Lately, I have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about Guy Pearce’s face. That dramatically protruding bone structure. The way the twin spears of his cheekbones echo the laser-cut jawline that comes to a fine point at the beveled edge of his chin. His cheeks are drawn taut, concave at their hollows, which causes the skin around them to crease when he smirks or grimaces. His eyes are deep-set. His brow is naturally arched, his nose is upturned, his lips naturally pursed. He looks wholesome and regal and sleazy, sacred and profane, like an angel who fucks. It raises the question: Why has an actor with these sculpted features spent the last two decades retreating from the center of the shows and films he’s worked on, seeking out opportunities to play cowards, freaks, and dickheads?
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