Oscars

It's great that Nicole Kidman decided to wear a color this year, instead of her usual white or flesh-tone, which only serve to remind us all how bland and dull she is these days. However, listen up, Nic:

a) We wish you were still a deeper redhead;

b) We're very sorry that you only came upon this dress because you were recently, tragically near-decapitated while ironing the life and moisture out of your hair, and needed an outfit that would help hold your head atop your neck;

c) Seriously, please, Nicole, bring back the red hair, because it will help you look more alive;

d) Consider doing some sympathy-eating with your pregnant pal Naomi Watts, because if you lose any more weight, you will be able to slip through the space between closed doors and the doorjambs, and your husband might resent that loss of privacy;

e) Try not to have your head lopped off again any time soon, okay? You can't wear choking, constrictive neck-bows to everything. Isn't that why your hubby Keith rarely strays from wearing his shirts unbuttoned to his sternum?

f) Stop with the Botox. [Hey, it had to be said.] If you aren't careful, Naomi's baby will mistake you for a doll it can drag around everywhere by the arm, and that is rarely an enjoyable way to pass the time.

Thank you. Have a nice day. Although make no mistake, we're still in a bit of a fight over Bewitched -- I'm not going to get over that one for a while, Nic, and you're just going to have to wait it out. Be sure to tell Michael Caine that he's not off the hook, either, okay? Just because my father faintly resembles him, he thinks he can get away with anything. Not so, faux-Dad. Not so.

At least I can think of one nice thing to say about Anne Hathaway's enormous black bow.

Just kidding. I totally can't. It's huge and it's glaring at me. It is as if one of Sarah Ferguson's famed hair-bows from the late 1980s went rogue from her storage trunks and attacked Anne on the red carpet, resulting in a giant Dark Mark of Shame that's tagging her for impending doom. What's more, it's hitting her body where the dress is the least flattering to it, and all I can think of is, "Surely SOMEONE could have loaned her a body-shaper." Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled she walks among the living -- the normal, flesh-carrying ladies of the world -- but, honey, there's no shame in getting a little help under your lace-curtain gown. And with a massive, angry black bow dragging your chest down to your navel, you need all the extra help you can get.

At least it's not bigger.... wait a second, that's a compliment, right? So what if it's so backhanded you can practically see the marks from my knuckles imprinted on it as I whipped my hand across its inky folds. At least the bow isn't devouring her entire body. Phew! I did have a nice thing to say. The dress didn't make a liar out of me. My mother will be so proud.

What is the DEAL with Eva Green? She was so hot in Casino Royale, but every time she appears somewhere under the auspices of playing herself, she shows up looking like she's an emissary from the undead:

"Beware, human lifeform! I have come to this place for one purpose and one purpose only: to drain your puny corpse of its sweet, salty nectar.  Don't try to escape me, for my living corpse never grows tired and can not be outwitted. I will feast on your brainmeat tonight... tomorrow night... or the night after that. Whichever. But know this! Whenever you lie down to sleep your human sleep, I will pounce! Whenever you close your eyes to think, I will bite! Whenever you look away from your glowing, anemic computer screen, it is I who will standing outside your window. As long as it's dark out while you're working, because I can't leave my apartment until nightfall. But these are details, MORTAL, details. Details that I will work out whilst slumbering the breathless sleep of the undead, details that can not prevent my coming for you. MWHHAHAHAHAHAHA. Also, you should know that, being undead, I can't ever check my hair in the mirror. In case you were wondering. Anyway. WATCH OUT. Your sweet existence-fuel is mine!"

Alas, all that time baking under the fluorescent lights of The Office has cooked Rashida's noggin. She should never have BELIEVED John Krasinski when he told her they'd turned the Oscars into a picnic. Did she really imagine Peter O'Toole would consent to sitting cross-legged on an ABC promotional beach towel with Evangeline Lilly's face on it, munching on tuna salad, sipping weak Mimosas out of tiny plastic cups and trying to figure out if there were ants up his pants or whether his skin was just dancing from the illicit excitement of Jennifer Hudson's boob popping out? I think not. He would NEVER risk getting a chunk of tuna caught in his dentures.

My Favorite Actress of the Past, Diva of Forever Faye Dunaway strikes again:

It was all going so well until we hit the knees, and then it was all downhill from there. I'm just not sure what the thought process was in deciding to purchase this particular gown. "Let's see... kooky ruffle at my knees! Then it sucks in again.... and then, SMASH CUT to a kooky ruffle at my feet! I won't be able to walk AND I'll look like an extremely formal toilet brush! It's PERFECT!" Listen, Faye, my love, my dream mentor, the woman I want to take on Janice Dickinson in a cage match (nothing against Janice, I just think it would be awesome): No ONE wants to look like cleaning paraphernalia, formal OR casual. Especially at the Oscars. Not even you.

