House Review: 8x19, "The C-Word"

DAHLINGS –

 

For the last few days yours truly has been insanely busy.  And I know how many of my beloved readers hunger for my reviews.  My Twitter feed has been filled with moans of "When, when?" Here you are, darling hearts.  Although I’m not sure what "The C-Word" stood for besides Cancer.  Caring?  Columbia?  Concord Grapes?  It was directed by the show's star, Hugh Laurie.

 

As I mentioned in my previous review, it's rather annoying that the show is pulling out this manipulative melodramatic twist for the last few episodes, but better late than never.  This was a complex episode despite some major flaws.  And by far the best this season.  

 

The heart of the show has always been the relationship of House and Wilson.  They have drugged each other, stolen from each other, lied to each other about matters great and small.  And yet the friendship continues.  (One might consider them two halves that make a whole. Or not.)  The regrettable loss of Cuddy has made the House/Wilson dynamic even more central.  This is why the show has been so difficult to watch it this season being tossed to one side in favor of outlandish plots and insipid characters.  Matters have not been helped by Robert Sean Leonard’s uninterested acting and Hugh Laurie’s phoning it in.

 

However, both actors brought their A-game, particularly Robert Sean Leonard.  This was a stellar performance, revealing more of Wilson than we have seen in eight seasons.  The darkness and anger that has been glimpsed sporadically in the past comes front and center.  Both House and Wilson suffer from an inner darkness that they medicate in different ways.  House is an antisocial drug addict; Wilson hides himself behind a cheerful shiny surface. As we discovered at the end of last week, Wilson has cancer, Stage Two thymoma. At the latest doctor’s office, House says, “How many times have I told you I wanted to be alone and you’ve made yourself a pain in the ass?  I owe you.” 

 

Unfortunately, the POTW plot is a straight rehash of “Finding Judas”.  Sick child of feuding divorced parents is put on a carnival ride by the father.  Disaster ensues.  Emily, the daughter, is either cute or crying “Ow, ow, ow!” She has a genetic illness, and her mother (Jessica Collins) is a humorless geneticist specializing in same.  It’s never clear what the father does, but he’s a lot more fun. Chris L. McKenna portrays the confused, loving father, creating a fully rounded character from sketchy material. For some insane reason, Foreman wants Dr. Mom to head the team.  Once again, disaster ensues.

 

Dangerous experimental drugs have been a go-to plot device last season and this season.  Last year House mainlined a drug that caused tumors in his leg.  This time the child is used as a lab rat by her mother, giving her daughter a drug that has not yet received FDA approval.   Joint custody is so not a good idea.

"Mommy's sorry for almost killing you, sweetie.  She'll be more careful next time."

Emily’s illness, as it turns out, is not caused by genetics but from a tumor in her heart.  House has been working with the cases less and less this season, so it’s Chase who gets to have Epiphany Face and solve the puzzle.  One suspects that the show is setting up Chase to be the team leader as the series ends.

 

And, of course, the main plot: Wilson is determined to use an extreme form of chemotherapy to blast his cancer.  It is literally life or death.  The inherent unbelievability of this plan is given what writers call “explainers,” those sentences that explain why a course of action is being taken that would otherwise make the viewer go, “Huh?”  It is clear that Wilson has an excellent chance of survival with traditional therapy (thymoma is almost never fatal).  The “explains,” if you will, are brought to the table when Wilson refuses to die in a hospital.  Then he produces a series of objects from patients who died unexpectedly of cancers with high survival rates.  House objects, but Wilson is determined to go through with it.   What else can House say but, “we’ll do it at my place”?

 

Once the medical equipment is in place, House raises a toast “to stupidity.” Before Wilson can agree, House goes on to give a blood-curdling description of what Wilson can expect. “Agony isn't a word or a concept. It's your only reality.”  He then asks, quite reasonably, “What are we doing here, Wilson?” Indeed, what are they doing there?  Wilson looks determined.  This is another moment that outlines how rickety the conceit is, but Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard sell it as well as they can. 

