It’s too bad Grazer has made the search for romance her singular obsession as a writer. That last trait is particularly wondrous in L.A., which is, as Hannah observes, “a magical place where the men have less body hair than the women.” (I will acknowledge this sent me to Google images where I found this photo of Brian Grazer’s fat-free physique, his chest as hairless as a Xoloitzcuintli.) He had an adorable little roll of belly fat and a chest full of hair. He was a successful cookbook author cum stay-at-home father to their precocious toddler. John Bernal was a chef, a sensual monogamist who liked nothing better than feeding his wife because he adored her body so much he thought there should be more of it. Maybe she would have him die of anaphylactic shock after applying a new brand of hair gel.īut Grazer instead delivers, disappointingly, the most unlikely of Hollywood fantasies: The dead husband was the perfect man. How much fun it would be to off a fictional husband who’d, say, sported an electrified updo and was extravagantly neurotic. This seems like the juicy setup for a real revenge novel.
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