Within the first three minutes of American Hustle – a flash forward into the story – Amy Adams’ cleavage takes center stage:

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The outfit doesn’t seem scene-appropriate but I think, hey I’ll go with it, this must make sense later. Perhaps she becomes a prostitute or her shirt rips or she has a skin condition that doesn’t allow her chest to be covered by fabric. Besides, no one is complaining about Amy Adam’s boobs. She should be quite proud of the body God and Hollywood gave her.

So we roll on and jump back in time. The story unfolds. A brilliant and complicated plot evolves. The movie is dotted with great one-liners and complex moral quandaries. Yet still, in 9 out of 10 scenes, there are Amy Adams’ boobs. Inexplicably exposed. In a shitty bar, on the street, in a high class club, in the winter winds of New Jersey. There they are:

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I’m going to assume it’s the allergy. Here’s to you Amy Adams, you brave brave soul.

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