I’m Not a Cat Lady

Random Thoughts During the SAG Awards

Dear Jane Krakowski, If you're going to pull a JLo and wear an attention-grabbing chest-baring dress, don't go all "whoopsie daisy, are those my boobs?" when the camera's on you. As if  you didn't know they were out there.

Eva Longoria Parker made a interesting choice to deliver her "... and I'm an actor" speech with her hand burrowed between her husband's legs. Go figure.

Speaking of Krakowski, there was a kind of battle-of-the-cleavage going on between her, Jenna Fischer, Amy Poehler and Kate Winslet. Ladies, please. Susan Sarandon's in the house. She'll bury you  every time.

 


Tina Fey wins for funniest woman. Gee, didn't see that coming. And then proceeds to yammer on about her daughter for a full minute and a half. Why do people think the whole world is so fascinated to hear about their offspring? I don't care if you are Tina Fey—we're not! Meanwhile, Look at poor Tracy Ullman's face: she's thinking, Why did I have to go and time my big comeback the same year as this bitch got so fucking popular?

How much do you love these two? Frida Pinto could teach boobie-flaunting Hollywood floozies a thing or two about elegance.

  Elizabeth Moss and Fred Armitage: Really? Since when?

  Wow, Jon Hamm is nervous. Still, he looks so much cuter with his hair all floppy like that than he does as Don Draper.

Alec Baldwin: "I don't know who I wanna make out with more tonight—Tony Hopkins or Diane Lane." Bleurgh. Who does he think he is—Jack Donaghy?


Look at Viola Davis in character for Doubt and at the awards. You can't even tell it's the same person!

 Kate Winslet wins Best Supporting Female. Whoa, her dress is tight. Too tight, Kate! She doesn't look very happy about this. "I'm a bit lost for words, I'm sorry," she says. That's interesting—at the Golden Globes, she had her speeches all neatly folded and ready in her little black clutch. Now she's gone all cotton-mouthed. What's wrong with her tonight?


There, see? Jon Hamm seems kinda goofy in real life. So not Dapper Don.

 Meanwhile, Hugh Laurie looks exactly the same in and out of character. Love him. So cute—he reminds me a little bit of Stan Laurel.

  Funny how William Shatner and James Spader, formerly handsome men, both look as if their heads have been air-pumped to the point of bursting.

Do you think Kyra Sedgwick and Holly Hunter use the same plastic surgeon stylist?

  Sally Field thanks the crew, who "work harder, let's face it." Go, Norma Rae!

God bless Shirley MacLaine! That's all I have to say.

In memoriam. Always a mix of surprise and sadness. I didn't realize half these people had died. Sam Bottoms? Harvey Korman? Rhoda's husband? Aww, Bernie Mac. I remember thinking on election day that I wish he had lived to see Obama become president. Roy Scheider. Aww, gee. And Paul Newman. Now I'm totally crying.

Heath Ledger wins. Of course. Notice Robert Downey Jr. didn't even bother to show up this time. Poor old Gary Oldman, choking up while making his speech. Everyone looks suitably bereft.

All together now: "Heath!"

There's Brad Pitt and his big, smooth, frozen face. He makes some joke about how Benjamin Button's filmmakers saved him millions on plastic surgery. Oh, really?

Here are all the nominees for Female Lead in a movie. I love how the clips show each of them in a haggard state. Look what ladies have to do to win a bloody award around here. (Also, gives them a chance to show us how nicely they can scrub up!)

 

Now my favorite part: Everyone's face at the moment the winner is announced. And the Actor goes to.... Meryl Streep!

I think Streep's having a hot flash up there. "I didn't even buy a dress!" Hah! It's nice to see her all giggly and girly. "Thank you actors! Mwah! Luv you, luv you!" Okay, that's enough.

The Male Leads aren't so much haggard as... cosmetically and/or digitally altered. Except for Richard Jenkins, who always looks the same no matter what. And Sean Penn looks a lot better as Harvey Milk.

The Winner, Sean Penn: "I noticed that the statues had pretty healthy packages." Oo-er, cheeky!

Slumdog Millionaire takes the final award. Ladies and gentleman, good night!

Obamarama International!

Click here for the full effect.
screenshot courtesy of going.com

Saying New York Is Over: Over.

Another day, another facile New York Times Styles trend piece. Sadly, Eric Konigsberg's eloquent piss-take of the perma-craze known as absinthe did not herald a new day and a more discerning voice for Times trend reporting.

Written by Alex Williams—whose sole purpose seems to be tarting up obvious old tropes with a few fresh quotes from random twentysometings, usually delivered by "e-mail message" (see the one about how nobody keeps their New Year's resolutions, or the one about how conspicuous consumption is out of fashion, or the one about how it's dangerous to email when drunk, or dozens more like 'em)—now tries to recycle the classic chestnut that New York is over. What with all the layoffs in New York–centric industries like finance and real estate and publishing and advertising and all, New York ain't what it used to be.