At least Cameron ditched the awful red lipstick and softened up her hair color, although we wish she would get it the hell out of her face:

But otherwise, this is kind of an uninspiring sequel to her strangely bridal post-breakup dress at the Golden Globes. Well, that's not entirely true -- it has inspired me to plug in my iron. More than just the strange sailor neckline, I hate that she looks like she's sewn herself into an enormous linen napkin. Thank God they don't serve a meal at the Oscars, or else we could have been in for an incredibly awkward confrontation when an absent-minded Jessica Biel wiped her mouth on Cameron's collar, and Cameron responded by ramming a champagne bottle in her ear and screaming, "Try to work THAT off by running stairs, bitch!" And then, we're all catfights in lily ponds -- totally our cup of tea, actually, and our money's on Cam (definitely a hair-puller, she looks like she might also be a biter) but when all's said and done, Cam will need a hell of a lot of Oxy Clean to get out the stains. Perhaps she should've let them sponsor her by selling some ad space on her train.

Heather and I only saw one elbow of this outfit while watching the red carpet coverage of the Oscars, and yet we knew: It was Sally Kirkland, she of the generally outrageous, Plant-Earth-inappropriate, Endora-from-Bewitched-inspired wardrobe. And so it was:

Seriously, that is SPECTACULAR. In fact, I don't know that I can even say anything that would add to the experience of experiencing this. Just gaze upon it while you eat your lunch, and toast in its healing, wacky rays. I think that's what she's saying, here, in fact: "REVEL IN MY WACKITUDE, PHOTOGRAPHERS! And catch my new magic show at the Stratosphere at 5pm and 7pm nightly."

I was endlessly charmed and amused by Kirsten Dunst whipping out from her purse a crumpled copy of a magazine ad in which two M&M candies are impersonating Joan and Melissa, and asking Lady Rivers to autograph it (and then, after digging through the bag and pulling out blister pads for her brother's feet, exposing his secret shame, she went on what we hope was not a fruitless hunt for a pen). The whole piece of tomfoolery only furthered our suspicion here at GFY HQ that Kiki is not only a good sport but probably fun for a night on the town.

Sadly for her, I though, I was neither charmed nor amused by her dress.

I'm a little overwhelmed, to be honest. There is so much happening here. If this were an episode of Deadwood, I would need to watch it twice, once with the subtitles, just to keep up with what the hell that genius Ian McShane is going on about for so long.

For one thing, as ever, I want to hoist her boobs up a tad higher -- look into pulleys, Kirsten, if bras aren't to your tastes. But the rest of it really just makes us wonder if she borrowed this look from a 16-year old Icelandic rodeo clown who is her nation's entry in the Eurovision Song Contest this year. We have the frivolity of feathers contrasted with a prim neckline, and detailing that veers from vertical faux-fringe to the look of creepy tentacles of frost you sometimes see creeping along airplane windows when you fly at a high altitude during the winter. It looks as if it would shatter if she, say, tripped on her feather fireworks and bumped into George Clooney on the... Hey, wait. WAIT A MOMENT. Maybe that is her whole master plan. She's going to slam into Intern George hard enough for her clothes to break and drop off, all in the hope that he'll sweep her off her feet and carry her away in his burly, strapping, medicinal embrace. Clever, Kirsten. Clever. But if he calls in sick tomorrow, we'll know who's responsible, and do you really want to be the reason this one-man hug machine can't do his holy work? Do you? For once, think long and hard, Dunst. And then do the right thing. Listen to whatever instinct possessed you to wear this dress, and do the opposite.

I love how Lisa Ling has been all, "I want to make documentaries and do serious news! I'm so glad I'm not on The View anymore!" and yet... will make an exception as far as her disdain for entertainment reporting goes in order to host the Oscar pre-show, which is as fluffy and shallow as it gets. Now, a girl has the prerogative to change her mind, Ling's post-View work has definitely been both valuable and educational, and... you know, who turns down the Oscars? So I get it. "I'm over entertainment reporting.... unless I might get to meet George Clooney" sounds fair enough  to me. It's just a shame that La Ling decided to dive back into the fluffy world of the red carpet in her old prom dress:

There's something about the fabric that gives the impression that she's somehow got a black tablecloth (much as we had at my junior prom, the theme of which, I believe, was, in fact, A NIGHT AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS. Now I'm scared) stuck in the back of her minidress, while he uneven bodice and hem give her that, "I totally just made out with my date in the limo! AWESOME. I wonder if I should let him stick it in" look, perfect for when you're going for that whiff of '92. It screams Serious Journalist Has Fun On Her Day Off, no?

Keisha Whitaker is a lovely woman, and this canary color looks pretty on her. So we were all set to like this dress, or at least be open to its potential.

And then she turned around, and we learned our lesson about thinking nice thoughts.