Chloe Sevigny

After a loathsome absence from the site since January, we're pleased to invite you to cast your hungry eyes upon one of GFY's all-time favorite benefugtresses: Chloe Sevigny.

Ms. Sevigny's dress is one part nightgown, two parts curtain-that-separates-the-brothel-front-room-from-the-back-den-of-sin, two parts something she stole from Joan Rivers' closet, and zero parts long enough to comfortably and consistently cover her crotch.

This exceptional debacle is quite possibly her way of compensating for the modest, high-waisted and long-hemmed Compound Couture her character favors on Big Love -- on which she is fantastic; Jess has already said that recently, but unfortunately it's so true that it bears repeating. But still, even if Chloe is relishing her reclaimed fashion freedom, she could probably find a way to do it that is not so aggressively frightening. I'm not even sure Joan Rivers would want that, come to think of it, although if she did, a) she is Joan f'ing Rivers, and however you feel about her, you have to admit she can pretty much wear whatever she wants; and b) it would assuredly come with a bottom half of some kind, or perhaps just act as a sort of scarf or wrap, because crotchless groin-length gowns are not how homegirl rolls.

How did this become about Joan Rivers? I'm not sure. She's a force far greater than I. But in sum, thank you, Chloe, for sparing us those stupid white sunglasses, but if you drop anything, for the love of God, bend at the knees and not at the waist.

We didn't like Reese's dress. Melanie Griffith didn't look, or even really appear, off her rocker. Mary-Louise Parker the Monotonous Mumbler is suddenly a decorated actor. Yes, readers, it's true: These are scary, ever-changing times.

That's why it's so comforting when we see somebody who looks exactly as you want them to -- somebody for whom you have expectations, and who has risen to meet them. That somebody, at the Golden Globes, was Chloe Sevigny.

It's well-documented that we here at GFY HQ find it perplexing that so many people and publications laud Sevigny as blessed with unerring and fascinating taste. We think she's brutal. Exhibit ZZ, or thereabouts, is this dress. Aside from appearing as though she simply twirled around slowly while somebody wrapped her in purple cellophane, this outfit also harkens memories of a 13-year old girl attending her very first middle-school formal, hoping to sway side-to-side with her arms draped over the shoulders of her big crush while "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" played pseudo-romantically on the loudspeakers.

And that's exactly what we anticipated Sevigny would look like when her image popped up on our computer screens this morning. Hideous dress? Check. Hair pulled back into a severe bun? Check. Smug, chinny expression on her face? Check, check. All is right in the world.

Oh dear. Looks like Cinderchloe didn't play by the curfew rules, and her gown shrank back into what it was before -- Granny Sevigny's famous and famously impractical doily flowerpot.

The most important thing that happened at the Coachella music festival last weekend was not, in fact, the bands' performances, or the fact that I got through it without a sunburn. No, the most culturally significant event of the weekend was captured on camera by none other than the ingenious Uncle Grambo over at Whatevs.org:

What you see above is not an uncomfortable moment in which a homeless guy hits on the girl with tightest hot pants he can see. Nor is this a girl smilingly offering to help pick the ticks out of a grown man's beard. In fact, as documented by our favorite uncle, this is a stirring, beautiful reunion between public blower and blowee -- yes, The Brown Bunny's Chloe Sevigny and Vincent Gallo.

We are heartened to see Ms. Fugigny is still clinging to her blindingly white Ray Bans, while simultaneously proving to the world that a) high-waisted pants are the spawn of Satan's sewing machine, and b) there is such a thing as too tight and too short. And we are frightened to see that nobody has shorn Mr. Gallo, but given how nasty he always looks from the neck up, we trust that somebody in Security at the very least turned a hose on him, mistakenly -- or not -- taking him for a ticketless vagrant.

The only thing that would've made this better would be if their happy hug had been followed by a nostalgic tromboner recital. But then, our retinas can't take that kind of scorching, and we don't think his wang has a spit valve, so it's just as well.

In a further example of Chloe Sevigny's unerring taste and vision, the actress is brazenly showing the world that nothing complements a sweatshorts jumpsuit quite like full-on Roman sandals:

Thank God Chloe can still be relied upon for the kind of horrendous taste, even in relaxation, that leads to the deployment of heretofore unused phrases -- like, for example, "sweatshorts jumpsuit."

