Tony Awards

Other than the fact that she shares a name with a Young and the Restless character, I didn't know that much about Phyllis Newman until I Googled her and learned she's something of a Broadway fixture and used to be on The Match Game a lot.

None of which explains why she showed up at the Tonys looking like a cross between Diane Keaton, Sally Jessy Raphael, and a priest.

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[Photo: WENN.com]

Maybe I should put this post in Match Game parlance she'd understand:

HOST: At the Tony Awards, Phyllis Newman looked really crazy.

AUDIENCE: How! Crazy! Was she!?!?!

HOST: So crazy that the paparazzi begged her to bless them with her holy [BLANK].
Readers, why can't I get on board with this?

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[Photo: WENN.com]

Somehow, between the fabric texture and the cut at the bottom, I can't shake the feeling that the hem of her gown looks like insect wings parting. Or as though she's being slowly devoured by a dolphin that currently is savoring her ankles. Or as if something is giving birth to her feet. It's just... I'm DISTRACTED by it. I don't like to think about epidurals in the morning. Or ever, really.

This angle doesn't help:

Well, DAMN.

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There is a dude back there on the right who is looking straight at the camera and, presumably, thinking, "You're seeing this, too, right? This goddess in purple? Tall, legs for days, radiant, shoulders I'd like to gnaw on like a chicken drumstick? I would TOTALLY TAP THAT. And so would you. And you KNOW IT." And he's probably right.
Lauren. I wanted to like this. I did. You are so pretty.

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[Photo: WENN.com]

I even think the green works with your coloring. But honey, that slice of Key Lime Pie has gone rancid in your fridge: If you are NOT wearing a strapless bra that's inching its nasty way down your torso so that the underwire can make sweet love to your rib cage, well, then something is doing a great imitation of that lady-tragedy. Not to mention that whatever rigging system you did come up with has failed your right boob more than your left. I am pleased there was an attempt at SOMETHING, but this is exactly the type of catastrophe many of us try to work out during a dry run. Or, aptly and in your theater parlance, a dress rehearsal. This is why I never cut the tags off anything until I am absolutely about to wear it out of the house.

Plus, can we talk about the bow? It looks like the bedraggled-but-optimistic Itsy Bitsy Spider climbing up the water spout after several torrential downpours had knocked it to the floor. And look what it's doing to your silhouette:
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MARCIA GAY HARDEN: Let's be frank. I look kind of great tonight.

HOPE DAVIS: I...don't. Damn it.

MARCIA: Did you see me on Damages this last season? I was sort of really sexy, right? Even if my character did kind of drift off into nowhere. After all those cracks over the last few years about how I'm a "handsome" woman. I'm looking GOOD lately. I think it's the hair.

HOPE: The hair is kind of big tonight, don't you --

MARCIA: Shut up, Dowdy McFrumpsville. Don't you have a junior high school dance to chaperone?

HOPE: That seems unnecessary.

MARCIA: So are your shoes.

HOPE: God, Marcia. Looking hot makes you MEAN.

MARCIA: Sorry. You just look...not as good as you COULD look. That's all. I just want you to look better. Like I do.

HOPE: Can we just do this so I can go home?

MARCIA: And fire your stylist?

HOPE: ENOUGH OUT OF YOU.

MARCIA: Sorry. I'm just drunk on my own awesome.

HOPE: I wish I were drunk, PERIOD.  
Okay, first off, please stop staring at me like that, Idina.

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I'm not saying there's anything wrong with YOU. I'm not even saying there's really anything wrong with your dress. But I am mildly concerned that one of your houseplants has turned on you, and/or attempted to possess you, in order to carry out its evil scheme for total world domination. Tell me, have you found yourself leaning toward the light? Do you wake up in the morning and realize you spent the night snoozing peacefully in a bed of soil? Are you experiencing any cravings for carbon dioxide? Did you turn to hubby Taye Diggs at any point and ask him to pick up your vase from the dry cleaner? And have you referred to yourself at any point as Audrey?

If the answer is "yes" to any of the above, please go straight to the doctor; do not pass Home Depot, do not purchase any fertilizer for lunch. Above all, though, please stop staring at me like you want to squeeze the life out of my weak human form with your superior vine-like tentacles, because it's really freaking me out -- I swear to GOD I did not kill my bamboo plant on purpose.

Um, Miss Minnelli?  I hate to disturb you. You're pretty awesome, and I'm happy you're still up and kicking around. In fact, I wish you'd write your autobiography, because I know it would be a juicy read, especially accompanied by a cold martini. But, uh, I think you forgot something?

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Shh, let's act like you did it on purpose and maybe no one will notice.

Laura Linney is fabulous, of this we are all aware. A fine actress, indeed. The sort of woman with whom you could easily spend a companionable hour trapped in an elevator, yes. Someone who almost always looks cleanly chic but seems like she could tell a good dirty joke, of course. But while I am enamored of her in general, I don't know how I feel about this little number:

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The dress itself isn't ghastly, but the color does her no favors. In fact, I have the feeling that her makeup artist took a look at her in this and muttered to himself, "I'm gonna need a bigger bronzer brush." Then he gave up right around her chin. But why, Laura? Why? Why, when you could have just worn...something that wasn't exactly the color of your flesh? WHY?



Ever since it was announced that Project Runway's Christian Siriano would dress Whoopi for her gig hosting the Tony Awards, I've been dying to see what he would do for her. I mean, this is a guy whose dream job was to dress Posh, whom you could swaddle in fifteen pounds of ruffle -- preferably covering as little of her as possible -- and she'd still look like she weighed 90 pounds soaking wet. Whoopi Goldberg is hardly an avant-garde demi-nudist; hence my extreme curiosity.

All things considered -- assuming this is, in fact, his dress; it's the most likely candidate I've found so far, anyway -- it certainly could've gone worse:

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I did expect a bit better: It is not tremendously original, nor does it set my world on fire. I like my mullets on Survivor contestants and hockey players, thank you very much. I don't totally understand that flap of beige around her crotch, nor why she needs something around her neck that can summon her butler (unless he's supposed to be wrangling that beige crotch flap, in which case, she should be pulling on that chain for dear life). And it has the faint aura of an overly formal lounging robe, the likes of which you might see on a reclusive millionairess who smokes cigarettes through filgers, wears bedazzled turbans, and still uses lead-based makeup while she whimpers about how The Talkies are ruining the film industry.

But all that said, I don't HATE it, either, and here's why: When was the last time the Whoopster showed up to The View wearing hot shoes AND showing off her ankles, much less flashing skin all the way up to her knees? So even though this starts out a bit bulky and depressing -- like she's a schoolmarm at a funeral -- its gets points for turning into something saucier and girlier than I thought she'd wear, and which she pulls off with aplomb. Am I crazy, or does she deserve a pat on the back and a pint of ice cream for that?


Regardless of where you stand on this one, it's WAY better than what she had on later:

I've been staring at what Marcia Gay Harden wore to the Tony's for a day and a half now, wondering why exactly I couldn't put my horror into words. Her sleeves broke my brain.

I mean... why, Marcia? Why? You are a handsome woman. You are not an elderly society dame. You are not a former silent film star who swans around her tony L.A. mansion smoking cigarettes out of long holders while your manservant irons your turbans, and braying to the young screen-writing lover you've somehow entrapped that eyes are the window to the soul and pictures were better before actors started talking in them. So I can't see any reason why you've chosen to Go There. Especially with sleeves that could double as a young girl's petticoats. Pants are not sleeves, no matter how much they look like it after a few gimlets.

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