 

 It’s only a matter of time before Wilson is a grey-faced, vomiting mess.  Director Laurie chooses to shoot many of these scenes in tight close-up, letting us see into their emotional lives, particularly House.  House is tender with his sick friend, even with all of the snarky jokes he uses to cope.  He holds Wilson’s head when he throws up into an emesis basin, then wipes his mouth expertly and goes on to the next task.  This kind of care is exhausting, round-the-clock work.  The realism with which this is shown makes these scenes hard to sit through.  (Kudos to the makeup people.  Wilson’s pallor and cracked lips are heart-rending.)

 

House never touches anyone or lets them touch him, with exception of the women he’s been involved with.  With Wilson, the boundaries are dropped.

 

House giving the last of his Vicodin to Wilson.  

A million fangirls scream around the world

But then, crazed with pain and illness, Wilson lashes out at the unfairness of getting cancer, and spews out venomous truth at House.  House sits, hurt, and silent. House is usually silent when the people he cares about rage at him.  If anyone has any thoughts about this, please post them in the comments.

 

There is an unfortunate cut at the end of this scene to cute Emily, asking, “If I die, will my parents get back together?” (Your faithful scrivener burst out laughing.)   

 

The parents reconcile and Wilson survives the treatment.  There is a reference to three days having passed.  Three days?  Three days?  The child had the usual dozen wrong diagnoses, then major surgery in only three days?  Wilson went through all of that in three days?  You might argue it’s “television time,” but the script itself says three days. Even though Emily is still going to die an early death, she’s okay with it and her parents reconcile.
 

Wilson apologizes for his splenetic remarks, then asks for one last thing: to make it to the bathroom.  House hauls him up and half-carries Wilson to the bathroom.  Wilson notices that House is in extreme pain and asks if how he felt is how House feels all the time.  House gives an answering grunt.  “It really does suck being you, doesn’t it?” Wilson observes.  “At least I don’t have cancer,” is the response.

However you choose to view their friendship, it is indeed true love.  It would have been perfect had the episode ended there.  Instead, House and Wilson return to work.  Wilson finds an open laptop on his desk, hits a button.  Journey blasts out, accompanied by a photo montage of House and two hookers clowning with an unconscious Wilson ala “Weekend At Bernie’s.” Your mileage may vary, but it was a cheap, jarring end to an otherwise excellent episode.

 

"When did I get the time, money and energy to do this? When my Vicodin's all used up? Ah, screw it.  Par-TAY!"

What did you think about the ending montage?  Feel free to discuss in the comments.

 

Random:

 

Why on earth did they do it in House's living room and not the bedroom?

 

Apparently Emily's parents have been raging at each other for years.  One wonders how long the detente will last once their daughter is back to dying on schedule.

 

What is with the cinematography this season?  Half of the show was almost pitch black.

Anything you'd like to say in the comments?  Just bear in mind that I am always right.

House Review: 8x17 "We Need The Eggs" Is Rotten

DAHLINGS -

Ladies and gentlemen, we might have a winner in the race for the worst script for House before the show leaves the airwaves for good. Sarah Hess and Liz Friedman had a strong lead with “Man Of The House.” It was neck and neck with “Gut Check,” written by David Hoselton and Jamie Conway.

But leading the pack by a length as we go around the home stretch is “We Need The Eggs,” written by Sarah Hess and Peter Blake.

Imagine you have a friend-of-a-friend, an obnoxious drunk who brays with laughter at his/her own jokes. Now imagine that friend-of-friend is a shambling, fetid zombie.

(Note to self: do not watch the Season Two arc involving “the love of House’s life”, Stacy, played by Sela Ward, on the same day a new episode airs. Said arc is sensitive, well-written, two adults behaving in a believably screwed-up way. “Distractions” begins House’s hiring of hookers for uncomplicated sex.)

This ostensible premise is a large slab of fatback about how we all want love but fear it too much, and the substitutes we choose instead. “We Need The Eggs” is a quote from Annie Hall:

I thought of that old joke: This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, 'Doc, my brother's crazy, he thinks he's a chicken.' And the doctor says, 'Well why don't you turn him in?' and the guy says, 'I would, but I need the eggs.' Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships. They're totally irrational and crazy and absurd, but I guess we keep going through it because most of us need the eggs.

OUCH! That anvil hit my foot! And so early in the episode! House says the movie is a critique of “our modern mores”. (Annie Hall was made in 1977.)

