Ggw Best Breasts

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Ggw Best Breasts
Thanks for the Mammaries: The Best Breasts of 2012
From Kate Upton's particularly generous assets to Kristen Stewart's rookie topless performance, this year was all about the fairer sex showing us their lovely breasts. Here, for your viewing pleasure, are our favorites for 2012
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Technically eligible because of Titanic 's 3D re-release, Kate Winslet has to win the award for most pronounced PG-13 breast display ever. And you've got to love a girl who is willing to strip for the scruffy underdog in order to piss off her asshole boyfriend. It's timeless.
Olivia Munn has said in interviews that her topless scene in Magic Mike was no big deal. Tell that to all of the G4 fanboys who nearly suffered pulmonary episodes because of it. Credit to her and Soderbergh though, it was a welcome surprise for all of the unsuspecting men who were dragged to the movie by their wives and girlfriends.
It took 9 episodes for the second season of Homeland to get to the important stuff: Morena Baccarin's boobs. Thankfully though we were finally treated to a topless shot of super-milf Jessica Brody having yet another dalliance with hubby substitute Mike Faber.  Here's hoping that season three will do better at cutting to the chase.
There may have been a prohibition on liquor in Lawless but nudity was strictly within the rulebook. Thank God for small favors. Ms. Chastain's pert pair make their appearance courtesy of a love scene with Tom Hardy's gangster moonshiner Forrest Bondurant. A perfect union of lusty and badass if ever there was one.
5. Kaitlyn Leeb (the Three-breasted Woman), Total Recall
It seems pretty safe to say that the only reason this awful remake happened was that some Hollywood producer really wanted to see an updated three-breasted woman. There have been worse reasons to green light a project. And Kaitlyn Leeb is a definite upgrade over the original. Although one can't help but wonder what the lovely Miss Leeb would look like sans prosthetic mutant deformity.
In the world of magazines there are great covers and then there are great covers. Not to toot our own horn but Kate Upton on the cover of our July issue in a bikini top is pretty much legendary . Of course most of the credit has to go to Kate and her spectacular endowments. Here's to the issue voted most likely to reside beneath a teenage boy's mattress for 2012.
7. Jennifer Love Hewitt, The Client List publicity campaign
Last February the streets of New York City became a very dangerous place for its male (and some female) inhabitants. Splashed across buses, posters, and subway platforms were enormous shots of the already ample cleavage of one J. L. Hewitt, courtesy of what can only be called the greatest ad campaign of all time. While many of us may not have actually watched The Client List , we appreciated the fact that our last moments in life before being hit by that cab were spent gazing into the almost mythologically perfect breasts of Jennifer Love Hewitt.
You kind of get the feeling by episode 9 of the 5th season of Californication that the writers aren't even trying to come up with reasons for women to get their kits off. When Sarah Power bursts into Hank Moody's trailer on the set of Santa Monica Cop and whips out her ladies, only the thinnest of plot points is used as an explanation. Fortunately we don't really care. Why bother with all that storytelling when there is a voluminous and very lovely pair of breasts to exhibit? Thank you Sarah Power for taking what is normally the provenance of the casting couch and putting it up on the screen.
8. Camilla Luddington, Californication
Ahh the nanny fantasy. A true classic if ever there was one. Only in the highly fictional TV universe of _Californication _would a woman as beautiful as Camilla Luddington's Lizzie engage in sexual congress with a man as unpleasant to behold as her employer Charlie Runkle. But thankfully she did, and so we the lucky viewers benefit by gazing upon her lovely English globes. And Mary Poppins fantasies everywhere were given a fresh breath of life.
11. Alison Pill of The Newsroom accidentally tweets a topless photo
Well that's a fine how-do-you-do! If only more actresses were this inept at technology, social media would be so much more enjoyable. Although the question is still out on whether this really was an accidental tweet by Alison Pill, no one is going to argue when a perfectly nice pair of breasts pops up on their twitter feed. Better than pics of someone's breakfast.
