St. Petersburg Times
What Not to Wear: Armchair Edition
For some of us, watching the red carpet parade at the Oscars isn’t half the fun, it’s all the fun.
Janet K. Keeler
Published March 5, 2006
Anyone who knows me at all knows not to call on awards nights. Or at least to wait until the commercials.
When the stars ride the red carpet, be it the Oscars, Golden Globes, Grammys, Emmys or even the house party SAG awards, I want to watch without distraction. Who wins is not of much interest; it’s what they wear and the unscripted moments that keep my attention. I’d hate to come to work on Monday and not be able to dish with my co-workers about how Jamie Lee Curtis almost fell down the stairs or why on earth no one hemmed Hilary Swank’s dress properly. The mere jangling of the phone could pull me off task.
I scrutinize their clothes, questioning designer and color, and often wonder why no one tells the million-dollar babies when their hair looks horrible. Never mind that mine is in a frayed topknot held by a scrunchie.
What am I wearing? Vintage Lane Bryant flannels, size 3X.
How delicious it is to pile up on the couch with an endless supply of Diet Coke and microwave popcorn and watch the beautiful people face a line of inquisitors, a.k.a. the entertainment press. Sometimes I feel sorry for the stars, tugging on tops too small to cover ample bosoms and feet pinched in wicked-scary high heels. My 10Ws are bare, propped on the coffee table.
Then I remember they have lots of money, some of which came from my wallet, and a posse poised to fix wayward tendrils or warn them of spinach in their teeth. Stylists and personal tanners, plus freebie gowns and jewels, got them to where they are today.
As I host the home version of What Not to Wear, I conjure the image of my mentors, the BBC’s Susannah and Trinny, who taught me to say “too matchy-matchy” or “mutton dressed as lamb.” I now know that animal prints on blonds equal barmaid.
As an alter ego, Joan Rivers used to be fun before surgery made her look younger, but weirder, than daughter Melissa. Her barbs were witty, but at some point she stopped paying attention and didn’t know the names of the actors or what they were nominated for.
Her lapses became more embarrassing than the white Galliano tux that Celine Dion wore backward ! to the 1999 Academy Awards. Did I mention the giant, swooping white hat? A Titanic mistake.
I look forward to designer Isaac Mizrahi saying something irreverent tonight on E! Television’s red carpet coverage. It starts at 5:30 p.m. Remember, Ms. Keeler is not taking any calls. Though he’ll only say what we’re thinking, the humorless Monday morning quarterbacks will complain that he didn’t show the proper respect. Horrors! Asking a beautiful starlet about her underpinnings! That’s okay, Isaac, come over to my house next year in your Target jammies. There’s always room on the couch for another diva.
(Honestly, anyone is a better red carpet host than Star Jones, who never met a celebrity she didn’t want to share a story about her wedding with.)
Sadly, there aren’t many unscripted moments anymore, and even a flashing peace sign might mean a threatened boycott against a performer. Give me more Adrien Brody lip-locks with Halle Berry and less bits of paper stuffed in pockets. In 1973, Bette Midler went into fits and giggles at the Grammys when the Carpenters presented her with the best new artist award. At the moment mouthy Bathhouse Betty met the queen of clean music, I was hooked on awards shows. Anything could happen, it seemed.
“Oh, my dears, isn’t this a hoot?” the Divine Miss M said. I think Midler was wearing a tiara, which reminds me that I have one too, and it doesn’t clash with my floral nightie.
That was the decade of pint-size Tatum O’Neal (Paper Moon) in a miniature man’s tuxedo and Sally Kellerman (M*A*S*H) showing as much skin as censors would allow. An adolescent Jodie Foster (Taxi Driver) wore a simple cotton dress with a T-shirt underneath it to the 1976 Oscars. Today, the kids are as coiffed and manicured as their mothers.
From my living room perch, most of today’s celebrities look pretty darn good. Anymore, we can only hope for an Uma Thurman as Heidi or Angelina Jolie in Cruella De Vil couture. They’ve wised up and caught on. No one wants to make the worst-dressed list.
Oh, well, there’s still the guessing game on plastic surgery.
