Exeunt Brangie, enter Brarion? The “headlines” are saying that Angie kicked ol’ Sad Brad to the curb because he strayed with another sleepy-eyed, sultry brunette actress while filming a movie: this time Marion Cotillard, his Allied costar. Angie reportedly got a private eye on the case, then she marched on to the set, yelli — uh, pardon, Marion Cotillard has to stop us here. She is le bored with our petit, classless rumors.
“Ha!” I imagine her saying, wherever she is (probably someplace very classy, where kimonos are required), “if I were a mistress it would be more creative, more sexually weird than anything your poor little American rumor mill can think of. Secondly,” I again imagine her saying, “head over to my Instagram feed, for I have typed a delightful little message for all you thirsty, rumor-mongering philistines. Read it while I enjoy some cheese in my vintage kimono.”
OK! Let’s!
“Firstly,” she writes, “many years ago, I met the man of my life, father of our son and of the baby we are expecting. He is my love, my best friend, the only one that I need.”
Ah, OK, this is going to be a Swiss army knife of a public statement: Primarily it will serve as a statement of denial of Brad Pitt–boning. Cotillard could have met these rumors with silence or with a meh statement from her publicist, but both would have made her seem guiltier than Jean Valjean. Instead she’s chosen her personal Instagram as the medium. It’s a strong move. One would only open herself up to random agro-comments or countless emoji snakes if she truly did not bone Brad Pitt. I believe her. Effective.
Secondly, Cotillard’s statement acts as an informal recommitment. Cotillard would like to drive home the message that she does not need to bone Brad Pitt because she is so disgustingly in love with her very adorable French partner, Guillaume Canet, a.k.a. “the man of her life,” a.k.a. her “love,” a.k.a. “the only one [she needs]” (translation: she don’t need Brad Pitt). A classic defensive tactic: defeat “other woman” rumors with a “My man keeps me satisfied!” sentiment.
Next, the statement also acts as a pregnancy announcement. She mentions that Canet (not Brad Pitt, guys) is the “father … of the baby we are expecting.” Oh wait! Oh congrats, Marion Cotillard! Another baby! Now the headlines will read “Marion Cotillard Has a Petite Baguette in the Oven!” instead of anything Brad Pitt–related. Again: a swift, subtle, efficient move.
She continues: “… to those who have indicated that I am devastated …” (Translation: Those who are not Marion Cotillard. You will never be Marion Cotillard. Never forget.) “… I am very well thank you. This crafted conversation isn’t distressing,” she types as she finishes the last of your wine.
Then she swats at us all like the gnats we are: “And to all the media and the haters who are quick to pass judgment, I sincerely wish you a swift recovery.” (Translation: I, benevolent Marion Cotillard, know how small your lives are, for you are not, and never will be, Marion Cotillard.)
This is a withering death stare — a slow-acting, almost-imperceptible poison, infecting the average celebrity journalist’s self-worth. You didn’t think there was blood on your keyboard, Daily Mail blogger, but there is. Marion Cotillard smeared it all over.
And then (and THEN), the final blow: She rewrites the whole thing again in French. Because everything is better in French: bangs, fries, cheese, striped T-shirt, the words for trolls and haters (les trolls, les haters).
We’re dead. Good job, Marion. You’ve destroyed us and these rumors.
Ah yes, I almost forgot. You’ll notice Marion Cotillard has selected an image to accompany the most effective non-denial denial in history. She could have chosen anything: a fluffy puppy, a picture of her and her partner, her middle finger, the edible she consumed right before she wrote the caption. Instead she chose this: a trippy sky, perhaps the galaxy, with a tiny bird flying over our heads far away.
The meaning is clear now: That bird, she is Marion Cotillard. She is flying someplace magical, above our heads, above the swirling rumors, wishing all Us Weekly editors a swift recovery from being American, petty, superficial, and not French and Marion Cotillard.
