Noooooooooooooooooo! What have they done to you, my darling Clive Owen?

What the bloody hell…

Of all the utterly ridiculous…

Why, how dare they…

Fuck Lancome.

Since I’m rather speechless as to why anyone would remove the necessary roughness from one Clive Owen, the only thing left to do is shamelessly quote one Ted Boynton:

Hey there, Super Tiger Sex Commando. You’re looking fit with your creased, shadowy face, your lean, rangy form, your laconic, melancholy voice with its silky-gruff single malt finish. You paid your television actor dues for years before firmly entering the soft, sensual ground of our cinematic consciousness, lithely slipping out of the dark water and under the covers like some brusquely gentle British love ninja who finally bested James Bond. Caked in grime, a little smoke-blackened from saving mankind or pulling a huge bank heist, you’ve gone toe to toe with Denzel Washington, Michael Caine and Paul Giamatti, burned your image into our memories, and become the most enduring dark knight of our gritty fever dreams.

Awww, yeah, that’s the good stuff. Now, for those of us (like me) who are now in need of a palate cleansing, there’s plenty of tasty Clive “British Love Ninja” Owen right here and over yonder.