Who: Anthony Lane
Age: 45
Know him as: Film critic for the New Yorker
I’ve had what can be called a man-crush on Anthony Lane — a swell of admiration verging on covetousness — ever since reading his review of “Pride and Prejudice,” in which he compared Keira Knightley’s underbite to that of the queen in “Aliens.” I wish I could so eloquently turn pretentiousness into comedy. Later in that same review, Lane narrates the climactic scene between Knightley’s Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy: “Widening her eyes to maximum chocolatey hue, she stares into his, which are of that sea-cold, grayish blue favored by Gestapo officers in war movies … In a last, despairing gesture to Georgian England, they do not kiss. Oddly, however, they do rub noses, like well-bred Eskimos, while the rising sun gleams between the tips.” This passage of ridicule was not written with malice; it is a vivid, accurate description. Like a Robin Hood of good taste, Lane damns his victims by doing them justice. This strategy has been perfected by generations of imperturbable British men, from Oscar Wilde to Winston Churchill. Unlike these forebears, however — who probably developed their sharp wits by evolutionary necessity, in proportion to their ugliness — Anthony Lane is handsome. Dapper. Rakish. Take a bit of Prince William’s haute-boy charm, add Jude Law’s swagger, and multiply by funny. What you get is one sexy movie buff.
– Ben Van Heuvelen
