Elizabeth is on the new cover of FLAUNT Magazine.
Elizabeth Banks takes a bite from a pulled-pork sandwich, dabs a starched white cloth napkin at a corner of her lipstick-pink mouth, swallows, and says, “I have no trouble ripping someone a new asshole if they’re not doing their job.”
This is not a dream. Not even the rare rain on this drab spring afternoon is a mirage. California is dried out and this drizzle is a mockery to its emptied reservoirs. Seated outside despite the damp, on a picnic-style bench, wearing bright white like a dare to the dark sauce that drips intermittently from the hot meat to her white plate, Banks laughs loudly. Then, she stabs her fork at a still-sizzling hoecake served tableside in a cast-iron skillet, the sound of its popping buttery bubbles a counterpoint to the drip, drip, dripping water from the awning above. In this troublesome tableau, her impossible elegance is nearly Biblical; a miracle, really. She is beautiful despite all of it.