10. Jamie Lynne Grumet, breastfeeding mom on the cover of Time
If ever a cover inspired some seriously complicated feelings, this was the one. For most of us of the male persuasion, our minds were pinballing between the fact that we were looking at a lovely breast and the fact that there was a 3-year-old kid attached to it. Grumet is a hottie, no doubt about it, and her perkiness is impressive, but there is something just way too Oedipal about this whole operation. Ditch the kid and then we'll talk.
12. Michelle Williams and Sarah Silverman, Take This Waltz
On paper this seems like a great idea: two beautiful women completely naked in the shower? Sign me up. In practice, not so much. Both Silverman and Williams are perfectly fine breast-wise, but there is something so utilitarian about the scene that it is stripped of anything that could be considered sexy. We appreciate the effort, but it's sort of like, oh hey look at that, a couple of lovely ladies in the showe...oh, god no, she's pumicing her bunions.
There is a moment in every young actresses life when she seeks to shed the PG-13 image of her teenage self and embrace her now fully formed womanhood. Some do it by digging deep and pouring themselves into their craft, hoping that through an intense amount of effort they can generate a performance that will be thought of as truly profound. Others just show off their cans. Thank the good Lordy our gloomy little Kristen is the latter as Neal Cassady's girlfriend in this long awaited film version of Kerouac's novel.
When faced with a topless and beautiful but crazy stalker in your home, what do you do? Matt LeBlanc just kicks her out, but I'm sure there are those among us who would think twice before such a hasty action. And did I mention she also bakes cookies? Tough call.
The 2012 award winner for best breasts covered in blood. It's just, you know, vampires and sex and shit. No explanation needed.
17. Ésme Bianco, Natalie Dormer, and Carice van Houten, Game of Thrones
Come on guys, it's Game of Thrones. We'd expect nothing less.
16. Anna Hutchison, The Cabin in the Woods
It just wouldn't be a good year if there wasn't a horror movie where a bunch of young friends go to a house/cabin/Mexican beach/abandoned carnival and sleep with each other and then get slaughtered. Fortunately for us 2012 was a good year. A big shout out to super hot New Zealander Anna Hutchison for unveiling her perfect breasts, mounting a dude in the woods, and then satisfying our latent blood-lust.
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A literate look at the 50 most unforgettable breasts in movie history
Since 1957, GQ has inspired men to look sharper and live smarter with its unparalleled coverage of style, culture, and beyond. From award-winning writing and photography to binge-ready videos to electric live events, GQ meets millions of modern men where they live, creating the moments that create conversations.
To revisit this article, visit My Profile, then View saved stories .
To revisit this article, select My Account, then View saved stories
She rises from the depths like the Venus of the San Fernando Valley—slicked hair glistening, water dripping from her smiling lipps, dark eyes glittering with libidinal mischief. Then—in a scene that will forever grant an otherwise incomprehensible erotic aura to the Cars—the new-wave chestnut "Moving in Stereo" kicks in as Phoebe Cates begins her slo-mo poolside strut. And boy, do they move in stereo, those pert, secondary sexual characteristics of teenage Phoebe Cates, as—in one breathtaking gesture—she frees her frisky buds from their front-fastening red bikini top to quiver in the balletic perfection of Judge Reinhold's furtive spank dream. The boob shot would soon become stock-in-trade of the Porky's epoch, but it would never be used to such weighty narrative effect. Here, hooters star in a compressed version of the male adolescent's tragic arc: from the soaring heights of erotic fantasia to the bleak depths of sexual humiliation, as the sleek naiad of Reinhold's imaginings actually walks in on him log-flogging to her image. The cable arts channel Bravo included this scene in its Sexiest Moments in Film —in which the model-pundit Roshumba Williams helpfully explained, "In the male world, boobs are huge."
I'd heard it was scary, so I went. It scared me, all right. Scarred me. Before, I'd believed outer space an antiseptic realm soundtracked by strauss. I quickly learned otherwise. Learned that space was cloyingly organic, infected and infectious, rapacious—and that to experience space was to experience not the infinite void but rather the claustrophobic horror of being caged with a sexual predator.
