There is something magical about Oscars night on the Red Carpet. Magical as in a Grimms’ fairy tale filled with evil hobgoblins pushing past each other on their way to interview the stars, trampling on their borrowed finery and causing them to trip on the trains of their (too long because they are designed for someone 6 inches taller) gowns. What with the hobgoblins and the cameras and the wires and the trailing hemlines and the minders 7 feet square, that Red Carpet is more dangerous than any construction site. WTF could not risk watching preening buffoon Piers Morgan on CNN in case she was forced to throw up and miss any of the frocks, and was therefore obliged instead to put up with the very irritating Ryan Seacrest and the even more irritating parakeet-voiced little person that is Kritsen Chenoweth. She can sing, but she certainly can’t talk. Anyway between the two of them and the much more restrained Robin Roberts they mwah-mwahed their way through the Hollywood élite. WTF once accompanied her mother, then in her early 80’s, to a funeral of one of her mother’s friends. En route, WTF was instructed how to behave and told to kiss everybody and smile. WTF protested that this was a funeral. “Don’t be silly, darling” replied WTF mère. “Just think of it as a cocktail party without the drinks”. The spirit of WTF mère had clearly spoken to Ryan, Kristen and Robin who spent their time kissing everyone and asking questions that made the first Vicky Pryce jury look like Aristotle. Meanwhile, in a studio suspended somewhere up in the air, a witches’ coven composed of Kelly Osbourne, Guiliana Ranic and some woman whose name WTF did not catch but who was attired in an ensemble made out of black and white mosaic bathroom tiles, commented inanely on the fashion. WTF’s finds it hard to respect Kelly’s opinions given her purple hair and tattooes, and Guiliana Rancid needs to eat something as a matter of urgency. Oscars’ host Seth McFarlane was plain obnoxious, like a little boy showing off after too much sugar and he was also unfunny. The whole thing lasted longer than the Second World War and Tommy Lee Jones failed to win Best Supporting Actor, at which WTF is in great indignation.
As for the Red Carpet frocks, they were, in the main, dull and safe and the worst atrocities were left to the aftershow parties. Here are the worst offenders, starting with Claudio Miranda who won best Oscar for Cinematography for Life of Pi.
WTF originally thought that she hadn’t seen anything like Claudio’s hair since This is Spinal Tap. Then it came to her – of course she had. On Christina Aguilera….
Except that Claudio’s hair is way better. That is probably because it is his own.
Now Hailee Steinfeld is only 16, so this might seem unkind, but WTF is she wearing?
Let me clarify that. I know what she is wearing, she is wearing leather and lace by Valentino. But why is she wearing it and why did Valentino design it? Why is a 16 year old girl dressed as Grandma Moses? However, the outfit was not a total waste of time, because if Vanity Fair was serving lobster at its party, at least she would have had her own bib.
From Hailee we move to Halle – Halle Berry wearing Versace.
Halle has come to the Oscars dressed as the Chrysler Building. Which does a disservice to the Chrysler Building, which is exquisite and tasteful, unlike this Versace tackfest. Those shoulders are very Captain Kirk. Beam me up, Scotty….
Here is the hostess with the mostest, Sir Elton John and one of his guests, woman-beater Chris Brown.
Sir Elton grows ever more ridiculous with each passing year an WTF nurtures the hope of witnessing his debut as a Pantomime Dame in the near future. His expression, all popping eyes, open mouth and jazz hands (also to be seen on partner David Furnish) is one of ostentatious post-coital delight and is very wearing for the rest of us. As is this ill-fitting DJ worn with sunglasses and matching purple-toned jewellery. As for Chris, he is obviously channelling his inner animal. Not that we didn’t know it was there.
Now Anne Hathaway may have won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress but no prizes to Prada for best supporting bodice.