The underlying premise is how the show demeans women at every opportunity. Not just House, the show itself.

Open with a man out on a date with a woman, Molly, who is not his girlfriend. She likes him and tells him she wants more. His eyes promptly begin to bleed. Way to avoid commitment.

I have to admit here that I was filled with excitement because the arcade game owner was played by my old pal Eddie Pepitone.

The POTW, Biff, is in love with a rubber sex doll, Amy, played by a rubber sex doll. He’s had it customized to look like a yoga instructor he dated for the length of your average high school crush. He loved her but she didn’t love him.















"You come here often?"


Perverted Biff adores Amy (reminding your faithful correspondent of both Lars and The Real Girl and “Mannequin 3: The Reckoning” from Supernatural, in which a man is in love with a—surprise!—rubber sex doll). Speaking of Supernatural, the segment I enjoyed the most was when Amy became “real”, climbed on top of Perverted Biff and proceeded to gush blood from a wound on her torso all over both of them. But of course it’s a hallucination, the go-to device for damn near everything this season.

His illness is from using tap water in a neti pot.

Parallel with this is a sitcom so tawdry I wanted to erase it from my mind half-way through. One imagines the guffaws in the writer’s room: “That’s really sick!” “Let’s go there!” “Omigod, House and his hooker—genius!” “We make hot chicks to do sexy things—no, STUPID sexy things!” Greg Yaitanes: “Ka-boom!”

House’s favorite hooker, Emily, is quitting to get married. He needs a new hooker/rubber sex doll! OUCH! That anvil hit my other foot!

House interviews a parade of prostitutes at his office. One is rejected because she can’t fix small appliances. The last one is reduced to standing on her hands and spreading her legs wide open. Cue laugh track.

House goes to Wilson for advice, Wilson points out that House is married to a beautiful, intelligent woman—adorable Dominika! House enlists Dominika in an adorable plot to break up Emily’s marriage. They hide in her truck called “Knishing On A Star”. Har har.



















Bond Girl and Creepy Grandpa coming up with a plan

Wearing a wire, Dominika propositions the fiancé, a fat man (visual gag: beautiful woman, ugly guy, the uber-pairing for most sitcoms) who is ready and willing, but—wait for it—he’s not Emily’s fiancé. He's her brother! Cue laugh track to hysteria and applause.

House begs Emily to reconsider. It creeps her out that House is living with a fake wife. Maybe she would be okay with a rubber sex doll.

“I see the way she looks at you. I see the way you look at her,” wise hooker Emily says. “It’s not the way my pimp looks at me.” Oh, wait, that last line might be a misquote.

House is stunned at this revelation. He and Dominika might be in love. At least for this episode’s purposes. For a character David Shore said they weren’t bringing back, Dominika is getting an awful lot of screen time. All right, so it’s not Karolina Wydra‘s fault that she’s trapped in this crummy storyline. But why is she so cursedly adorable? Why are all of the women such ciphers?

Oops, I forgot, this is House.

In other boring relationship news, Adams and Chase debate why neither of them have relationships. Yawn. Taub invites a woman over by lying to her. Yawn. Park meets a fellow nerdy music lover and they play guitar together. That’s cute.

House almost kisses Dominika when she says she fixed the blender. You see? A hooker couldn’t fix the blender! Dominika is the woman he’s been searching for! She’s adorable! Then he pulls away—he’s scared of love—his relationships always end badly—he’d have to run his car into his own apartment--!

But when he opens a letter that says Dominika has been approved for citizenship, he throws same into the trash. Much the way he deleted the message on his answering machine while Wilson was staying with him, saying there was an apartment available.

In Episode 10 of Season 2, Stacy compares House to hot vindaloo curry. She starts to tell the same Woody Allen joke, but before she can deliver the "egg" punchline, House interrupts with "curry."

God, I miss curry.























"Why am I even here?"

NOTES:
House + Dominika = Eeeeeew
I’m starting to wonder if Hugh Laurie isn’t just high on life.
Robert Sean Leonard is mugging his way through his scenes with a palpable air of disdain.
The rubber sex doll is the perfect actress for House.
I wish Dominika was played by Eddie Pepitone.
The “Park looks nerdy but says shocking things” is getting old.
After this episode, I’m going to my doctor to get checked for an STD.

