March 9, 2010
I have one beef with Elizabeth Banks: Is she wearing a wig on 30 Rock? I get that she's playing a parody of one of the Fox News phalanx of blonde hosts, but couldn't her own hair be teased up and hairspray-stiffened? Does a blonde really need a blonde WIG? And yet it LOOKS like a wig.

Wait, so I have two beefs with Elizabeth Banks: Last night on the pre-show telecast, she blithely referred to her gig hosting the Science and Technical Academy Awards as "the Nerd Oscars." And however she may have meant it, the phrase came off a bit derogatory rather than affectionate. And dammit, I am a nerd, so I take issue. I may not know how to do anything remotely sciencey or technical when it comes to movies, or laboratory work, or even sometimes my own kitchen (unless you are referring to the science of mold-growth in refrigerated Tupperware), but I am a nerd, and so if I were at the S&T Oscars and I then heard the hostess rag on my field on E!, I would want to staple something to her head.

All of which makes it hard to judge her impartially, but I have to try anyway. It was tough to hit upon my exact feeling about this dress because it looked different to me depending on how she was standing. 

This way, it's great:

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It's interesting and pretty in the same way Demi Moore's was, and in the way Penelope's famed Versace was all those years ago, which basically set the bar for the slim-bodice-big-fluffy-skirt trend. Interestingly, both Elizabeth's dress and Demis are ALSO Versace, so clearly, those people are trying to recapture A Moment.

But swivel Elizabeth around a bit, and you get this:
Susan Sarandon's daughter Eva Amurri has been getting a steady stream of TV work lately, so I'm pleased to see that she's improving her clothing choices demonstrably. Not long ago it was bright amber satin and hammer pants and a Hair Bugle, but at the Oscars it was this:

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Generally, I like to deploy rope only when tying up a boat, or tying a Christmas tree to my car, or throttling Yvette in the billiards room. But it doesn't throw me off here --- something about the way it gives this column a nice nip at the waist really works for me. Maybe it's because the outfit is J Crew Collection, and is on sale on the Internet for $350. That's such a refreshingly relatable choice -- like, we should all dream of getting to spend so few bucks to look like a million of them. Eva also looks about twenty times better in this than the model on that Web site. Very cool. But then again, she IS Susan Sarandon's daughter. Her mother invested in a ping pong club in New York! Cool clearly runs in her DNA.
When I saw this Sunday night, I was unsure:

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Now, I think I am cautiously pro-ensemble. It's VERY 70s, but I think Nicole is working it, and I appreciate that it's unusual at least. Of course, I've had a fondness for Nicole ever since I read The Truth About Diamonds (or, as Amazon keeps telling me is its actual title, The Truth About Diamonds: A Novel -- which I'm sure is because it's SO OBVIOUSLY not fiction but they're required to pretend that it is, despite the fact that...look, just read it. She basically calls Paris Hilton "functionally retarded." Among other things. But that nomenclature is equally amusing, because it also implies that you could also buy, say, The Truth About Diamonds: An Igloo, or The Truth About Diamonds: A Cocktail).  I also think she and Joel Madden make very cute babies, and I am not wholly stone-hearted: I like cute babies. All that being said, I am not sure how I feel about the back:
I think Keisha Whitaker might be doing... hosting duties, or on-air something-or-other, for somebody? I don't know. Wikipedia remains very silent on the issue, unless I DID mean to search for "Keith Whitaker," but I am guessing that's not the case. Anyway, I'm sure Keisha would prefer that we didn't always have to clarify that she's Forest Whitaker's spouse, but that's really the only reason I know her, so, oh well. Onto her outfit:

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Unlike Malin Akerman before her, this does appear to have a slip underneath it that goes down to about the knee. But I find it all a tad too precious, like an attempt to take a kids' gown and sex it up a la Halle Berry's infamous Reem Acra, but instead it popped out somewhere around gift-wrapping oneself and then hiding in a confetti-stuffed Easter piƱata and waiting to fall to freedom. At a party at her house, I would congratulate her on the hilarious surprise, but at the Oscars I kind of just want to hide her in case Jessica Simpson gets any ideas.
While I'm loving the CONCEPT here -- the sort of sixties mini/bedhead/eyeliner idea appeals to me very much -- this thing does not fit.

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Seriously. Heidi Klum has an amazing figure, but this thing is... a little graphic, no? I'm sure several readers may disagree with me, but I don't need to get this close to witnessing the juncture of La Klum's thighs at a venue that is not sponsored by Sports Illustrated or Victoria's Secret. Frankly, I'm going to go out on a limb and note that bare thigh junctures have no place at the Oscars whatsoever, though I'm sure Bare Thigh Junctures is an excellent niche publication. That may make me a Crotchety Old Crone, but I'm okay with that in this case.
Damn, Cam. Crushed it AGAIN:

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This looks fantastic on her. Somewhere, Gwyneth Paltrow is sitting up in her tastefully appointed garret, pecking away at a new GOOP all about how we should make our own vegetables out of recycled paper bags and rare elf-salt from the Arctic Circle, and thinking, "Why the hell was I not wearing that at a fancy Oscar party?!?" And then taking it out on her famous friends by forcing them to write articles for her newsletter about their favorite brands of socks.
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KEN: Hello, Jessica! It's me!

JESSICA SIMPSON: That's... great, Bespectacled Stranger, but who are you?

KEN: Ken Paves! Your BFF and hair-stylist!

J.SIMP: Is this man kidding? Security!

KEN: Ha ha ha. Great joke. 

J.SIMP: I'm serious. You're not Ken Paves. We all know Ken Paves is a tanorexic blonde.

KEN: First of all, THAT is the pot telling the kettle that it needs needs a scrubbing.

J.SIMP: Am I the pot or the kettle here? Be honest. I can take it.

KEN: And SECOND, your hair is the least of your problems here, so you should be nice to me.

J.SIMP: If I knew your real identity, I might be. 

KEN: JESSICA. HONEY. We've been friends for years. Would you believe it's me if I told you I wanted to shoot the stylist who put you in that dress, because it does nothing for your figure at all and actually kind of makes it look like you have no boobs and WHAT IS UP WITH THAT because everyone in the world knows that's not true?

J.SIMP: Hmm. That does sound like something Ken would say... but come on. Would a hair guru toupe-ify his own head?

KEN: He would if he's kind of a lunatic!

J.SIMP: Ken! It IS you! Nice glasses. You look like Jason Schwartzman. Or Kirsten Dunst.

KEN: Thanks. Now let's get inside and talk about who needs to get fired over that dress.
It is a weird world when I say to Jess, "I'm going to fug Demi," and I then have to specify that I am referring to Moore, and not Lovato. Whom I cannot distinguish from Selena Gomez, but either girl could pass believably as Demi Moore's offspring, and that brings us back around to the topic at hand:

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This dress is legitimately beautiful, except that it's pinching Demi SO HARD across the bodice that her skin is leaking over the side. Possibly painfully. You know, we look at Christina Hendricks sometimes and we think, "Is it REALLY THAT HARD to find something to fit her chest? REALLY?" But Demi's is like an eighth of the size, and apparently she can't find anything, either. Life is hard.
I want to stick Selma Blair here in a romance novel.

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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.
This is what we call in the biz, "a hot mess."

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I kind of enjoy, though, how Tim McGraw is sort of lurking behind her in that picture, looking off to the side, as if he's pretending he didn't have anything to do with the fact that his bride decided to show up at the Oscars wearing what is essentially the love child of a creepy old lady's nightgown, and... another creepy old lady's nightgown. Plus the top of Catwoman's discarded bandeau bikini top.

Good move, changing for the after-parties:

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