The reason I can’t really get into action movies is the women.  Actually, I can’t get into any movie where the plot does not revolve around the fact that the chick on the screen is in the 99th-percentile of good-looking people on the planet.

It doesn’t bother me that these women are pretty.  I love watching models running around in their underwear, expertly performing lethal death blows on fully-armored assasins as much as the next guy.  My problem is that there is never any mention of it.  Like, blatant mention of it.

Maybe one or two cheap jokes about her tits in her questionably tight work uniform would shut me up.  But I think all of the normal women of the world would love something a little more than that.  Here’s a segment from my screenplay.  Working Title.

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Daniel Craig and Rosario Dawson are about to have sex in a secret hotel room after a day of fighting off a rebel Russian Mafia group seeking the freedom of their leader’s cousin from a Soviet prison.  Rosario has just taken off her dress in the cold moonlight.

CRAIG:

MY GOD!!!  OH MY FREAKIN’ GOD!  Seriously, you are absolutely unreal!  Like, this girl I dated for a couple months in college was really pretty but she was an arts major and not really going anywhere.  How did you end up in the CIA anyway?  I mean, that’s pretty hard to do.  Where did you get the drive?  That’s like a 7-year program and how old are you?  25?  26?  And you know martial arts?  What was that earlier?  That thing you did with the sword and the gun.  Was that Kung Fu?  That’s not even a requirement.  I checked.  And you know about computers?  You hacked into Russia’s central main frame.  Like, in 3 minutes.  I mean, there are only so many hours in the day.  Do you go to the gym?”