Ciao,
Elisa & Fletcher


DISCLAIMER: I am a reviewer, not a recapper. There’s a difference. You want a recap, go to another site.

To those who ask, "If you hate the show so much, why do you keep watching?"

Because I need the eggs. OUCH!

House Review: 8x14, "Love Is Blind" Has A Tin Ear

DAHLINGS -


In its continuing efforts to make us forget that this was once a brilliant, ground-breaking television drama, writer John C. Kelley (late of NCIS) and director Tim Southam bring us this listless effort.

While not as bad as “Man of The House” (but really, what could be?) instead of a profound examination of a family mired in duplicity, and how House came to be the man he is, the viewer is treated to a parade of sloppy jokes and lazy clichés. The reason it has taken so long to write this review was that I kept delaying having to rewatch it.

Consider this: you have approximately 42 minutes of time to fill. You have to make choices about what to fill that 42 minutes with. Let’s divide it into chunks, like a large sundae.

Chunk One, melted Wavy Gravy:

WHO IN THE NAME OF JESUS THOUGHT PARK HAVING AN ACID TRIP WOULD BE FUNNY? And those cartoony visions of Chase, Adams and lastly, Taub as the tooth fairy? What show is this?? If I want to watch “Who Shot Roger Rabbit” I’ll go to Netflix, thank you very much.

Apparently the POTW was hoping to have hallucinations, so he laced his ice cream and candy with LSD. During the usual search of the patient's dwellings, Park ate some of same, and so we are inflicted with Disney-itis.

Under the influence, Park attacks Wilson. Wilson tries hard to give a shit.

This waste of screen time needs to apologize to its viewers.


Chunk Two, Vanilla:

The patient, who we shall call Blind Biff, has loud explosions going off in his head, like the deaf teenager a few seasons back. Biff has a deeply masochistic girlfriend/slave who has been taking care of him since college.

However, he’s met someone new who expects him to be independent. Biff is ready to be independent. He wants to give Masochist Melissa the old heave-ho and ride off into the sunset with Shiny New Girl. Who, for some reason, is never shown. A throwaway line, “I don’t want her to know I’m in the hospital” takes care of that. Good work, writers!

However, some treatment or other renders Blind Biff Blind Deaf Biff (say that five times fast) and before you can say “low self-esteem” Masochistic Melissa has thrown herself across Blind Deaf Biff sobbing how much she loves him. Blind Deaf Biff is no fool. Screw independence. Shiny New Girlfriend isn’t going to stick around with someone who is going to need full-time care. So, in a triumph of self-preservation that left me misty-eyed, he asks Masochistic Melissa to marry him. “YES!” she yells. Blind Deaf Biff is deaf no more! His hearing returned magically to hear her chaining herself to him for life! Now he is only Blind Biff!

I half-expected the wife from “Nobody’s Fault” to run in and scream, “He saved my husband’s life—whoops, wrong episode.”

Chunk Three, Rocky Road that fell out of the cone onto the sidewalk: House’s family.


Blythe comes to the hospital to see her son. Now, bear in mind that she was presented as a loving parent in “Daddy’s Boy” and “Birthmarks.” A veritable June Cleaver who looked the other way while Ward was beating up the Beaver.

House wants nothing to do with her, and wants her to think he was in Africa the past year. This makes no sense, particularly when she reveals that she knew he was in prison the entire time. Uh, Blythe, could you explain why you never bothered to contact YOUR ONLY SON during all of that time? She tricks Wilson into thinking she has cancer, causing House to show up at her hotel. House learned his manipulative skills from someone, clearly.

Blythe answers in a hotel bathrobe. House discovers she is in bed with…Thomas Bell, his biological father! Played by Billy Connelly, whom I adore and who did his best to sell this trash. (Diane Baker, who plays House’s mother, was born in 1938. Billy Connelly was born in 1942, which makes him seventeen years old when House/Hugh Laurie was born. Who knew Blythe liked them so young?)


"You were such a tender piece of young flesh, then, Tom."
"Thank you, Mommy Dearest."


