I’m concerned about Emily Procter. Which is a big deal, because apart from that one episode of The West Wing where she was sort of okay, I haven’t thought about her very much other than to wonder if the C.S.I.: Miami people had replaced her with a robot as some sort of strike-year middle-finger to the Screen Actors Guild.
Why am I concerned? Well, here is Ms. Procter from last year’s CBS summer party.
There’s almost something Early Faye Dunaway about it — the hooded eyes, the retro hair, the cool demeanor. Stick her in a beret and Warren Beatty’s trigger finger might start twitching spontaneously.
But this is what she looked like at this year’s shindig:
Okay, no, just kidding. That’s ACTUAL Faye Dunaway, circa last month. But, at least to my eye, there is a weird, uncanny similarity with Emily Procter circa last night:
Am I out of my mind, or is something slightly OFF there? Between all that makeup, the untamed hair, and the wild, faintly thirsty-for-flesh glint in her eye, Emily Proctor not only looks unlike herself, but seems to evoke a woman who is… somewhat outside Emily’s usual demographic, shall we say. Not there is anything wrong with Faye Dunaway — for one thing, she is a legend, and for another, I am totally afraid she’s going to send, like, an embittered vulture or a poisoned cheesecake to my house. But you get the gist. This would seem to be a cautionary tale in how to make sure the person doing your makeup doesn’t secretly hate you. I call this book The Smoky Eye: A Silent Killer, and you’ve just gotten a free taste of chapter 1.