Robert Redford – or why I’m single

My dearest Bob,

I decided to dedicate this post to you because it’s high time you took responsibility and acted accordingly. I know this will be tough to read but sometimes a man must be man… You’re a lion, not a lamb, so I’m sure you’ll be able to understand.

People ask me why I’m single. Why no man seems to be good enough for me. What is it that I’m looking for. Why I never seem to like anybody enough. For years I’ve mumbled more or less acceptable excuses: I don’t do sex without love; I can’t fall in love with men without a great personality, even greater ideals and amazing looks; in my job I meet mostly women and gay guys; I don’t go out enough; I’m damn unlucky; I’m the re-incarnation of a nun who died in 1456; I’m getting older and men don’t want women whose biological clock is ticking…

I’ve been psycho-analyzed by shrinks who begged me to stop looking for a man like my dad.

I’ve had to endure blind dates organized by keen friends convinced I’d better drop my standards and get real.

I’ve spent a fortune in internet dating, trying to persuade myself I could actually have an interest in the slightly overweight man with glasses who talked about his plans for retirement…

Enough.

 

Now the moment has come to spit out the truth: my singleness is YOUR FAULT, Bob. Yours and nobody else’s.

I was just an ordinary teenager up to the age of 16. I mean, yes, I had a slight tendency to depression, I didn’t have a boyfriend, my idol was Emily Dickinson and I spent time talking to myself imagining I was somebody else. But other than that, I was a regular Italian adolescent with crush on Eros Ramazzotti (a pop singer you might not know – don’t bother looking for his CDs), Sting from the Police and a blond guy in the class above mine named Bruno who wasn’t even aware of my existence. I dressed my hair like Madonna and wore fake Nike trainers (sneakers, in your language).

This until one day I went to the cinema with my classmates Patty and Isa and watched…

You blew me away. I was overwhelmed by your beauty, charisma, character, by your eyes and your infectuous smile

Dennis Finch-Hutton – your character in the movie – was the man I wanted to marry. He was beautiful, warm, witty, tender and a free spirit who didn’t want to tie his woman with marriage.

 He was amazing, you were amazing. Of course Dennis died at the end of the movie and I cried all my tears. But you were alive. Somewhere in the world you existed, in all your God-like beauty.

Exactly like Bruno from the class above, you weren’t aware of my existence. But I knew a love as big as mine wouldn’t go unnoticed. Sooner or later it’ll be returned.

From that moment I started watching all your films. Most of your characters were like Dennis. Men with courage, strength, heart…

It could have been just a teenage crush, bound to pass with the years. But it didn’t. Quite the opposite, my adoration kept growing with time. Because it wasn’t just your characters I was in love with. It was YOU. I had bought a book about you and I used to read during my maths classes. I kept it open inside a geometry book, pretending to be looking at pictures of triangles. The book said you were very much like your characters. I had no doubts it was true. I knew it.

By 1987 I had decided I would only be happy with you, Bob, at my side. You and nobody else.

Every time I watched one of your films – Barefoot in the Park, All the President’s men,

Jeremiah Jones, The Candidate, The Great Gatsby, Sundance and Billy the kid, the Sting, The way we were (oh, I adore that film!) – that luckily were repeated quite regularly on Italian TV, my heart beat. Your smile made me happy. Your eyes, your profile.

My aunt kept repeating you looked like my dad but of course it’s not true, you’re blond and nobody in my family is blond.

You see, my darling, if I had chosen another idol, everything in my sentimental life would have been different and easier. Imagine I’d fallen for Tom Cruise, who was just coming to notoriety at the time: arrogant, fake smile, a penchant for science-fiction-like religion… Men like that are easy to find and even easier to get bored with. I would have got over you in a month. Harrison Ford was another of my friends’ favourite but he was also quite a common type, a hyperactive action hero with a penchant for jokes… How banal.. But you, Bob, you were unique. You didn’t run like crazy from beginning to end of a movie. Even when you did action, you took your time to think. You didn’t pilot war planes or looked for treasures in Egypt, no, you uncovered political plots. You crossed the west in the snow without talking for 45 minutes. Even when you were a maverick, you were the most delightful bastard in the whole galaxy. You were one to love forever.

But finding a man like you has proved virtually impossible. Somebody who prefers ideals to fame, peace marches to red carptes, dreams to cinism…

You settled down not in Hollywood but in Utah, using your notoriety to make a difference in the world… Now, lets be realistic here, once a woman’s standards have been set so high, there’s virtually no chance for her to ever find a regular guy and be happy. It’s the end.

You’ll say, “oh please, I’m just a regular guy…”, I bet you’ll say that, but you know it’s a lie, so don’t even try and use that cheap excuse.

Bob, you know I’ve been a faithful and adoring lover. Okay, with the only exception of one notorious Jamaican man, I confess, but we all make mistakes in life and I sincerely apologize – one can’t swap you with Denzel Washington, I should have known better…

I’ve been discrete, reserved and dignified. I never waited for you outside a hotel, hoping for an autograph. I never screamed your name loud. It wouldn’t have suited you, you’re not some Brad Pitt…

I’ve been loyal to you even when, in the mid 90s, your face began to fall apart.

Other Hollywood actors had plastic surgery but not you. And I loved you even more for that. While your colleagues wasted money in villas and cosmetic treatments you set up the Sundance Festival to help young talents in the film industry. My adoration was unspeakable. I sang your praises like evangelical converts sing hymns. My friends teased me, saying you looked older than my granddad but I covered my ears. When Indecent proposal came out I thought it was a joke. A million dollars to sleep with Robert Redford? And where exactly was the problem???

Since then I’ve watched you capturing terrorists, ploughing fields, horse whispering… In the meantime I’ve passed 35 and I’m still single. My friends change boyfriends more often than underwear and I’m totally unable to find a man to fall for.

Last summer I even came to Utah, to Sundance, looking for you in vain but you didn’t even put a sign outside your house. Sundance is a mountain, a wood, a place covered in trees where I only managed to have pic-nic surrounded by mormons looking at me through a pair of binoculars… I’ve become an actress just to have the chance to be near you but no American director seems to notice me. I know this is quite normal considered I’ve never worked in the USA but I saw you in a picture with Monica Bellucci and my heart sank, she’s just a beauty from Perugia who in 1986 was probably a fan of Duran Duran. She didn’t deserve your attention!

 

No man is like you, Bob, none. Please, help me. I’m desperate. I know you’re far too old for dating me, but at least be my friend, drop me a line, give me a shoulder to cry, tell me what to do. You owe it to me. And don’t say you had no idea of my suffering because ignorance is not excuse, as you know very well.

Another year is about to end and I’m here on my own. Do something, please. Take responsibility. You care about Iraq, Afghanistan, global warming and arts…. Can’t you care a little bit about me?

Your sincerely – for ever