Golden Globes

Vanessa L. Williams is so brilliant on Ugly Betty -- she's catty, she's cunning, she's stunning, and she's got a mean way with a quip. In fact, the more we think about her adding the "L." to her name, the more it confuses us. I mean, she's the primary Vanessa Williams. The original. The best. The only one you think of when somebody says, "Hey, Vanessa Williams looks totally hot for her age." Why should The Other Vanessa Williams -- the one who was on Melrose Place for about half an hour, playing one of the most boring characters the show ever created, which is saying quite a lot -- get to keep the name in Tinseltown, while the legitimately famous one has to switch up to the differentiating initial? It's unjust.

Unfortunately for Vanessa L., at the Golden Globes last night, the extra initial stood for "light socket":

That is some CRAZY hair right there. Wilhelmina Slater would be furious. She would look this up and down with an eyebrow cocked, scoff silently at the disco-silver tulle that's draped over this dress in unflattering folds, and then hiss to her assistant Marc that she's surprised to learn that Chaka Khan is designing hairpieces for Wal-Mart.

I had to sit with this photo for a while before deciding to post it. Because, see, there are some celebrities to whom I just can't warm, at all, and Anne Hathaway is one of them. I put her in the category of people who, much like Miss Emmy Rossum, exude a certain aura of insufferability -- whether that is true to who they are or not -- that makes me instantly dislike them despite knowing almost nothing about them (except, in the case of the former, that I have yet to like her in any role, and in the case of the latter, that she was shockingly bad in Phantom of the Opera and needed to close her mouth, find an expression for her eyes, and stop sliding off key).

My point: I didn't want to fug the dress because of my arguably irrational lack of appreciation for the person wearing it. But then I realized: a) it's well-documented that neither Jessica nor I has a soul, and b) I really legimately don't like what she's wearing.

Can't a major designer (I think this one is from Marc Jacobs) do better than a one-strap, off-the-shoulder mid-calf prom gown speckled with sequins as if meant to embody a "Some Enchanted Evening" theme? I swear I saw this on the rack at Macy's. And while I have nothing against Macy's, I feel like a starlet's night out at the Golden Globes -- indeed, a starlet who is in a nominated film and who finagled herself a seat next to the director so that she could be as closely visually associated with the film's success as possible -- deserves, nay demands, something a bit better. This is nothing special, and does nothing special for her. You know how people say that TV and movie sets will have to get more lush once everything is broadcast in high-definition, because you'll be able to tell that the backdrop of New York City outside the window is actually just a bad painting on canvas? That's my analogy for this dress. It's not a real Globes-worthy gown; it's a cheap setpiece.

She also needs a new color of lipstick. I saw her lips half an hour before I could make out the rest of her face.

By now, we're all aware of the unspeakable crime against mammaries that Drew Barrymore committed when she grabbed her emerald sheath off the rack and said, "Oh, to hell with it, my girls have always been able to support themselves." [Except she's kind of dippy, so it probably came out more like, "Womanhood is a bulging blossom, and those lady flowers have to grow and breathe on their own -- just like the wind, you know?"]

And, just like all of you, we watched with a wince as her breasts began a tortoise-and-the-other-tortoise race to hit the ground first. With one move, the left one would drop a notch lower than the right. Then, as she shifted position, Leftie ground to a halt and let Rightie snag the lead. By the time she had finished her spiel, an audience member allegedly muttered confusedly, "Huh. She's not very busty... but her knee caps sure look awfully swollen."

Drew -- who unlike Dr. Sunkentits does not have a name that anagrams to anything more exciting than, "Bra worry? Merde!" -- may have been the most visible shunner of undergarments, but it would be remiss to think she is the only person who disrespected her golden globes.

