I’ve got a bad case of Post-Hollywood Awards Season Depression (PHASD). Last night was the Super Bowl of award shows, and, overall, it was a splendid event. There were no Nicki Minaj meltdowns to ruin a perfect good party (see: Grammys), but the event wasn’t without a few disasters.
Here’s what hit the mark for me and what fell flat on its face.
The first syllable of ‘dictator’ explains Sasha Baron Cohen perfectly. It’s no secret that I haven’t been able to stand him since the night a friend dragged me to see Bruno, and I spent the entire time with my head buried in my scarf out of disgust. And you should know that I’m not easily repulsed.
Anyhoo, Cohen shows up to the Red Carpet dressed as his latest character, the aforementioned “Dictator”. Flanked by two women in berets carrying large floral arrangements (yeah, I know, keep reading), Cohen walked up to Seacrest holding an urn branded with the face of Kim Jong Il.
Then, the unthinkable occurred. Ass-face Cohen dumps the entire urn on Seacrest’s Burberry tux.
I can’t make this up,; it was truly awful. And Cohen is an idiot. If the Illuminati does exist, I’m convinced Seacrest is their leader. He practically owns Hollywood, you guys.
She dazzled in Louis Vuitton. That dress officially proved that she can do no wrong. GIRL. CRUSH.
I was not dazzled by the dress. The train was stunning but the top just didn’t fit. And don’t even get me started on her bangs. She essentially just undid all of Zooey Deschanel’s hard work to bring bangs in to this decade. Plus, her red carpet interview was atrocious. If she ever pens a memoir, she should title it ‘I Don’t Know’ because that’s the only answer she had and that’s the only response any of us have about her existence.
I’m not going to show you a picture. It was horrific. Her stylist chose a pretty dress for Skeletor. And she kept standing super awkward with her legs spread apart so that her icky leg stuck out the slit. She really shouldn’t spread her legs like that. An Ethiopian baby might fall out.
Cirque Du Soleil
Their performance was incredible. I’m so glad I could gawk and shriek in the privacy of my own home because I would just die if I ever shrieked in front of Meryl.
This lady is a class act. I adore her. Truthfully, I totally agree with the masses that Viola Davis probably should’ve won, but, c’mon, it’s MERYL. If you’re going to lose to anyone, for the love of Christmas, let it be Meryl. That woman could show up to the show in Bud Light-logo pajamas, and I would still pee all over myself about her outfit. And, since you might not know me well, I loathe pajamas in public.
I’m not sure that anyone would’ve done a better job setting the tone for the vintage-Hollywood angle they had going. The opening skit and subsequent musical number were just to die for. But then again, anything is an improvement over the Hathaway-Franco debacle of 2010.
Cool your loins, Hollywood. We get it – you really, really, REALLY liked it. Most of the world did too. But don’t forget that The Help featured a poop pie. You have to give it some credit.
Overall, I enjoyed the night. The memoir tribute was beautifully done, and MOST of the gowns were beautiful. There was one thing though…
Where the eff was Ryan Gosling?
The entire production was shockingly devoid of him. I think the rest of the world agrees when I say that I can’t believe we live in a world where Ryan Gosling wasn’t nominated for his role in “Drive”, but the reality is – we do. And despite the presence of clips for “Ides of March” and “Drive,” not once did his glorious face grace my screen. I can’t tell you how much it hurt my heart to see he that he didn’t attend, but only because I wanted to see him in a tux. Truthfully, I think it’s super badass that he played hooky. Because that’s what Noah Calhoun would’ve done. Because he’s way too busy building a riverfront mansion for me. Duh.