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February 28, 2008

Oscar Fug Carpet: There Will Be Fug

REBECCA MILLER: Darling, you look so dapper.

DANIEL DAY-LEWIS: Thanks, sweetness. I thought it was about time; I'm tired of lumberjack plaid. You look gorgeous, too, of course.

REBECCA: We're so in love.

DANIEL: Although...

REBECCA: Wait, what? I never said anything before about the plaid or those silly earrings, and now you're giving me an "although"?

DANIEL: It's just... you're marvelous, but the dress is a bit Death Of An Accessories Salesman.

REBECCA: Daniel, if you want to throw my father's work in my face, he ALSO wrote a radio play called The Pussycat and The Plumber Who Was A Man, which is what we USUALLY look like when we leave the house. Well, minus the cat. But you get my point.

DANIEL: No, I...

REBECCA: Maybe I wanted a turn being the wacky one. Did you ever think of that?

DANIEL: All I'm saying is, what if  someone comes up and tries to use the door-knocker on your breasts? Then it's all "knockers" puns, all the time, AND I'll have to punch someone. And I'm just not that guy.

REBECCA: No. You far prefer to be wearing your wood-cutting loafers than starting fights.

DANIEL: At least I might have made these myself.

REBECCA: Well, maybe I made this, too. You don't know. You're not the only crafty one in the family.

DANIEL: Let's not squabble. Let's just agree that we're both a little crazy, and then go home and recreate that scene from Ghost but with my cobbling equipment.

REBECCA: You naughty crumpet! I can't wait. Make your acceptance speech short.

Posted by Heather at 11:28 AM in Oscars | Permalink

February 26, 2008

Oscars Post-Party PELDONS

Because we are nothing if not committed to keeping you up to date on the movements of the Sisters Peldon:

They're alive! They're attending Oscar parties in outfits which may have been purchased at Forever XXI, but hey -- a girl needs to save her coin sometimes! They're at an Oscar party partially sponsored by something called Tummy Tuck Jeans, which would have prompted me to hiss, "WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING?" at the invitation. And most disturbingly of all, Brown appears to be going blonde, an alarming development that surely signals some kind of Single White Female/Kelly Taylor's Friend From Rehab Who Tries to Steal Kelly's Life And Also Murder Her situation. I'm just saying, if we start seeing but one Peldon around town -- one sort of unidentifiable, blonde-ish Peldon -- the authorities should probably be alerted.

Posted by Jessica at 01:35 PM in Courtney Love, Oscars | Permalink

Oscars Post-Party Fug: Tara Reid

Wondering what Tara Reid's been up to, other than gracing the pages of our book, in which we might be a leeetle mean about her propensity to be, as Heather once said, "too often Wild and not nearly enough On"? Well, someone invited her to an Oscar party!

And she remembered her spray tan! Is it me, or is this dress way too big? I know La Reid has lost weight -- I've been reading my Star Magazine! -- but the droopy dress + the tan + a sort of aggressive expression + the blonde + a resemblance I never noticed until now = Rachel Zoe. I don't mean that she appears styled by Zoe, I mean that if you squint and shake your head and move ten feet away from the computer, she sort of LOOKS like Rachel Zoe. Though surely Zoe would have accented this with giant sunglasses and a fur stole -- and would kill me if she knew I were comparing her to Tara Reid -- but you know what I mean. My question is: does this mean that Tara Reid is on the road to producing a book about style, perhaps titled From A to Reid, all about the stylistic merits of denim minis, excessive boozing and drunk-dialing Alyson Hannigan at midnight to yell that SHE should be the one in a sitcom? I certainly hope so. I would be first in line to buy it.

Posted by Jessica at 11:59 AM in Oscars, Tara Reid | Permalink

Oscar Fug Carpet: Intern George's Date (Sorry, George)

Being the employers of one of the country's sauciest bachelors and smoothest-sailing dreamboats, we understand Sarah Larson's pain: All eyes are on her because George brought a date, she's the only one of his string of brunette-bots that he's brought to something like this, the magazines are screaming that she's the lucky girl who'll get him to commit again, and she knows we're all wondering why Clooney is making out with a girl who once ate a scorpion on Fear Factor.

But dating Intern George has its plus side -- you know, one or two -- and that is the fact that designers were probably throwing gowns at her by the dozen in an effort to woo her into their camp for the Oscars. She must have had an entire room at the villa full of options, and she picked this:

It's apparently a Valentino couture dress, but it looks more like Jessica McClintock passed out one night on top of a book of Monet paintings and woke up with drool on her cheek and a jones for wearable water lilies. We complained about a lack of interesting colors at the Oscars this year -- it was all red and black, making me wonder if there was a poker theme we didn't know about -- but I'm not sure I can get behind a crazy melange of pastels that may once have upholstered a couch in the lobby of my grandmother's condo building in Florida.

Oh, George, don't be like that. You know we're right. We're not saying she's not NICE -- not that we'd know, though, since we never heard her say anything all night and you never bring her around for dinner or Diet Coke breaks or donuts, but WHATEVER. So chill with the skepticism. Also, you've never seen that couch.