You may recall some episodes back that House read a book of essays by Bell, who was a minister, and apparently quite devout. (This show will absolutely torture you if you have any memory at all.) Since then, he has morphed into a carefree Scottish man who was a chaplain in the American Navy (?) who did quite a bit of partying back in the day. Bell and House not only have matching birthmarks on their heads, they have them on what a romance novel would call their “manhoods,” as well.

We further learn that Blythe was quite the hippie, taking drugs, sleeping around, demonstrating against the war while ignoring that her child was being abused and seemingly not noticing that her husband was a Marine. There are enough disconnects here to cause a power shortage to the entire Eastern Seaboard. Including the fact that not only did she not feel it necessary to contact her son while he was in prison, but also that she got married to Bell two months after House Sr. died in Season Five. So she lied to House for YEARS?

Bell says quite rightly that he could “have done something for the boy” and House might not have turned into “a pill-popping sociopath”. This last is at a cozy dinner at a restaurant where House has brought Dominika because the company is lacking in adorable, and Wilson…because he’s there. House stands up and pulls out his manhood to show the matching birthmark.

I will pause here to note that Wilson doesn't look at all surprised. I assume he's seen it before.

Bell loses his cool, whereupon Blythe says the hoariest line in all of drama [if you don’t apologize to my son] “You will never see me again!”

Oh, really? The man you’ve been balling while your son is in prison? “You will never see me again!”

Now, honestly, who says that? And over a personal spat? Are the interns writing the scripts? “Dirk, get me a soy latte and write Scene 36 while you’re at it.” It’s a cheap line for a cheap moment of cheap drama.

Bell and his son bond later, I have no idea why. House says he “respected” his father and I did an honest-to-God spit-take. Champagne all over the Aubusson. The man he didn’t visit for a year while the guy was dying. (Am I sensing a pattern in this family?) Who he wanted to give a “bastardodgy”. If House respected his father, I am Lady Gaga.

The sludgy fake whipped topping to this sundae:

Wilson does a DNA test which proves that Thomas Bell is not House’s father after all. Let us consider this matter...Bell and House have matching birthmarks in the same two places; at age eleven House had catalogued all they have in common physically...but Bell is not his father?

“Your mom’s a slut,” Wilson observes. The House of yore would have had an actual reaction, instead of “She’s less boring than I thought.”

I wish I could say as much for this episode. Sorry for so few details, but I simply could not get through it more than twice. The second time I kept screaming uncontrollably, which is why my dialogue quotes aren’t more precise.

We are now coming to the final eight episodes. As much as I will mourn and miss this show (or what this show used to be) all I can say is, thank God.

Feel free to discuss this in the comments, and bear in mind: I am always right.

Ciao,
Elisa

Project Runway Season Eight Premiere, Part Two

DAHLINGS -

There is simply so much to cover in this season premiere, it had to take two posts!

When we last heard, there were 17 designers instead of the usual 16, and they had five hours to create a garment out of someone else's piece of clothing. And this was considered an audition for the show itself; it was guaranteed that one or more of the contestants would be going home. And you just finished packing and had that big going-away party. Bummer.

We watched them sweat, freak out, etc., the usual workroom scenes, except for the small amount of time. I'm guessing that Jason isn't going so much for a signature look with that idiotic bowler, he's probably bald.

Now to the interesting part: the runway. What a delight to see that the Bright Orange Oracle of Fashion, Michael Kors, was in his rightful place! Next to him was Nina Garcia, who has actually started to sprout a personality. (I love how Heidi pronounces her name with a heavy inflection, the way politically correct folk in the 80s used to pronounce Nicaragua "Nee-haw- wagrah".) Heidi was actually wearing an age appropriate dress for a change. Are the Four Horsemen here yet?

The special guest judge was actress Selma Blair. Not to worry, nobody in our viewing party could place her, either. She resembles a squinty Katie Holmes.

When Heidi came out and greeted the designers before the execution--er, runway show--the contestants were wetting themselves even more than usual. She rattled off "you're in or you're out" in rote fashion before the show began.

A side note: the models tonight were terrible. The way they clumped down the runway, they would make a Dior look bad.

