April 30, 2007
Aussie actress/singer Natalie Bassingthwaighte (which, PS: how much do I love that name? There are so many consonants in it. It's fantastic) proves to us all that What Works on the runway is often hard to pull off in Real(ish) Life, even if you are in totally great shape:
When I first saw photos of this particular outfit in [Insert Glossy Fashion Mag Here], I assumed that it would be made available in longer lengths, as well -- which I think would actually be quite fabulous -- and as far as I know, it may well be (clearly, I need to zip over to Prada to research that point. Also, to try on turbans. And then cry, because I can not buy a Prada turban unless I plan to LIVE IN IT. Also because I would look insane in a turban.). Because what is stellar on a model whose legs are longer than my entire body tends looks REALLY REALLY SHORT when someone who is not a model wearing it out and about. And then that person just sort of looks out of proportion and awkward. I do enjoy the expressions on the faces of the people in the background. The ones who are looking at The Consonanted One seem to be thinking, "Wow. How is sister sitting down in that thing?" And, indeed, so am I. It reminds me of that AbFab episode where Patsy announces that she has the power to raise hemlines so high that "the whole world is your gynecologist." Apparently, she's finally done it.
I love animal print, but I am pretty sure that the undulating print on this little number is going to give someone a seizure:
It's actually very sexy....if you are:
a) appearing in No One Takes Me To The Cleaners And To Bed On The Same Night, Darling: The Life And Times of Joan Collins
b) an octogenarian
c) stranded on a wildlife preserve and forced to camouflage yourself with George Hamilton's bedspread. (Don't ask why George Hamilton is involved. HE JUST IS.)
I just want to sneak up behind her with some pinking shears and hem the entire thing to about knee-level. Then we'd be cooking with propane.
Posted by Jessica at 01:01 PM | Permalink
Abbie Cornish seems to have exited the "I am dressing as sweetly as possible so that you'll believe that Ryan Phillippe's wang did not pass this way" stage of her life and plowed straight into the, "God, I'm depressed -- now NOBODY is talking about me; I kind of wish I'd run around naked that week with a RYAN 4EVA tattoo on my ass" phase.
She looks so sad, like she's worn that skirt for three days while moping around the house and hasn't even really been washing her hair. I think I preferred the other phase.
Although, I heard they're remaking Fame, which feels like sacrilege, by the way, because seriously, it's RIGHT THERE in the song; they're going to live FOREVER, not be shoved aside by a peppy, gritty remake. Anyway, maybe Abbie's dressing like an off-duty ballet dancer -- carefully sloppy with lots of layers, just like they did it in Center Stage -- because she wants a job that doesn't involve being The Girl Who Allegedly Maybe Kinda Drove Reese Witherspoon Into A Long Public-Relations Bender That Led Her Straight Into The Arms Of Jake Gyllenhaal. For one thing, that's a bit long to put on your resume.
Posted by Heather at 11:41 AM | Permalink
Well Played/Fugged: Bjork
I got a text this weekend from a friend at Coachella, and it said:
Bjork is dressed like a Zulu warrior priestess at a luau.
My response was, "This is why Bjork is an international treasure."
I mean, seriously, would anyone else decide to look like she's presiding over a muppet sacrifice just because it's where her performing mojo inspired her to go? No. Only Bjork. You can't fug that kind of genius. She's quite possibly a modern Wonder of the World. I feel like it would be amazing to live inside her mind for a few minutes. It wouldn't be any of that boring day-to-day "I wonder where my Corn Flakes are" stuff. Instead she'd be all, "Whither the space elves with their Newt King? I need their milk, and man, why hasn't Katie Holmes left that guy yet?" Forget everyone paying millions for a ride into space. Let's book a head trip on the S.S. Bjork.
April 27, 2007
Spider-Fug 3 World-Domination Press Junket Update: So Far, So Fug
It's been quite a roller-coaster ride with La Dunst during the Spider-Man 3 press junkets throughout Europe. One day, she'll show up looking totally charming, with cute hair and shoes and great makeup that makes her eyes pop, and then -- as Jess put it -- the next day she'll show up looking like she suffered a head injury.
