You are a reporter for an evening daily life, and you have an appointment, one winter morning, with Pamela Anderson. These two proposals would have appeared to you incompatible a few years ago; There, they flow so to speak from source. When the opportunity to interview the Canadian actress has interfered in your electronic messaging, you have instinctively transferred it to your hierarchical superiors for validation. The lack of brilliance of his career, in the strictly cinematographic sense, has not posed any particular problem for them. No more, in truth, that the relative hostility that aroused in your critical film colleagues The Last ShowgirlGia Coppola’s film which precipitated your meeting with the one you will avoid, thank you, for reducing to its international sex symbol status.
Admittedly, like millions of swarm adolescents, you discovered its existence in the early 1990s, thanks to a fairly mediocre and yet unforgettable soap opera, Malibu alert. Five seasons in a row, she put on the vermilion swimsuit of a big heart naiad, rescuer in her spare time. You remember confusedly that said jersey has disappeared several times when it posed for Playboyerotic review of which it holds the record of covers. Equally confusedly, you keep in mind the actress’s love chronicle, as the scandal press relayed it: a Greco-American hard-rock drummer, a singer nicknamed “The American Badass”, various producers, a Mediterranean footballer follows in croc and a body custody,
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