That's better. Now come home! We want to hear more stories about Tilda Swinton.

Posted by Heather at 11:24 AM in Intern George, Oscars | Permalink

Oscars Fug Carpet & Ceremony: Diablo Cody

Today, we encountered several people who said one of the following to us:

1) "Oh, GOD, are you actually HAPPY Diablo Cody won for writing Juno?"

2) "Oh, GOD, are you one of THOSE people who are PISSED Diablo Cody won for writing Juno?"

Personally, and shallowly, I'm stoked for her -- everyone loves a stripper-to-screenwriter tale (or at least I do, especially if she has an evil twin lurking somewhere), so I say let her have the bronzed naked dude. It's just a trophy. And if it turns out she's secretly the daughter of a wealthy oilman who only stripped out of self-indulgent fascination with her own nipples, well, whatever. That's between her and her therapist.

Who, it's worth noting, may be getting paid overtime to counsel Cody through her Oscar fashion debut.

Objection #1: This feels a bit off-the-rack, which is fine when you're at an Oscar viewing party but not when you're viewing it from your awesome seat at the Kodak alongside the people you're about to beat. It has no shape. It's billowy. I'm pretty sure someone's slutty grandmother in Boca Raton wore this to Red Lobster on Unlimited Shrimp Night in the hope that she could eat all she wanted and still get groped by Original-Teeth Jim. If she didn't use a stylist, she should have -- most of them were probably clamoring to clothe her; she was the unanimous choice to win in our GFY HQ office poll (Intern George abstained because he was busy, or something), and you know she's going to make it in Us. GIVE your services to her, folks.

If Diablo did have a stylist, here's Objection #2: That person is BORING. Like, Cold Mountain boring. Ivanhoe boring. Or, more relevantly, 80th Annual Academy Awards boring. I like a good animal print, but when you're outfitting an unusual and rebellious sort, it's the laziest and easiest choice (except for black, possibly) if you are trying to say, "Hey, CHECK IT OUT, this woman is unusual and rebellious!" Diablo could look bitchin' in a bunch of colors and cuts that wouldn't blunt her edge, so stop sleeping on the job, people.

Objection #3: Yes, there is something really charming about a woman who clearly didn't pick her dress by thinking, "Okay, but how's it going to look when I win?" However, seriously, you're at the OSCARS. Even if you're Entertainment Weekly's 100-1 shot, you HAVE to pick your dress by thinking, "Okay, but how's it going to look when I win?" Otherwise, this happens:

AWKWARD. How do you NOT do a quick crotch-check before you leave the house? As she strode up to the podium, Diablo tried uncomfortably to hold her hand over The Area. As she walked offstage, she tugged at her dress while doing the same. And when she hugged Harrison Ford, she probably said, "Oh my GOD, Han, I think the front row just saw that my bikini line is waxed in the shape of Jason Bateman's face." And listen, we all loved David Hogan, Derek from Silver Spoons, and Michael Bluth, but a woman's genitals are her own private kingdom. So WALK in the dress. Take it for a test-drive. Practice your acceptance speech in the mirror, and make sure that your birth canal isn't inviting Jack Nicholson for a pleasure cruise while you're dedicating your award to the producers and The Children and what-have-you. It doesn't make you an egomaniac if you say to your neighbor, your boyfriend, or your Dynasty commemorative plate, "Hey, when I walk, do my genitals wink at you?" And it's worth it to forestall Jack arriving at your house with an oar in one hand and a life-vest in the other.

Posted by Heather at 10:26 AM in Oscars | Permalink

Oscars Post-Party Fug: Jeremy Piven

Hey Jer,

What's up? Not a lot going on right now, huh? Kinda just bored at home? Doing a lot of "chillaxing" with your bros? Yeah, us too. You know,  just doing our thing. I feel you.

One thing, though:

I know it was The Most Boring Oscars EverTM, and everyone -- except Marion Cotillard, whom I've decided upon reflection that I might be in love with -- looked Totally Boring, but do you really think it's wise to attempt, once again, the old I'm Too Cool to Bathe, Dude, I Just Show Up And Do My Thing scuzzathon? It's possible no one told you, but Colin Farrell JUST did that.  And he actually made me laugh during a leaked sex tape (not that I watched it, I totally just made that up, but if I had watched Colin Farrell's sex tape -- under duress obviously -- then I might have laughed when, whilst manning the camera, he commented that his cinematography was REALLY terrible and embarrassing.). So I think it's apt to note that he might be the more skilled man at Charming Scuzzery. You know?

Posted by Jessica at 09:34 AM in Oscars | Permalink

February 25, 2008

Oscar Fug Carpet: Hilary Swank

Hilary Swank is someone who should probably avoid making statements -- I wasn't a fan of the navy backless dress the year she won for Million-Dollar Baby, and of course there was that pre-GFY Academy Awards to which she wore a pink minidress wrapped in full-length tulle. It's like she thinks we still don't Get It that she's attractive and womanly, but in fact, we do.