Case in point: There was this, which we loved, and then there was this, which gives off the impression that she's about to hop on the trapeze at a gay circus. She looked adorable in this, but we weren't so wild about this.
Aside from the fact that the base dress would be more at home in a production of Swan Lake Erie, in which all the water fowl are poisoned by pollution, it also looks like she spilled a rubberizing compound down her front. After drinking blood. Well, actually, I don't mind the lip color so much, but in combination with the dress I feel like she's headed to an after-party at weirdest ballet-themed S&M club in town.
Next week we should get a few stateside Spider-Man premieres, and frankly, we can't wait, and are hoping she will show up in the most fabulous Marchesa gown imaginable, followed up by sticking her legs through an old barrel and filling it up with beer that she then serves to the fans. I mean, why not, right?
Fug The Poster: Michelle Williams
Based on this description, would you go see this movie?
"A Gainesville Florida auto upholsterer attempts to transcend his mundane life by taming a wild, red-tailed hawk. He chases his passion while caring for his autistic nephew, and becoming caught up in an abstract and uneasy relationship with a young psychology student." [Source.]
I can tell you right now that I would run, not walk, away from the theater. I mean, obviously, it's incredibly relatable to try and spice up your life by taming a rare bird, but I am guessing the random insertion of the young psychology student came because whoever developed the script turned to the writer and said, "Where are the boobs in this movie? Where is the illicit tongue? People like illicit tongue more than they like birds." Incidentally, that is a valuable lesson for everyone to remember. Otherwise, the whole thing seems rife with depressing and potentially pretentious discourse about growth, plus annoying metaphors about wildness versus obedience and the spreading of one's wings. And bird feet. Lots of bird feet.
Next question: Does this poster make you any more inclined to see the movie?
Problem No. 1: It's Giamatti, which means the movie description left out the important detail that the Gainsville auto upholsterer is a sad-sack Gainesville auto upholsterer. He may be a great actor, but that doesn't mean I haven't reached my limit of watching him be short-but-deep streak of misery.
Problem No. 2: Michelle Williams has no eyebrows in that picture. Seriously, that girl is lovely, and yet she looks consumptive -- as if they left out from the description that the young psych student is being devoured from within by her own inner demons, and also, possibly some kind of rare and debilitating navel cancer. Who did that to her? Did the old Dawson's Creek hair and makeup people take over the production of this movie poster? She reminds me of my other official Eyebrow Nemesis: whoever was responsible for Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed, where they got bleached clean off the planet.
Problem No. 3: It reunites DC's Jen Lindley with her greasepig freshman boyfriend Henry, a.k.a. Michael Pitt. Down that road, agony lies.
Problem No. 4: No, seriously, what did they do to Michelle Williams? Do humble students suffering through abstract relationships with sad-sacks never go to the drugstore to spend $2 on some Wet N Wild lip gloss and some Maybelline Great Lash? I object.
In sum, I really don't understand why they would decide Michelle Williams is one of their most important marketing tools for this movie, and then make her look as if you will spend the whole time wishing you could take her to Rite-Aid and/or crying over her sensitive wisdom while she dies all over the place, or falls in love with the autistic nephew, or makes out with Giamatti.
No. She should be a selling point, but she's not in that picture.
Billboard Latin Music Awards Fug Carpet: Jullye Giliberti
If IMDb is to be believed, Jullye Giliberti has appeared in several telenovelas, all of which seemed to have involved priests, secret weddings, coincidental liasions with relatives of former lovers, and -- I hope -- people getting slapped. Which is why I really wish I'd taken Spanish in high school instead of French. If the school had told me that Spanish would have increased the number of soaps I could watch, I totally would have signed up.
At any rate, it seems that no one told Jullye that there IS such a thing as Being Too Coordinated:
That is a LOT of aqua. Unless she's attending A Salute To Miami Vice (an event I would completely support, by the way) we've got a problem.
Pregnancy Rumor-Mongering Apology: Sarah Michelle Gellar
So, remember back at the Oscars when I bet all my money and every pair of shoes I have that Smidge here was up the duff? Sorry, Buffy:
You are as wee as ever, and I stand officially corrected. Also not pregnant: EVERYONE ELSE I THOUGHT WAS PREGNANT.