Indeed, Alien teemed, burst, with inner private parts that had no business seeing the light of day. Firstly: that loathsome leathery pod that grew translucent as John Hurt neared, revealing a jellied organ aquiver within. Moments later, thick black lips peeled back to expose—no doubt about it—a glistening, pulsating vagina . Then, in response to Hurt's whispered exclamation ("...organic life! "), that wicked wobbling vagina-squid sprung forth and... raped his face! Clasped its insectoidal legs to his scalp, noosed his neck with its muscled tentacle, and pumped a fleshly funnel down the man's throat, through which it...planted its seed.
Such a filthy movie: exploding retractable jaws; acidic body fluids; a severed droid head whose mouth issued lewd taunts ("perfect organism! ") along with a strange milky effluent; a man who gave birth. That birth—is there a more violent, violating moment in filmdom? As Hurt bayed in pain, my dear, sweet, credulous brother, sitting beside me, began to whimper. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. When the spawn emerged from Hurt's chest, spraying gore and squealing triumphantly, he promptly pissed himself—then fled the theater.
They popped up near the end, after the last human standing—Sigourney Weaver's character, Ripley—had blown up the mother ship and escaped in the shuttle. Safe at last, she began to relax. Off came the clothes.
Now, Alien worked on the principle that what can't be seen is always more vivid than what can. (Glimpses of the creature were fleeting at best.) So it was that Ripley's breasts remained sheathed. Whereas the alien had its exoskeletal armor, Ripley had that skimpy white tank top, thin as cheesecloth, which only made her seem more human, more vulnerable. So palpably natural, those breasts, utterly unbuoyed and uninflated. They even seemed a bit forlorn—bewildered little patties blinking and withering in the harsh fluorescent light of the shuttle. The nipples, however, were another story; they'd gone as hard as ski-pole tips. It was both the earthliest and the sexiest image of a woman I had ever seen, and by way of contrast it created the film's most disorienting moment.
Presented with Ripley's tumescent womanhood, I began to let my guard down, to psychologically uncurl myself and to physically sit up straight in my seat, as it were. The movie was just setting me up, of course; the alien had stowed itself in the shuttle. As it came out of hiding, I got my first good look at its proboscis. Which was—gleamingly, drippingly, chitinously, blackly, hugely, undeniably—phallic. I took it as I was meant to take it, as a grotesque mockery of my own arousal. You don't get to have her— it does. Was I manufacturing sexual undertones? No. For as the beast nonchalantly began to stretch its limbs and slide its goo-slicked jaw in and out, in and out, what did Ripley say over and over? Lucky, lucky, lucky. That's right—the perfect organism was gonna get "lucky" with Ripley.
I was 12 years old then. I'd already learned to pair id with dread; I knew well the horror of others banging on the bathroom door as I...took my time. Yet I had never had—and never again would have—the third-rail force of my own sexual desire so vividly and soul-scarringly converted into fear.
Now, twenty-six years later, I only wish I'd pissed and run like my brother. I'd be just a little less fucked-up if I had.— Andrew Corsello
To me, the oddest instutition in Hollywood is the body double. I can understand if an actress, for various reasons, doesn't want to do nudity. But then why let someone else do it for her? If everyone thinks those are your tits, then in some sense they are your tits. I guess a body double simply saves an actress the embarrassment of being ogled by the key grip and the best boy all day. But what the big deal is about showing tits I don't know, unless they aren't such great tits. Which is, of course, a perfectly valid reason for modesty.
There is one brilliant reason not to show them, and that is to increase the value of showing them eventually. Halle Berry was rumored to have demanded a six-figure deal for baring nipple in Swordfish , though she denies it. But she was well paid for this box-office-stimulating flash. (I would also deny being paid a premium for nipple exposure. In fact, I do deny it.) Timing is everything, however. Meg Ryan never showed 'em, and then was counting on a surprise appearance of her mammies in In the Cut to uplift her sagging career. Alas, it was too little too late.
