Except it’s not. It’s not complicated in the slightest. It’s about as easy as life can get; money in the bank, nice house, a gaggle of fawning lackeys at your beck and call, a live-in father raising your kids for you and a lucrative TV contract that enables you to spend your whole day choosing outfits, getting tans and dating rock stars. It’s not exactly Sophie’s Choice, is it?
I’d like to see Denise Richards living a genuinely complicated life – rising debts, wayward children, two jobs and the impending threat of a house repossession. Then we’d see just how real reality can be as this pointless, silver spooned pair of tits struggles to come to terms with the fact that she’s not the most important person in the world after all. That, my dear, would be complicated.
You remember Denise Richards, right? She was in a couple of films that did quite well at the tail end of the Nineties – one in which she was famously hoodwinked into playing straight when it was really a satire and another where she almost got her tits out. After that she was voted the worst Bond girl ever for her role in one of the worst Bond films ever, then married Charlie Sheen, showed her fanny in Playboy and promptly lost her acting career for being generally rubbish at acting. And where do forgotten starlets without a modicum of talent end up when they die?
“I’m not the girl from Wild Things’ she intones repetitively, “I’m not the Bond girl” as if they were characters of such staggering artistic importance that the lines between her and them were so blurred people mistook her for a murderous teenager or, um, nuclear scientist (who wears hotpants) on a daily basis. She spends hours Googling herself, comparing online lists of who she’s fucked with her assistant and berating tabloid journalists for not printing the correct gossip about her.
Flitting around LA and being a callous bitch to all she meets, Denise ably demonstrating that Hollywood is an empty vacuous place populated by airfilled dunderheads convinced they are the second coming of Marilyn Monroe. She’s a sad and lonely wayward soul, a woman of such collosal insignificance she has already morphed into Norma Desmond, taking people firmly by the arm and stammering loudly that she “used to be in pictures” while showing you unpleasant photos of her malformed breasts.
As per all-these-fucking-shows it’s as contrived and scripted as an HBO special; staged arguments, opportunistic photocalls and just enough blurred out nudity that a web-banned teenager could possible crack one off over a freezeframe. Constantly denying her sexbomb image whilst posed half naked on a beach at sunset, she displays all the sexual allure of a drunk mother propositioning the paperboy. A walking bag of hypocrisy, she flaunts her children in the camera’s unblinking gaze whilst indulging in mindless self adulation and faux media shyness.
I don’t get the point of this programme; even by the usual z-list requirements of reality TV this is a purposeless exercise – she’s neither particularly famous or interesting, neither funny or endearing, neither attractive or appealing. She’s just dull, and unpleasant, and gratuitously vain; a walking example of self denial over what’s left of her rotting stardom.There’s nothing of interest or curiosity here, only a fractured psyche and a mundane life. You could pity her if you thought she had any charm, but alas her personality doesn’t even stretch that far.