Observe in her the Contrapasso
Halle Berry--the Halle Berry of those innumerable, sickeningly average blockbuster Hollywood films; of the drooling, gaping-mouthed Oscar/herself worshipping session of 2002; and of the lesser known hit and run incident of 2000--has managed to get herself into a rather large, and a rather hot pot of soup.
Apparently Ms. Berry appeared on Leno the other night and said of a photoshopped picture of herself: "Here's where I look like my Jewish cousin." (The photo distorted her features such that it gave her nose a, how should we put it?, capacious appearance.)
And, I'll admit that for a second there, my heart went out to this girl about to be blistered by an inferno of outrage over nothing. For a second, I say. Then I remembered my rule about sympathizing with movie stars post-1960. That is: Don't. You could spend that time cleaning out the kitty litter or something.
Welcome to the world that you yourself have helped to beget, Ms. Berry! You who dared accuse a man of racism because he did an impression on BBC radio of a "fat American black guy"; you who maintain that it is still disproportionately hard for a black woman to get roles in Hollywood. You are, simultaneously and (but for the age of unreason) paradoxically, the proof that virtually all accusations of racism in the 21st century West betray an element of projection, and that such accusations tend, almost always, to be patent bollocks.
... Anyway, I hope your cousin is pretty well connected, Halle, because--heh, heh, heh--we all know who runs Hollywood. Right?