Juliette Lewis

Hillbilly murderess, sleazy rock chick, pervert Valley girl, pubescent tease; Lewis is all of these and more. A past-master in the open-mouthed, coquettish sideways glance, more importantly she is in possession of such a honeyed, cigarette-hewn, Californian drawl they could bottle it and serve it on the side at House Of Pancakes.

Of course, the key attraction is Lewis’ down-pat reputation as a perpetually teenage rebel (thrice-divorced – from her parents and also a husband) and rock ‘n’ roll diva. Loose-limbed turns in Natural Born Killers and Old School preceded her reincarnation as a full-on, stage-diving, one-woman-tornado front for Juliette And The Licks, a band that could support Blondie at CBGBs in the ’70s just as soon as someone sorts out the tricky time-travel problem.

Occasional slips into androgeny-overload notwithstanding, she is never more impressive than when ladling on dollops of sinewy sexuality – think heated moments in Cape Fear and From Dusk Til Dawn, where she gets away with playing girls much younger than herself. Uh-oh. Dangerous territory.