Since we started this site, there have been definite periods where there's a lot out there that's bad, but just run-of-the-mill MODERATELY bad, where it doesn't get your pulse racing, or cause you to choke on a frothing geyser of awe and "Whaaaaaa?!?" And then, bless, someone comes along again and thrills us anew with an "OH my GOD, WHAT IS UP?" getup; today, that person is Maggie Gyllenhaal, and we owe her a debt of gratitude.
Because, say it with me here: Oh my GOD, WHAT IS UP?
At first, based on the '80s shades and the slouchy, shlumpy clothes that are Kirsten Dunst's trademarks, I thought this WAS our girl Kiki, half-heartedly attempting to go incognito with a bad wig so people would stop making her talk about why she went to rehab. But no. It is Maggie G., energetically making the "G" stand for "geriatric." No mere dress over pants, this; she's practically wearing a caftan over cocktail pajamas, and yet she is sporting the peekaboo panel under her boobs, like in case she runs into Ned Beatty she wants him to know she's still ALL WOMAN, even though her rheumatism flares up sometimes. Ellen Burstyn is totally going to call Maggie later and ask if she can borrow this (except of course, she's going to call Kirsten Dunst first by accident, at which point Kirsten is going to join in our "WTF?" chorus and write Maggie an angry letter explaining that there is NO ROOM in the Ray Bans market for her), but Ellen is going to have to get in line, because Phylicia Rashad will have already called dibs. Pretty soon, Peter Saarsgard will be registering Maggie for an AARP membership so they can get the wicked discounts, and she'll be hawking Centrum Silver in Good Housekeeping.
It's so special. Seriously, I think I just fell in love with her a little bit. Thank you, Maggie. And I'm sure a resentful Kirsten Dunst will be getting in touch soon; maybe turn your hearing aid off that day.
Because, say it with me here: Oh my GOD, WHAT IS UP?
At first, based on the '80s shades and the slouchy, shlumpy clothes that are Kirsten Dunst's trademarks, I thought this WAS our girl Kiki, half-heartedly attempting to go incognito with a bad wig so people would stop making her talk about why she went to rehab. But no. It is Maggie G., energetically making the "G" stand for "geriatric." No mere dress over pants, this; she's practically wearing a caftan over cocktail pajamas, and yet she is sporting the peekaboo panel under her boobs, like in case she runs into Ned Beatty she wants him to know she's still ALL WOMAN, even though her rheumatism flares up sometimes. Ellen Burstyn is totally going to call Maggie later and ask if she can borrow this (except of course, she's going to call Kirsten Dunst first by accident, at which point Kirsten is going to join in our "WTF?" chorus and write Maggie an angry letter explaining that there is NO ROOM in the Ray Bans market for her), but Ellen is going to have to get in line, because Phylicia Rashad will have already called dibs. Pretty soon, Peter Saarsgard will be registering Maggie for an AARP membership so they can get the wicked discounts, and she'll be hawking Centrum Silver in Good Housekeeping.
It's so special. Seriously, I think I just fell in love with her a little bit. Thank you, Maggie. And I'm sure a resentful Kirsten Dunst will be getting in touch soon; maybe turn your hearing aid off that day.