So I was relieved she stayed away from statement dressing -- for her sake, of course; OBVIOUSLY we were hoping she'd show up in a piƱata. But in the end I still don't think I'm entirely on board with what she picked.

The translucent skirt is sort of fine, but I'm not wild about the way she's woven into it, nor how the design makes it look like the cross-hatching is slowly coming undone and will eventually leave her semi-nude in a big swinging, filmy black drape. And my early interest in the bodice wore off the longer I stared at it, at which point it began looking like arachnids on parade.

And then, of course, there is the close-up.

Girl, you have GOT to keep the side-boob in check. Your gown has to stand the test of, oh, at least FIFTEEN MINUTES of posing and throwing elbows to get through the throng before your chest makes a run for it. Strap those suckers in, tape 'em down, and put your assistant on Ooze Watch all night. It's why you pay him or her, and also, it's great fodder for his/her eventual memoir, which puts mortgage-caliber money in his/her pocket. So really, screeching for boob tape at 2:58 p.m. -- mere minutes before you're supposed to burst forth from the limo and try not to become hypnotized by Lisa Rinna's lips of putty -- and then shrieking, "You'd better not take your eyes off my boobs ALL NIGHT or you're FIRED," is actually a GENEROUS act.

Posted by Heather at 02:04 PM in Fug or Fab, Oscars | Permalink

Oscar Fug Carpet: Heigl vs Hathaway

In a year when a lot of people showed up in red, I half-expected Katherine Heigl to whip out a shiv and shank the hell out of Anne Hathaway for arriving earlier in a jazzier, more romantic version of her tomato gown. Not that it's Hathaway's fault; I just feel like if a girl is so annoying as to complain about her husband and married life every time you shove a microphone into her face, then she's the type of pill who will sneak up behind Anne at the post-party and husk, "You know what the devil wears? HOSPITAL SCRUBS, bitch. Sleep with one eye open."

So let's compare the dresses. First up: Katherine Heigl, because maybe by putting her first she won't leave a flaming bag of manure on our doorsteps.

It's nice. And it fits snugly. Her makeup is a splotchy hot mess and I'm a little tired of her trying to morph herself into Marilyn Monroe -- which, speaking of pilfering, I wonder how Christina Aguilera feels about her aesthetic being snatched out from under her nose while she was doing her laamaze breathing. But otherwise, there's nothing really overtly wrong with it.

However, although the dresses aren't identical and certainly there's room for both of them in this world, we're guessing Katherine Heigl took one look at Anne Hathaway and immediately ran for the bar:

An asymmetrical neckline with a peekaboo opening in the shoulder, a rich hue, red lipstick.... check, check, check, but better, and all the while proving it doesn't have to be tight to be flattering. Anne hasn't befriended the Marchesa girls for nothing. They're very good at what they do -- specifically, making girly, flowy dresses for deployment on the red carpet, the better to get more stars to come crawling to them for girly, flowy dresses to deploy on the red carpet -- and they can take a floral detail like that and give it just enough glamour that it's not as "I Just Got Lei'd In Maui" as it could've been.

But the crowning achievement of the above dress just might be that it's NOT this dress. Anne had nowhere to go but up, and fortunately, she went straight to the penthouse -- or at least to one of those floors right underneath it that still has decent views but lacks an in-house bowling alley. Which is too bad, because I'd love to see the equally pompous Heigl and Hathaway duke it out on the lanes, Big Lebowski-style, for the right to a spot on Us Weekly's best-dressed list. One of them would end up with a pin in the kisser for sure.

Posted by Heather at 01:38 PM in Oscars | Permalink

Oscar Fug Carpet Fug or Fab: Ellen Page


I know, I know. You love the Converse. You live in an old converted whorehouse. You're a smart kid and a bit of a tomboy. I like you. You seem smart. I think you're adorable. If I lived next door to you, we'd be hanging out, shooting the shit all the time. And if that were the case, today I would go shuffling over some time after noon with Tito's Tacos (for the hangover) and the papers, and we'd eat six or seven bags of chips and then I'd say, "Ellen, WTF?" And you'd roll your eyes, and then I'd say, "WHY DIDN'T YOU ASK ME?" and you'd say, "because you would have told me not to wear it." And I'd said, "And?" And you would say, "and you would have been right."

Posted by Jessica at 01:01 PM in Oscars | Permalink

Oscar Fug Carpet Fug or Fab: Marion Cotillard

On one hand, it looks like what might happen if fish scales and lace mated. On the other, it's French and so is she, and she's so pretty and she was so, so lovely and adorable when she won, and you know what? I think I might sort of....like it.

I mean, for one thing, it's certainly very flattering on her. She looks like a sexy fish-lady on her wedding day, which I know SOUNDS weird and rude, but I mean it in totally the most complimentary way. You feel me, right? Tell me you feel me:

Posted by Jessica at 12:05 PM in Fug or Fab, Oscars | Permalink


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