I keep forgetting Emma’s going back to this blond color — I hope it’s for a role and not because she loves how washed out it makes her look. Girlfriend, you are such a dishy redhead. Why are you forsaking the red this way? In fact, the entire time I was watching the new Spiderman trailer I kept thinking three things: a) this looks fun, b) I just love Emma Stone, and c) I forgot how much I disliked the blonde hair on her. Why are you reminding me of the latter and not so much of the former, doll? PS: I did leave Hunger Games thinking, “between Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone, I think we’re going to be okay.” I don’t mean as, like, a society — there are things even a red-haired Emma Stone can not fix — but in terms of the state of Young Hollywood’s Acting Future (Ladies Division). So there’s that. But in the immediate moment, there is THIS.
Fugger: Emma Stone
You know we love Emma Stone. And we normally enjoy Emma Stone wears. I mean, almost no one liked her McQueen from the SAGs but me. But I seriously think I like her post-party dress less than I liked her awards dress:
I’m beginning to worry that her stylist — having done some great work this year — cracked last Friday night, and just started throwing all kinds of crazy shit at the wall, and decided to let all of it stick. Floppy neck bows! Gloomy formal shower curtains accessorized by charred cinnamon bun hip furbelows! WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU GOT? I’LL STICK IT ON HER AND HOPE FOR THE BEST.
Emma Stone should be an Amway salesperson. Because by the end of her charming segment with Ben Stiller, in which they presented the Visual Effects Oscar and she totally stole the show from just about everyone, even I was almost ready to buy what she was selling — I, who when she first hit the red carpet, groaned audibly and shouted, “EMMA, NO.” I who bemoaned that it was too similar to what Nicole Kidman wore in 2007, a dress I didn’t particularly itch to see again. I, who upon seeing it ran out onto Jessica’s balcony shaking my fist at the heavens and hurling Pringles into the night air while screaming, “BETRAYYYYYED.” (Note: No Pringles were harmed in the making of this post.)
But in the end, I still just don’t like it. Turns out Emma Stone’s personal magnetism can’t do everything. And that’s probably as it should be. No mortal should wield that kind of unchecked power.
You know how sometimes you’ll be dating someone and you REALLY like them and you just keep thinking, “dear God, please don’t let him be [DEALBREAKER],” because you know you’ll have to break it off if they’re [a Scientologist/a vegan/a Mets fan/a chewing tobacco enthusiast/an ardent manscaper/an OJ Simspon apologist/a Real Housewives megafan (that one's me -- in the sense that I am one, not in the sense that I can't deal with that)/whatever your particular dealbreaker is] and even though you know you can’t live with someone who is home making scrapbooks of the collected works of Lisa Vanderpump (NOT ME although I totally look for her every time I pass her restaurant — I love her, you guys!), breaking up with them is just going to suck? Because when you find out that they are big fans of crystal meth or whatever, what dies is the awesome person you imagined they were. THAT is how I feel about her:
YOU ARE SO ADORABLE. PLEASE DON’T TURN INTO LINDSAY LOHAN. It will just do me in.
I would say that I want Emma Stone to play me in the movie of my life, but unfortunately, in order for there to be a movie of my life I probably have to invent some kind of Mind-Twitter or kill someone, frame Joan Collins (and then, out of guilt, make sure she’s set free by leaving a note on a mason jar full of my victim’s blood), then write my own autobiography while living incognito in a lawless nation that wouldn’t want to extradite me to stand trial for my crimes. Neither of those scenarios seems very likely. I mean, I barely even know HTML.