The murder of Meredith Kercher has been one of the biggest crime stories of the decade. An awful and tragic loss that has managed to divide international opinion from the off whilst snowballing into an over-sensationalised mess of media hyperbole. The main embarrassing shadow dangling over all proceedings being the sex icon platform we all seem to have erected for Amanda Knox. A notion that has dominated front-pages everywhere and one that we should now steadily move away from. Not least because the angle serves to trivialise and detract from the actual tragedy of it all but also because it’s absolute bollocks.
Painted as the pretty girl next door wrongly embroiled in a bloody and violent crime, it is the stuff of movies. It is then, fairly easy to see why the media would look for a beautiful leading lady in this already dangerously Hollywood tale, but seriously? Amanda Knox?
Yes she is a young woman, with a clear(ish) complexion and an alright figure but would you really? Honestly? If she were a girl in your office she wouldn't be Jane the receptionist with legs to the heavens and breasts to make a teenage boy weep, she'd be Alice the work experience girl that smells of cereal and reads sci-fi novels on her lunch break. She screams this from every angle and yet we simply attribute it to an edgy kind of sexy that quite frankly baffles me. The truth is she’s boring and bookish and we’re clutching at the sensationalist straws so tightly to pretend that she’s a seductress that we’ve cut off the circulation of good taste. I mean she’s hardly an ice pick wielding Sharon Stone is she?
I'll admit that she is sort of pretty in one of those ‘I-have-no-deforming-scars’ kind of way but she’s still hardly what the speakys would call a ‘class act.’ If she was a constant provocative tease at every given opportunity I might be able to see what you’re all getting at but she doesn’t even do that. She dresses like a teacher for crying out loud and not one of the sexy kinds that you see in Internet movies with suspicious dialogue. We’ve stooped back to our school selves, a mass of hormonal teenagers perving over the ageing History teacher with a face like a shoehorn and one too many buttons undone on her blouse. The fact that you were sensitive at that time and could sometimes see her nipples on a cold day didn’t really change the fact that she was perched in front of a rose-tinted lense. Such shameless and ill-placed lechery was every bit as embarrassing then as it is now readjusted to another 'accessible' object of affection.
Still, maybe it’s not her looks per se but her easy, breezy and confident personality that make her a winner. Because hey, what’s not attractive about a young American woman in her granny cardigan doing cartwheels when under pressure in a police station and telling tales of ‘making love’ as her alibi. Well cartwheels for starters. Who the fuck does cartwheels over the age of ten other than a gymnast? Let alone resorting to such nimble behaviour when feeling angsty and alone in a police station. It’s weird, attention seeking and exactly the kind of behaviour you desperately avoided in women growing up. The loud, ‘look at me I’ve got flowers in my hair types’ that had an odour of soil to them that made your cringe and run for the hills.
Unless it’s the sex talk that’s got us all fevered? All that making love. Making. Love. Two words that conjure up a whole host of missionary based thrusts tied limply between a ford escort and walks in the park. Sexy huh? Yup, that’s right you’ve managed to get yourself a hot twenty year old cartwheeler and you’re going to fuck it all up by making love to her in your own apocalyptic vision of the rest of your life? Twenty-year-old students don’t make love. They fuck and they shag. Surely that’s the point and appeal of sleeping with a twenty something year old. You don’t need to watch Channel Four for the evening to realise this.
The whole obsession with her 'effortless' sex appeal completely and utterly drowns me in a cloudy puddle of befuddlement. Is there something wrong with my own taste perhaps? Do I actually have some kind of shallow commercialisation fetish that clouds my view of real beauty? Perhaps. Or maybe it's the recession that did it? Or Rupert Murdoch? I bet it was bloody Murdoch wasn't it?