“Oh, this old thing? Well, I couldn’t wear the beret and the leopard minidress, right? So I just borrowed what my Great Aunt Murgatroyd wore to the funeral of her lover at the nursing home, who turned out to be slipping the Werther’s to six other ladies as well. I mean, everyone SAID Murgatroyd looked the tartiest of all of them, so… what, is this not good? Should I have worn the head scarf?”
Fug File: frumpathon
I want to stick Selma Blair here in a romance novel.
It’d be an old-fashioned bodice-ripper, the kind with Fabio or one of his lookalikes on the cover, hair streaming in the wind and bum clad in a fur loincloth for no apparent reason except that it’s hilarious. In it, Selma would play the prim marm of a 19th-century fox-hunting academy in Britain, who gets bombarded by tomatoes by furious PETA representatives — or, you know, PYOETA, People For Ye Olde Ethical Treatment of Animals — and is forced into a live of seclusion, where she meets a muscular sausage-fest of a Scottish laird who teaches her the REAL meaning of having a tongue sandwich for tea. Indeed, the hope of half of that happening for real might be the only explanation I can think of for Selma wearing this at all.
I kind of miss Toni Collette here. I don’t watch her Showtime show, so it feels like I haven’t seen her in anything for years. Admittedly, I often get her confused with Rachel Griffiths, so you’d think watching Brothers and Sisters would take care of this little problem, and yet no. Anyway, I don’t remember her looking…quite like this:
Is she skinner? Blonder? Tanner? Skinnier, blonder and tanner (AKA, afflicted with Paris Hiltonia)? Or am I just distracted by this dress, which I swear to you was not designed by human hand but instead sprung from the unholy drunken congress of an unusually restrained figure skating costume and the formal department at Talbots. Can it be fixed? I trust you, dear readers, to take this mess and make it into something slightly closer to awesome.
Anna Kendrick was about one of the only bright spots in New Moon, an otherwise dreary 140-minute movie about (skip this next bit if you don’t want to know this yet) being super depressed because your nancy-pants boyfriend ran off and you’re too impotent to make out with the hard-abbed hot guy who is in love with you.
ANYWAY. I’m glad to see Ms. Kendrick is getting to do stuff other than make fun of Bella, although that is probably also really fun. However, here’s what she wore to the premiere of her new movie:
First: Yes, she is in Up In The Air, and yes, that is an Intern George movie, and YES, that is an awesome way to rev up one’s career, and SWEET GOD YES, if this means she has his number, that means she already may have reached the apex of her life at the ripe young age of 24.
But what a dowdy outfit. It has all the elements of something youthful — ruffles, an exposed shoulder — but it’s wrinkled and baggy and matronly, somehow more like what the teens wear at the Frumpsville cotillion than what a young up-and-comer should wear to her premiere. Or indeed ANYWHERE she thinks she might bump into Intern George. He LOVES young brunettes, kid, and he has that awesome villa. Do not waste any possible face time by looking like your idol is Miss Havisham.
MARCIA GAY HARDEN: Let’s be frank. I look kind of great tonight.
HOPE DAVIS: I…don’t. Damn it.
MARCIA: Did you see me on Damages this last season? I was sort of really sexy, right? Even if my character did kind of drift off into nowhere. After all those cracks over the last few years about how I’m a “handsome” woman. I’m looking GOOD lately. I think it’s the hair.
HOPE: The hair is kind of big tonight, don’t you –
MARCIA: Shut up, Dowdy McFrumpsville. Don’t you have a junior high school dance to chaperone?
HOPE: That seems unnecessary.
MARCIA: So are your shoes.
HOPE: God, Marcia. Looking hot makes you MEAN.
MARCIA: Sorry. You just look…not as good as you COULD look. That’s all. I just want you to look better. Like I do.
HOPE: Can we just do this so I can go home?
MARCIA: And fire your stylist?
HOPE: ENOUGH OUT OF YOU.
MARCIA: Sorry. I’m just drunk on my own awesome.
HOPE: I wish I were drunk, PERIOD.