Consider, for instance, Heidi Klum:

Props to Heidi for her happy marriage, her cute kids, and for walking in a Victoria's Secret show not long after giving birth; however, I am disappointed that this post-pregnancy outing is of the "Incredible Sinking Breasts" variety. The collar-and-leash setup is violent enough, but the waistline of the dress coupled with how low the bodice sits makes her chest look like decrepit dunes that are slowly leaking sand. Indeed, that neck harness actually makes it look like she's trying to keep her feuding rack and nape separated so that they can just please get through the night without them starting an awkward catfight.

Along those lines: Emma Thompson, who is darling and delightful and whose shtick hasn't grown weary yet (although hereafter I am ignoring the existence of the nightmarishly named Nanny McPhee, just in case), didn't exactly flatter her assets either:

She looks like she's having fun, so I almost feel bad pointing out how pancaked her chest looks because the bodice is down around her ribcage. Those aren't breasts, they're a short stack -- and with how far down that platter they're placed, there's plenty of room for the rest of the Grand Slam breakfast.

So, chin -- and chest -- up, Drew. You're not the only one who seems confused about what to do with your friends.

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.

Extra anchor Dayna Devon looks great, considering the fact that she had a baby like four months ago:

Sadly, the willpower that allowed her to get back into such great shape has a downside:  her powerful, long-denied desire for ice cream MUST find a way out! And thus, she turns to the harmful spectre of the  Salute To Neapolitan dress. Thank God her stylist distracted her long enough to pluck the oversized maraschino cherry hat from her head before she hit the red carpet.

Do you think anyone predicted that Rosario Dawson would be the one to come out of Josie and the Pussycats with the closest thing to a real career?

Did you see Rachael Leigh Cook anywhere at the Golden Globes? Nope. Tara Reid? Ha! Parker Posey and/or Alan Cumming? Nowhere, although Cumming can be forgiven for his absence, as he's off being insane and doing insane things and then figuring out how to bottle Eau d'Insanity for his fragrance line.

And certainly, a while ago, I never would have figured that Rosario Dawson would be the more famous and upwardly mobile, career-wise, of this duo:

Jason Lewis is hot, and after playing Smith on Sex and the City, he seemed like he was going to be unstoppable. And then... he stopped. But even if he's not the more successful of the two, he is better-dressed. On the whole I don't love the all-black approach to wearing a suit, but I'll take it over Rosario's frumpy mono-sleeved sheath, which does nothing for her many assets -- one of which is her lovely, clear skin tone, which doesn't pop next to this muted peach shade, and another of which is her figure. She belongs on the lanai of her sensible South Florida split-level house, not on the red carpet. It's less Rosario Dawson than Rosario on the [awful] Will & Grace.

We here at GFY believe in health.

Okay, fine, maybe not the peanut-butter-forsaking kind of health, or the Diet Coke-kicking kind of health, or even the vegetable-eating kind of health. Primarily, it is the non-skeletal brand of health we choose to support, and so as usual, we've spotted some people who deserve to be monitored as they waste away into Richiedom.

First up: Mrs. Johnny Depp, a.k.a. French singer/actress Vanessa Paradis.

I can sort of understand wanting to disappear when your hot husband resolutely refuses to appear in public looking sane. This is an improvement for him, generally speaking, but that doesn't mean he looks any less like a lounge lizard who's getting all warmed up for "Lady of Spain" with the accordion accompaniment before he brings down the house, and hopefully the pants of that slinky dollface down the bar, with a moving and monologue-riddled rendition of "My Way."

However, Vanessa is a lovely lady and seems to make Johnny Depp very happy. And she has children who need her, which is why it's especially alarming to see her up there looking so... well, narrow. Now, I know they have food in France. The country is brimming with rich sauces, meats, cheeses, and crusty loaves of bread, not to mention vats and vats of wine. I know that's supposed to be some sort of heart-seizing fad diet -- "Eat all fat all the time, and look like the French women who are all skinny!" -- but something tells me she has not recently known the pleasure of shoveling baked Brie into her face. Do it for the children, V. Do it so that we can bump you off of High Alert.

Next up is a lady who has actually come to be the definition of High Alert on our terror chart*: Ellen Pompeo.

