Let's get the good news out of the way: Carrie Underwood -- Queen of the Costume Change -- started the evening in something only offensive in the sense that it incited me to a brief slumber in my seat:
It's perfectly pretty, floaty, girly... there's nothing much to say about it, hence my spontaneous nap. I'm not inclined to rave, and I'm not inclined to rant.
But do you see that expression on her face? The pursed-lipped look of barely suppressed amusement, as if she's got a mischievous secret she almost can't keep? There is a reason: Carrie knew what she had in store for us later, and she deliberately lulled us into a false sense of peace. Check it out:
It's perfectly pretty, floaty, girly... there's nothing much to say about it, hence my spontaneous nap. I'm not inclined to rave, and I'm not inclined to rant.
But do you see that expression on her face? The pursed-lipped look of barely suppressed amusement, as if she's got a mischievous secret she almost can't keep? There is a reason: Carrie knew what she had in store for us later, and she deliberately lulled us into a false sense of peace. Check it out:
Suck on THAT, Sarah Brightman: I can't tell where Carrie's skirt stops and the set dressing starts. In fact, her skirt might BE the only set dressing. It's the perfect outfit for when you're performing an ode to deadly volcanic eruptions through history -- as if Mount Underwood is spewing lava before our eyes. This almost makes me wish I'd watched the show, just to see the sweat dripping from the collective brows of the small army she probably hired as taffeta wranglers. As an added bonus she could've offered them a temporary barracks under her dress.
Of course, she also wore something that went in a completely different direction:
THAT is more like the Carrie Underwood I know: Floaty, filmy, as short as possible, and voluminous in strange places. And the lone sleeve reminds me of, say, a distant cousin of poor, put-upon Sleeve. Clearly, they're related, both in absurdity and pointlessness. I especially don't understand why Sleeve is fastened to Carrie's neck. Who, exactly, is at risk of escaping here -- Sleeve, from Carrie's fabric-fetishist grasp, or Carrie from Sleeve's bugle-like proportions? If you ask me, Carrie looks much happier about Sleeve than Sleeve does about Carrie. Poor Sleeve is just hanging there, effectively in chains, trying to puff itself up to compete with the satin pillowcase and rare two-thigh garter Carrie is so proudly showing off and DESPERATE to wave itself at Reba McEntire; Carrie, on the other hand, is beaming like someone just told her Chad Michael Murray signed up for one more season of One Tree Hill.
Someone should tell her that neither of them is a winner in this scenario. What's worse, after having typed it so many times, the word "sleeve" has become meaningless to me. I hope Carrie Underwood can live with herself for what she's done. Perhaps someone could saw off poor Sleeve, stuff it but good, and turn it into a dunce cap for Carrie to wear while sitting in the corner pondering her misdeeds.