But more importantly, thank God she hasn't given up on those white-framed sunglasses. Because as long as those are out there, fug is never far away.

She tried hard to look the part, but producers wanted someone less publicly accomplished in fellatio to play Daisy Duke. Depressed, Chloe went on a bender, finally waking up on the beach one morning next to a nude, malodorous homeless man and thinking, "Well, I always swore that the next time I saw Vincent Gallo naked, I would know it was time to go back home." And off she went.

Dear Chloe "Fuck Your Umlaut" Sevigny,

Why so blue?

When you woke up this morning and realized that the oversized white sunglasses your mom bought for you at Raging Waters back in 1983 still fit your big fat head, didn't you smile? When you got out of the shower and decided just to let your hair do its own thing -- much as I do on days when I have a busy schedule of the stomach flu ahead of me -- didn't you chuckle to yourself, pleased with your own efficiency? When you decided to wear that dress that Half Pint wore in the episode of Little House on Prairie where Mary burns down the barn and wakes up all blind, weren't you filled with glee at the thought of your own unbearably ironic hipster charm? When you stole that umbrella from your grandma, didn't you laugh at the thought of the old woman stuck in the rain without it? When you then nabbed her orthopedic shoes and outfitted them with heels made of corks from the discarded bottles of Two Buck Chuck littering your bedroom, weren't you thrilled with your own ingenuity? Yes? Then why do you look so sad?

Does it have something to do with Vincent Gallo's wang?

It's worth restating that one of our mandates here at Go Fug Yourself-- aside from the fact that we're bitches who believe in bitching -- is to poke holes in the ideas of beauty and stylishness that are being force-fed us by people with taste dodgier than month-old milk. For example, the Einstein who decided trucker hats looked good and should be perched carelessly atop the tousled head of every rising actor and tomboyish starlet to befoul a red carpet event, or whomever chose to revisit 1980s-era fashion.

Or, most frighteningly, the person who decided Chloe Sevigny was a fashion maven.

Sevigny is one of the reasons this site exists; she is my nemesis in the fugly world, the person whose taste and appearance are constantly praised and rewarded, and whose "expertise" was on loan to the Imitation of Christ label, despite the fact that she dresses like she found some stuff on the floor... any floor... and decided to don it. Her fashionista snob attitude has always confounded me and seemed hugely unwarranted. Boiling my blood further: When InStyle ran a nauseatingly gushy piece on her unerring taste -- with photos of errors for miles -- and Bazaar named her one of Hollywood's best-dressed, allowing her to make statements for the obnixious little blurb quoted on the linked page in which Sevigny calls Charlize Theron "tacky." A clear case of the pot calling the kettle bloated, when the pot itself is a water-retaining blowhard.

So, Sevigny. She's the Pope of the Fugolic religion, the leader of Fugican City. And in addition to choosing to blow the equally repellant Vincent Gallo on film in The Brown Bunny, Sevigny made this dubious choice:

See the name on the background? Cartier. Oops, Cartier. It's the kind of brand name that always begs for italics -- that's how fancy it is. And yet Chloe figured she'd throw on one of Rosie O'Donnell's old wraps for when she was painting the living room, and she paired it with hideous ankle-high brown boots. Where's her vision here? Her unerring taste? Her sophistication?

Is it here?

Hmm. Doesn't seem to be. Maybe that's a fluke and her shirt got torn off. How about here?

Zzzzz.... Wha? Oh, sorry. Maybe it's here:

Oof. I don't suppose it's here:

Ouch. This is getting fun.

Whee! Come on, Chloe, look lively:

Have you bought your legwarmers yet, people? I know this is from 2003, but taste like Chloe's never goes out of fashion. Yet, look at her -- she's wearing designs by her own Imitation of Christ pals, and she appears as miserable as if you handed her a photo of a muppet and asked for her autograph.

But, oh, never mind. Call off the dogs. I've found photographic proof, taken in the very year Bazaar crowned her so well-dressed, that Chloe Sevigny is a fashion genius, an icon to be respected and adored and revered. Behold:

Right.