She's even less wide than Vanessa Paradis. She's wearing a hideous nightie that covers her arms, but not her telltale collarbone and neck cords. [The wind is also doing her curls a favor here -- when the air was still, her hair looked awkwardly permed and stringy on the ends, and not in that "I've just been windblown" kind of way -- rather, in a "Please, for the love of God, eat some nutrients" kind of way.] The whole ensemble manages to be unflattering and bland, while cementing her appearance on this page along with sentence likes, "Meatballs are your friend!" and "Embrace lard!"

One final note: She is even sort of starting to look like Renee Zellweger, she of the dieting-and-running addiction and the squinty non-eyes who too often purses her lips when she smiles, probably because she is thinking so hard about whether the indulgent bran flake she allowed herself the other day has altered the fit of her gown. Renee doesn't own a category on the Terror Watch chart yet because, well, we're sort of over her, to be honest, and she at least has muscle mass, and gets gossip-interest points for marrying a gay alien. Ellen Pompeo just looks like she's trying to be as long and drawn as she possibly can -- a slip of a woman in a slip of a dress.

* Appendix: EMACIATION WATCH TERROR LEVEL CHART

"Hi guys. So. Yeah.  This is the first time I've gotten out of bed since Chad and I broke up.

I could barely work up the energy to put on my black, unadorned Don't Talk To Me dress. I definitely couldn't stand sitting there for like nine hours while someone did my hair for some stupid event that I have to go to by myself, so I just blew it out and crawled into the back of the limo and tried to nap on the way over.

Man.

I'm just so sad, you guys. I don't have any energy at all. I can barely even stand here. I just want to go into the ladies room and cry. I mean, obviously. If I had any energy I would have punched that Shaun Robinson right in the mouth after she asked me how I was DEALING with my DIVORCE. HOW DO YOU THINK I'M DEALING, SHAUN? HOW DO I LOOK? DO I LOOK HAPPY TO YOU? BECAUSE I'M TOTALLY DISTRAUGHT. And while we're talking about you and your SOCIAL INTERACTION PROBLEMS, I can't BELIEVE you TOUCHED Gwyneth Paltrow's BELLY. She doesn't even KNOW YOU.  WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? I really did consider punching you. I KNOW HOW TO DO IT.

Man. Now I'm tired again. God.  I wish I were home on the sofa. In sweats. Watching Bridget Jones's Diary. And crying.  Hey, maybe I should go find Renee Zellweger. She just broke up with that little singer man. Maybe we can go can go get cheeseburgers after the show, like Chad and I used to. [long sigh]."

Oh my God,  you guys. Celestia is back:

This outfit is about one ginormous pastel satin bow away from jumping in the Jeep and heading up to Fresno to wait for the space ship to take it to heaven.

I'm sorry, Anne. I know we all decided to forget about your break with reality, but you've got to do your part.

People often ask us, "Hey, fug bitches, name someone you think dresses well!" And after we try and close off the hate valves that are so often jammed open in our little tar-ugly hearts, the answer we spit out usually involves the words "Reese" and "Witherspoon."

Alas:

She's a very pretty girl, if pointy is your thing (personally, I add her to my list of women -- Heidi Klum and Catherine Zeta-Jones among them -- who should be pregnant all the time), and she is one of the few women last night who wore lipstick that wasn't a) nude, or b) the exact color translation of the itching and burning sensations experienced by the streetwalker who last wore that shade.

However, I really, really don't care for the dress. It looks worse than homemade, like a cheap old-school slip she tried to convert into a wearable garment. Whatever that swatch of silver material is, it certainly shouldn't be hitting her mid-breast, and the sequins she bought at Michael's -- and let little Ava sew onto her dress as practice for the Girl Scouts of America merit badges she will inevitably win in a few years -- were a horrific idea.

As for the accessory on her arm, it needs to stop veering between "pretentious, sneering, miserable asshat" and "hyperactive wife-pawing 'family man'." Perhaps a shower would be a nice place to try and start his stabilization.