Valerie made this eye-bleeding monstrosity from, I believe, Casanova's Dolce & Gabbana trousers.

Afghanistan hooker dress, made of combat material w/ false blood for added piquance.

McKell fashioned a cute little number from a blue button-down shirt.

Ivy took a pair of flowered, matronly pants and transformed them into--flowery, matronly capris! Along with a sloppily made silk top that was supposed to match in some way not meant for this universe.

"Oh my God, there's a sale at Pathmark!"

Unlike the judges, I liked Nicholas's long gown, made out of a pleather bomber jacket, using the bottom rib trim for the neckline.
April "deconstructed" a tuxedo jacket by...well...deconstructing it, which consisted of turning it inside out. Mighty Goth there, dahling!

This dress is for when Wilma Flintstone wants to get down with her bad self.

Gretchen sent out a glamorous dress that moved well on the runway, with small beaded fringe on the shoulders. Don't ask me what she made it out of, because I don't care.

Jason's dress was made from a black kimono. Although impeccably styled, the actual garment looked like a monk's habit hastily pulled on backwards by a monk fleeing a medieval monastery.

Casanova's "dress", if you can call it that, was made out of a small blue blouse. Tim had tried to talk him into making something halfway less acceptable. But Casanova stuck to his guns, describing his creation as "sexy but not vulgar." According to my notes, my first reaction was: JESUS!

Since I usually only use that word when I am actually addressing Jesus when he stops by, you can see how shocked I was. The judges agreed, and I simply cannot top the Duchess's assessment: "a pole dancer in Dubai". I love that neon orange bitch! Casanova's English is terrible, so we actually got the treat of listening to Nina speak to him in Spanish. I wish she would do all of her critiques in Spanish, it's so much more expressive. Then we wouldn't have to hear "questionable taste" and "chic" repeated in every show.

During the commercial break, I knew that Bunim/Murray had calculated who would not go home, regardless of talent, because they are perfect reality television personalities.

Casanova ? Check. He won't get the boot if he sends a dress made of cat turds down the runway.

Peach? Check. Not only did she make a lovely dress but she is also a lot of fun, rather like Paula Deen would be if she were sane.

Jason? With that hat? Of course. Check.

In the end, Gretchen won.

"I won, bitches!"

Poor little McKell was auf'd. But at least I don't have to look at those dreadlocks any more.

One more thing to be grateful for: no more Models Of The Runway! If I wanted to listen to skinny ninnies babbling about nothing, I'd watch Kathie Lee and Hoda.

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

(all images courtesy of mylifetime.com)

"More To Love" And The Reality of Reality TV

DAHLINGS -

Reality shows, it must be noted, are far from reality. As most of my savvy readers know, “reality” is manipulated and edited to suit what the producers of the show are looking to show. Some of the contestants of Project Runway are kept on because they have fascinating personalities, while the less camera-friendly designers are let go. And many shows rely on keeping the participants isolated from outside contact as much as possible.

Imagine the pressure of having your every move filmed for television, trapped inside a house for weeks, and in some cases not allowed to interact with your fellow cast-members off-camera. (I learned that from a former Survivor cast member; there were employees specially hired to prevent the contestants from speaking to each other between takes!)

So it was with more than a fair share of skepticism that I approached More To Love, a reality show that features an overweight but appealing man, Luke Conley, who is 6'3" and weighs over 300 pounds. He has to choose between twenty overweight and appealing women.




I should warn you that all of the photos have been Photoshopped beyond belief.


Now, reality dating shows have a peculiar, outdated view of romance and marriage, of meeting “the one true love” and living happily ever after. How on earth is that supposed to “reality”? Especially within the confines of the genre. More To Love is no exception.

This might be feminist heresy, but I have to disagree with the critics who say the women were presented as “pathetic” and “otherized.” With the exception of a few bad fashion choices, all of the women were presented as sexy, pretty, and intelligent (again with a few exceptions). They stepped out of black limos in colorful evening gowns, hair perfect, makeup camera-ready, in sky-high heels. **











Some of them could have been pop idols; in fact one woman is a plus-size model, as is the strangely underused host, Emme. I admire Emme tremendously, pardon the pun. But she is only on for a few minutes at the beginning and the end, and seems slightly uncomfortable during the proceedings.



