” Okay, I say, but maybe I could document our date with my digital camera? She agrees but adds, “Can I be art director?” It’s a rhetorical question. Her first art direction: Since she wasn’t primped by professional hair and makeup people, she’d “rather” I avoided taking photos of her face. “Which is a polite way of saying no way in hell,” she explains.
Her next art direction: She takes the camera and starts shooting her own pictures — of things like the room and me holding a bowl of peanuts. We play pool. We play abysmally, but at least her form is a thing of beauty. She also chalked the stick with elan, about which I won’t say anything pervy.
Scarlett used to come to Corner Billiards when she was in high school. She grew up in New York, started acting here at age seven, got rejected from commercials because her voice was too smoky.
(Everyone thought she had a sore throat.) She became famous at thirteen as the injured girl in The Horse Whisperer, and more famous at eighteen when she wore sheer underwear in Lost in Translation. More recently, she’s become Woody Allen’s muse; was ranked number one on FHM’s list of the “100 gorgeous Women;” demanded and got a retraction from a tabloid that said she was seen kissing a woman; starred in The Black Dahlia, a Brian De Palma noir thriller, opposite her boyfriend, Josh Hartnett; and currently appears in another thriller, Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige.