So I had a realization about Matthew McConaughey recently, and it didn’t come from staring at a picture of the sun glistening off his shirtless body. No, instead, it struck me as I was wandering through Target, and came across some Johnson’s Baby Powder, which actually has the enigmatic phrase “Clinically proven mildness” stamped across the front of its packaging: McConaughey is the Johnson’s Baby Powder of the under-40 set, masculine enough for the ladies, but so totally bro-riffic as to induce absolutely no feelings of hostility or jealousy in any guy. This isn’t to say that he’s at all feminine, just that there’s no edge, darkness or menace to him, no capacity for ill will, violence or even complication lurking behind those eyes. Paul Walker has undeniably more of an edge to him than McConaughey; hell, I think DJ Qualls might, too.

In and of itself this wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but for the way it’s coloring McConaughey’s work, and choices. I mean, just look at the sigh-inducing poster for Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, his new pairing with Jennifer Garner (Kate Hudson was apparently unavailable), and try to convince me that there exists a more de-fanged-looking actor working consistently in studio fare these days. Even the rare, occasional curveball (We Are Marshall, Two for the Money) can’t escape the drag of McConaughey’s Southwestern stoner-folksy persona, which descends like a thick mist upon almost all in which he appears. Notice I said almost. A late sub for Owen Wilson, McConaughey slayed in Tropic Thunder, reminding viewers how fun he can be when unhooked from rom-com piffle. Unfortunately, apart from that emergency role-snatch, McConaughey seems unconcerned with any sort of on-screen exercise to match his off-screen workout regimen, and so his movies have become near caricatures of themselves.