One of these days, I will get something right, I'm just SURE of it.
All that being said, you look very pretty in what I assume might just be Chanel. I was going to say that you could use a spot of color, but then I remembered that I myself own literally 32 black shirts (what? They're all different. A black turtleneck is very different from a black halter top is very different from a black cashmere boatneck is very different from a black tank) and thus have really no leg to stand on regarding this particular issue. You are pretty, your hair is pretty, I secretly love Cruel Intentions and I hope you forgive me for going all BUMPWATCH 07! on you. Especially since I'm pretty sure you still remember how to kick ass.
Posted by Jessica at 10:55 AM | Permalink
A Moment Like Fug
I hate to kick a girl when she's having wardrobe trouble, especially when it's happening at an event that's for a very good cause and especially when it's Kelly Clarkson. But we don't want to violate Kelly's trust -- we like to think of ourselves as good girlfriends, and good girlfriends tell you when you need to go back inside and try on something else.
If only Kelly had invited her good girlfriends to the Idol Gives Back show (the logo for which somehow just makes me want to bake crescent rolls, or cookies-from-a-tube), because she needed a firm shove back toward the closet.
Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. You have officially veered away from poorly thought-out flowy dresses and straight into muumuu territory.
Do you see the look on Jeff Beck's face? He is giving the evil eye to your stylist, indicating that she had better not cross either of you again or else she will wake up one day with his haircut. Jeff knows, as we do, that you're a lovely girl with a voice that could make an inanimate object smile, and there is no reason you should be carelessly draped in fabric that makes you look both heavy and squat. Now, I get that maybe your shape is changing, for whatever reason, and that's fine -- that's life. Listen, we've all been there. I had to give up potato chips for Lent for a reason, and I'm sorry, Mom, I love you very much, but I must confess that reason had zero to do with piety and everything to do with the fact that for me, "Bet You Can't Eat Just One" refers not to one chip but one bag. I am a salt-food, junk-food junkie -- me and Cliff Huxtable -- and I have totally looked in the mirror some days and wondered if my hips could just please find a way to lie just a little bit longer. However, I actually think you and your pretty eyes and that shiny hair look gorgeous. I want to hug you for not losing 30 pounds just to fit into hot pants and then claiming you have no idea how you lost the weight because you have no time to exercise, and so the brand-new muscle tone all over your frame must have therefore appeared by magic. This is not about you not rocking just the way you are. (You do.) What it is about is somebody deciding to give up and just throw any old thing on you to hide your hips. You should be working those curves, not burying them.
So go home and put on some Right Said Fred and dance comfortably knowing you're too sexy for your caftan, and start fresh tomorrow.
Posted by Heather at 08:54 AM | Permalink
April 26, 2007
Emily Deschanel needs to fire her people.
It's not the dress -- although there's something so very twee about it, to the point where I half expect there to be a mini-Deschanel, or even a puppy Deschanel, that trots out in a matching ensemble.
No, as usual, my main problem with Emily Deschanel's getup is her makeup. Somehow, whoever does her eyes -- maybe it's her, maybe it's a three-year old, maybe she's an equal-opportunity employer who hired a blind makeup artist -- always manages to make it look smudged, as if she's still wearing yesterday's mascara even though half of it has taken up residence under her lower lash line.
This is new bad, though. Weird bad.
She just looks tired. Her eyes are a pretty, icy color, and whatever stuff's been caked around them just gives them a red-rimmed, slitty, rubbed-raw appearance, like maybe she hasn't slept in four days because of the beer IV she's had jammed in her arm. And as much as we'd all like to borrow that contraption from her (although in my case I'd fill it alternately with Diet Coke and chocolate martinis), I suspect she just needs some of that nice Clinique creamy eye-makeup remover and some cotton pads, and she'd look like a different person. Like, say, an awake, alert person who didn't accidentally try to strip off her eyeliner with some astringent.
Posted by Heather at 01:59 PM | Permalink