Saw Hard Times last night. I can admit it would have been shitty if James Coburn hadn't played an execrable waster in it so well. But he did, and then there was Charles Bronson being shirtless for the rest of it. God, he was hot. And I think he was around fifty when he filmed that too - certainly older than I usually torch for. When he stepped onto the screen and I registered his squishy Tatar eyes and crooked face, I had a moment before drifting off into Fangirl-La of understanding other people would be puzzled by the notion of him being an attractive man.
All this ties into my interest in evolutionary psychology, which to me is about as scientific as tarot cards (you know I hate the Guardian for its abuse of commas and general condescending tone, but this Bad Science feature is great and this one in particular about evolutionary psychology is really great) but it's fun nonetheless. Because it's all speculation about the history of sex and sexual attraction - or at least it is in my head. And what could be more fun that that, besides a gramme of reefer and a Marx Brothers movie, and even then I'm mentally undressing Chico with all my might?
I like to think, for example - let's take my torch for Chico - about why funny, musical men are attractive beyond their ability to kill fresh protein. I speculate it's because post-partum depression and seasonal affective disorder once plagued our ancestors too, perhaps even worse than it does us as they were fresh off the sunny African savanna or wherever. So unless the (potential) father of your brood could amuse you, make you laugh or otherwise cheer you up during the shitty winters and the beginning of motherhood you were liable to go crackers before getting pregnant, run away from your family before you'd finished nursing, or otherwise break off contributing to the gene pool or letting him contribute with you.
See - pure speculation. But it makes sense, doesn't it? Tell me I'm wrong. But you can't - that's evolutionary psychology, baby! I love the funny men because I should! Charles Bronson isn't funny, but it does look like he could pick me up, throw me over the saddle of his horse, and take me away from all this, which probably also ties into our European ancestresses suffering seasonal affective disorder - if Jung is right, and you know he is, changes of scene provide a fail safe but short-lived cure for depression.
Anyways, I think the rub-a-dub speculation of evolutionary psychology provides a great explanation for why people have such crazily varying tastes. And thank goodness we do.