Just imagine this. You are a shoo-in for the Oscar. Designers are falling over themselves to dress you. Signor Valentino has sent out a press release announcing that you would be wearing his creation. And then, with minutes to go, you decide to bin the Valentino, thereby making Signor Valentino look like a right prat, and go for this Prada number. Anne’s sudden defection was rash because those are the pointiest tits ever. Various low life rags screamed about Anne’s nipples but those are not her nipples, just the result of clumsy finishing on the seams. And the back is not good either.
It is a candy-coloured, ill-fitting, silk apron. Just very bad.
This is Oscar nominee, top Australian actress Jacki Weaver, wearing little known Lebanese designer Rami Kadi.
There is usually a reason why rarely performed plays and operas are rarely performed. I mean, have you ever sat through Pericles, Prince of Tyre? You really would rather stick needles in your eyes. If this horrible dress is anything to go by, there is a reason why Rami is the Pericles of Beirut. An Empire-line flock wallpaper bodice and a sea of silk flaring out like an wine-coloured Oscar statuette does Jacki no favours and makes her look stunted, as if half her torso had to be removed after an accident. When interviewed on the Red Carpet, Jacki had trouble recalling Rami’s name. If that is not a Freudian slip, WTF does not know what is.
Do not adjust your set. This is Faye Dunaway, aged 72, in Marigolds.
If Claudio is Christina, then Faye is Bob off Twin Peaks but with washing up gloves. And those sunglasses are just plain weird.
And now two people who have no business being anywhere near the Oscars at all. First, we have serial offender Heidi Klum flashing her all in Julien Macdonald.
From the waist down, the dress is lovely, if a touch too Cleopatra for some tastes. From the waist up, there is no dress, just rather drooping boobage. It might be time to force Heidi to stay indoors for a while. Honestly, it is for her own good.
Finally, another person who should never have been allowed in the vicinity of anyone with eyes. I give you Brandi Glanville.
WTF has come out publicly and admitted that she is addicted to the Mail Online and she is not the only one, believe me. There are millions of us out there. As we peruse the infamous Side Panel of Shame over our breakfast egg, the same question is asked across the globe – “who the fuck is Brandi Glanville?” Frankly, WTF did not bother to find out until she caught sight of Brandi’s breasts on the Red Carpet, but she now knows that Brandi (the name itself deserves a slap) is a former catwalk model and the ex-wife of actor Eddie Cibrian, with whom she has two children. Eddie then upped and left her for country singer LeAnn Rimes, making Brandi the Lizzie Cundy of the West Coast. Since then, Brandi has forged a new career by starring in Real Housewives of Beverley Hills and spending the rest of her time conducting a very public war of words with her ex and his new spouse. It is perhaps no coincidence that Brandi chose to wear this trashy cappuccino concoction of her own design, complete with poodle lining and a bodice about 4 sizes too small, in the same month as the publication of her new book in which she reveals, amongst other gems, that she revenged herself on Eddie by using his credit card to pay for a $12,000 “vaginal rejuvenation” to restore it to its pre-childbirth condition. As she writes so movingly, “I decided that since Eddie had ruined my vagina for me, he could pay for a new one“. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.
OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. A very poor show on the comments last week. See if you can do better before next Friday, when we shall meet again.
Pray tell…a rejuvenated lady moving part and a dish best eaten cold! I felt this juxtaposition was a trifle inelegant.
It was deliberate x
Vere, me transmitte sursum, Caledoni!
OK I had to look it up. I admit it. It means Beam me up Scotty…… X
What struck me this week was that you failed to draw our attention to the luminously sweaty cleavage proffered by Ms Glanville.
That is true. But I think my eyes had glazed over so I could not distinguish the glazing from the sweatiness. Apologies
I thought Anne Hathaway’s dress was quite nice from the front until my eyes were assaulted by her non-nipples. But you are right, the back is wrong. Also, I have been traumatised by the picture of Christina Aguilera – her hair is bad enough, but why is she talking into a microphone on a stand made out of intestine? Wrong, I tell you.