There is probably some truth in this, and indeed, Williams begins to build the argument by stringing  together a few factoids and a bunch of unrelated quotes, like one from some guy who claims that Sixth and 55th was deserted on a recent Tuesday morning, and some girl who proclaims that "there is a sense that the thrill of paying $20 for a cocktail is over," and some other guy who says the city is “definitely shedding whatever New York was a few years ago”… whatever that was.

But then, after several more corroborations regarding shuttered Broadway shows and storefronts and constructions sites, comes this: "Can a city be considered 'over,' like Pete Doherty?" Okay, first of all: Pete Doherty? What's he got to do with anything? (A) He's not a New Yorker; he hasn't even visited lately; and (B) he's not over—just because he's not big in America, where he's not allowed in thanks to all those crack convictions, doesn't mean he's over.* Why not "over like Rudy Guiliani" or "over like Sarah Jessica Parker's marriage," or "over like saying 'saa-weeet!'", or, for that matter, "over like absinthe"?

Clearly Williams is grasping here, perhaps trying to best Konigsberg's clever allegorical mélange a couple of weeks earlier:

"If absinthe were a band, it would be Interpol, third-hand piffle masquerading as transgressive pop culture. If absinthe were sneakers, it would be a pair of laceless Chuck Taylors designed by John Varvatos for Converse. If it were facial hair, it would be the soul patch. If absinthe were a finish on kitchen and bath fixtures, it would be brushed nickel."

Over like Pete Doherty. Not even close.

But perhaps the most irritating of all is how with that sentence, Williams then turns the argument around on a dime. Is New York over? Nah! People are always saying that! You know, fictional people, like Kristen Johnson on Sex and the City that time, like, five years ago. Oh, and Joan Didion,way back in 1967. Who, by the way, still lives here. So you know that 1,000 words I just used up making the case that New York is over? All bullshit! Hah-hah!

And this is what these NYT trend pieces always do. Posit the question, string together a load of quotes that support the case, and then zap the reader with a bunch of "on the other hand" scenarios. Don't stick with the courage of your convictions or anything like that, NYT writers. Go ahead: Be wishy-washy!

photo courtesy of Jeremiah's Vanishing New York. And let's have a moment of silence for Love Saves the Day, which may just be a throwback to another era but you know what? It was a really great era to be in NYC.

* I'm sorry but that really struck a nerve: I happen to be a huge fan, and I'm pissed off that I can't watch the new documentary 24 Hours With Pete Doherty showing this week on UK's MTV.

Wintour Wonderland

Here's a clip from The September Issue, RJ Cutler's new documentary about Vogue. Notice how absolutely  knackered and soul-destroyed poor accessories editor Elissa Santisi looks when Anna Wintour surveys her layout and declares, icily, "So it's all pinks." Hear how she stammers out the following feeble reply when Anna asks whether it is "the most important message" for the issue: "I thought it was pretty." See what a sad empty husk this woman appears to have been reduced to.

Ooh, I can't wait to see this.

via jezebel.

Random Thoughts During the Golden Globes

Jennifer Lopez: "Shh! Mama's talkin'!" Go, girl! Plus, she can still rock a plunging neckline like it's 2000.

Rumer Willis looks pretty good. Elegant, even. Did she get that chin fixed?

S. Epatha Merkerson hawking pens? That's just sad. Just three years ago she was on the show itself, winning for Lackawana Blues—wha' happened?

Angelina and Brad look even waxier than usual. Creepy.

It can't have been lost on Robert Downey Jr. that, against the odds, he survived and Heath Leger didn't… and look who gets the award.

Who smacked Renee Zellweger in the face and dragged her through a bush backwards before sending her up on that stage?

Ooh, Kate Winslet won for Best Supporting Actress. Guess that means she's not getting the Best Actress award. Well, at least she's broken her losing streak.

Both Tom Wilkinson and Terrence Howard have trouble spitting out Paul Giamatti's name—what's up with that? Too foreign for them?

Gerard Butler's thick Glaswegian accent requires some serious lip and tongue gymnastics, and they've clearly taken a toll: He totally talks out of one side of his face. Not hot.

What is going on with Keifer Sutherland's ears? They look like they've melted.

Ricky Gervais and his beer—LOVE! Say what you like about the Brits, they know how to enjoy the free booze. Why can't everyone go up there hoisting a drink? Should be mandatory.

Paul Giamatti really needs to win more often. What a gracious, humble, heartfelt speech.

Entourage = Over. About time!

That Sally Hawkins is pale and scary-skinny and wipes her nose a lot. Just sayin'.

Tracy Morgan has really teeny-weeny hands. Ever noticed that?

Tina Fey: "Good gravy!" Who says that? I want to say enough already with the Tina Fey worship, but then she goes and makes that goofy speech, and I have to love her.

Danny Boyle comeback—woo! Though, someone needs to get him some product—his hair's way too thin to pull off that random tousled look (see Colin Farrell).