One of the best star breast moments in film was the brief but pleasant exposure of Linda Fiorentino's in The Moderns . As someone interested in the art world of the '20s, I just hate pseudo-cool movies like Alan Rudolph's wimpy rendering of the modernist movement, but I loved Linda Fiorentino as the modernist muse and sylphlike sybarite. The one genuinely modern thing in this film is Fiorentino's body. Her breasts are revealed when the crass collector, played by John Lone, performs the obeisance of shaving her armpits, then again when she tub-wrestles with the painter, played by Keith Carradine. She's not exactly androgynous, but streamlined. A woman after Matisse, built for running, not milking. Artemis, not Aphrodite. All in all, a pleasant relief from the glandular excesses of Hollywood and a tribute to the erotic sensibilities of those of us who were happily weaned.— Glenn O'Brien
Like so much transgression, it begins with cigarettes. Titta, Fellini's younger self—living in a tiny town in fascist-era Italy; adolescent, hormones geysering, his days spent in delinquency, yearning, and self-abuse—goes to the tobacconist to buy himself "una nazionale," just one. It is closing time, and he slips in under the iron gate. The proprietress, locking up for the night, is moving large sacks across the floor, and he offers to help. "You couldn't manage," she dismisses him; he is half her size, after all.
She is cartoonishly ample. In her pale blue cardigan, her bust is an unyielding shelf, jutting out in an improbable cantilever worthy of Frank Gehry. An undifferentiated wedge such as this could be known only as a bosom. Amarcord is above all a film of recollection (the title means "I remember" in Italian dialect). It makes sense that these jugs of memory would be outsize, hypertrophic ideals, although Maria Antonietta Beluzzi, the actress playing the part, is real enough.
Titta protests, saying he can lift eighty kilos, can even lift his father. "What do you weigh?" he asks. "I could lift you, too."
"Ah si?" she asks, bored. She takes off her apron, slams down the iron gate, and turns to him, sizing him up. Why not? she must be thinking. Everyone in town is looking for something to break up the monotony. "Vediamo," she dares him.
The transaction is hugely awkward and private. His arms barely make it around her fantastically broad, brown-tweed-clad ass. He lifts her three times in quick succession. He is almost undone by his efforts while her shrieks of laughter give way to a moaning, closed-eyed rapture. Her head brushes against the hanging lightbulb, and she doesn't care. Even when she is back on solid ground, her delirious floating fugue continues, still held aloft by the preconscious memory of weightlessness, nothing more than her birthright, being possessed of such a pair of balloons.
And what balloons they are! Overwhelmed, she unpacks her sweater, releasing only one.
"Drive me crazy, just a little," she tells him, pulling his mouth against the left nipple. He is a baby once again, the breast dwarfing his head. Its right twin manifests in a great, shuddering mitosis. He blows on it. "You have to suck, you idiot," she says, cajoling, still in the moment. She presses his face into the deep cleft between the watermelons. He cannot breathe.
It is over as suddenly as it began. She shoves him away roughly; the cardigan is restuffed. Warm biology becomes angora-clad architecture once more. She is all business now, closing up shop, reminding him of his initial purpose: a Nazionale. She hands him one for free. "Un regalo [a present]," she says, with no trace of affection in her voice. Best not to dwell on the size of the tiny baton. He takes it and walks to the iron gate. Spent, he cannot budge it. She lifts it effortlessly and pushes him out into the night.
Wish fulfillment can make all men briefly stupid, and still we chase after the chance to make idiots of ourselves. At that age, instinct would probably desert us, too, and we would also blow when faced with the heaving udders of La Tabaccaia—so confusingly, simultaneously liquid and solid. From rigid cardigan to flesh and back to cardigan once more. In science such a thing is known as a non-Newtonian liquid. Cornstarch and water, for example, will dribble freely over an open palm, but clench your fist and it seizes up into a firm handful. Relax again and back it flows. Fellini has another word for something that can switch states so rapidly, providing ever changing and equal measures of give and resistance, opprobrium and succor: Mommy.— David Rakoff
There's a rather grand school of thought—peddled, in the main, by former film stars in their sixties and seventies—that "it's far sexier to see less than more!" Tell this to a few 11-year-old boys and they will brutally laugh, if not actually beat you down. By the age of 11, I'd had my mind blown by dozens of _Playboy_s, but I had yet to behold the miracle of a celluloid mammary. That would come in Fred Zinnemann's The Day of the Jackal . The film follows an enigmatic a
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