Speaking of Colin Farrell—welcome back, cutie!

Drew Barrymore is channeling Marilyn Monroe in her later years, when she was starting to look pretty messed up. Oh well, it's a look.

Oh Emma Thompson, so jolly hockeysticks. Nice organza housecoat, btw.

Sacha Baron Cohen's bad standup routine, does he think he's at the Comedy Store? Funny how Gervais pulls it off but Cohen, I don't know, something dark and nasty follows that guy into a room.

Hey, Mark Wahlberg: bitter much?

Well blow me down, I was wrong about Winslet! "Oh God, who's the other one?" HA! Only Angelina Jolie and Anne Hathaway, but never mind! Also: How cute are Kate and Leo with each other?

Mickey Rourke: Oh my lord, he fell up the stairs! Meryl Streep had to get out her glasses to have a good look at his Wildensteinian mask-face, holy hell. He's doing well, until he says "motherfuckers", which was too much for a mere bleep, it literally sent the screen to black for a second or two. I thought my DVR had cut the show short. Uh-oh, he's thanking his dogs. Bring up the music, stat!

Slumdog Millionaire! Don't you love a good upset?

Sour Milk

Yesterday, I finally went to see Milk, and it made me remember why I never go to the movies anymore. You've had this conversation, right? How you haven't gone to see a movie for ages and you're not sure why... You think maybe it's because you're so busy these days you can never block out the time, or maybe the movies have become so expensive that you think twice or three times before committing to go, or just that the movie you want to see always seems to playing a bit too early or too late to fit in with your schedule that particular day.

I know, for me, it's a combination of all of the above. And then I finally got it together to get my ass to a movie theater, and the real reason I don't go as often as I should came back to me in a rush. It's the people. The general movie-going public is a nightmare.

Last night, in a chock-full theater, I got stuck next to two ladies somewhere in their upper sixties. I'm guessing, I didn't look at them too closely when they arrived—late—and grabbed the last two remaining seats in the room. And they proceeded to ruin the whole movie for me. They were fine for the first 45 minutes, apart from some too-loud exchanges during the opening sequence—I think these broads were there at the time, so there were barks of recognition during the Castro-Back-in-the-Day montage.

But the hell began when they finished the popcorn. After placing the bag on the floor, the lady next to me began methodically to reach down, rummage around the bag for the leftover dried kernels, and, with her arm raised way high in the air, drop them into her mouth from her fingers. And then she crunched them with her mouth open. It sounded like someone smashing a sack of rocks against a wall. It was disgusting. She did this over and over again, slowly, deliberately and with great relish, crunching and cracking and smacking her lips, for about an hour, taking a short break now and then to lure me into a false sense of relief, only to lurch forward and start all over again.

It was so vile and distracting, I wanted to lean right over her, grab the bag and shake out the kernels all over her head. During particularly violent smacks and crunches I started making little noises like "Oh dear!" or "Oh my God!" and looking straight at her, but no, she was too far gone in her euphoric mastications to notice.

Towards the end of the film, she started reacting to the dramatic foreshadowing of Harvey's ultimate demise with a staccato outbursts of "Ah, ah, ah!" and announcing three times to her friend "Uh oh, this is when it happens!" in the later scenes with Dan White. I was ready to lose it and shushed her right in her face, which she seemed to ignore. Then she and her friend started openly discussing the action during the film's penultimate, climactic scene, and I that was it: I hollered, "Ladies be quiet for God's sake I mean it!"

They cowered. And they shut the hell up. But that was it, too late, the movie was ruined. I have no idea if it's as good as everybody says it is. I know Sean Penn nailed the mannerisms and turned in a sensitive, sympathetic performance, and Emile Hirsch was, what can I say, fabulous. But I was never really able to get into it. Thanks, bitches!

Shocker: New York Times Runs Ironic Trend Report

So this is weird and, dare I say, unprecedented. In the first week of 2009, Eric Konigsberg wrote an ironic piece about the absinthe "mini-craze" in New York bars. That's right: irony in the NYT Style section, usually a haven for breathlessly UNironic accounts of what the hipsters are doing these days that are based on quotes from three of the author's friends who have had a dinner party lately, or grown a moustache, or started drinking rose. Why the Times is doing a piece on absinthe at all is tragic  enough—it already reported on that old craze as far back as 2000, acknowledging that absinthe cool had already swept London in 1998; then, in 2007, it ran two separate pieces about absinthe in January and November. So why devote another whole article to it now, just to take the piss out of it and all the people who still think it's cool?

Don't get me wrong, it was a super fun read—and for a moment I got excited: Maybe the Times would finally stop pretending it was on the cutting edge and simply start mocking all those phony trends out there. But alas. Mere days later, up pops this lazy piece of recycled garbage asking, "Oh golly gosh, will celebs dress down this awards season, what with the hard times and all?" Yeah, right, just like glamour went out the window and all the stars wore black after 9/11. Didn't happen then, won't happen now. The end.

photo courtesy of the New York Times