One hopes that during the show’s run she will help these women with their low self-esteem. In one on one interviews, each woman talked about what she wanted in a mate, her dating history, her feelings about her body, etc. What saddened moi was the self-hatred these women had for themselves. They didn’t seem to understand that the mere fact that they were on this show meant that they were far better-looking than average! In fact, quite a few were attractive in that slightly bland style television demands.




They focused on their large bodies as the reason they have/had been dateless. Most reality show contestants are deeply insecure. Why else would they be reality show contestants? But these women wore their hearts on their chiffon sleeves. Why on earth did they think a television show would be their “last chance for love”?

Here I would like to assert that my avoirdupois has never been an obstacle to dating, sex, multiple marriages, or any pleasurable interaction with the male sex. But then, I am a woman of broad mind and loose morals. There were some contestants who were comfortable with their size and happy with their bodies, which was a refreshing change.

At the end, ten women were sent packing, and this is one aspect of reality television I despise: the exit interview. Many of the women being sent home were completely devastated, and the cameras feasted on their devastation.

Many critics have said that More To Love is all about humiliating fat women.

What they do not take into account is that most reality television is, ultimately, about humiliating everyone. Where is the dignity in The Bachelor? Survivor? Big Brother?

Although I have reservations about More To Love, in the end I have to say that I believe it levels the playing field just a tiny bit.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog


**Fashion Note :

Unlike MAKEOVER reality shows, More To Love did not dress the women in lookalike dark colored empire dresses. Their gowns ran the color and design spectrum, and some even had--gasp--natural waistlines!

Do Reality Shows Hate Vintage Fashion?

DAHLINGS –

With the ongoing Writer’s Guild Strike (yes, I am aware of some things going on in the world outside fashion), there has been a proliferation of (ugh) “reality” shows. No relation to reality as you and I know it. And I work in fashion, which has very little relation to reality, so you can only imagine how far away from reality these shows are.

What aggravates your faithful correspondent are the fashion makeover shows. Again and again, some poor woman is humiliated and forced to change her wardrobe, hair, and makeup. Not to say that they don’t usually look horrendous to begin with. In fact, my current assistant could use a top-to-toe do-over.

Don’t look at me that way, you idiot. Black roots with red hair is not becoming.

HOWEVER, some of the more stylish victims have a great deal of vintage clothing in their closets. ALL of which they are forced to—it chokes me to say it--throw out! Discard into the trash, in favor of what is laughingly called “vintage-inspired” clothing. This is because, unlike boutiques along Rodeo Drive, most thrift shops cannot afford that all important television product placement.

Well, perhaps Decades in Los Angeles, but one believes that’s it.

If I had my own “reality show,” I would sweep some poor fashion victim off the streets of New York. A plump woman dressed in too-tight lowrise jeans and what is nowadays called a “puffer jacket.” After ritually burning her clothes, I would dress her in beautiful vintage outfits—dresses, separates, shoes, coats.


Mod Silk Brocade Asian Jacket Dress
http://www.specialistauctions.com/auctiondetails.php?id=816936

Vintage 80s Blue Satin Shoes With Rhinestone Studded Bows, size 12M:


http://www.specialistauctions.com/auctiondetails.php?id=1098626

Vintage Crystal Pleated Contrast Cocktail Dress, XXL:

http://www.specialistauctions.com/auctiondetails.php?id=1098627

Vintage 70s Glamourous Black Maxi Dress With Soutache Embroidery, XXL:

SOLD

If you wish to get a head start on looking beautiful before I sweep down on you, do visit my store on Specialist Auctions, Bodaciously Yours Vintage. It’s paradise, dahlings!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog

Project Runway's One Hour Hershey Commercial

DAHLINGS –

Isn't it annoying enough that in every episode of Project Runway we have to hear about the "Tresemme Salon," the Bluefly accessories, and Heidi Klum's hideous jewelry?? And then to have this week's challenge to be a one-hour Hershey's Candy commercial! The sheer affrontery! What next, dresses made out of Rubbermaid products? "Designers, make it work", indeed.

As I mentioned in my last, hasty blog-thing, I was relieved to see Elisa Jimenez get auf’d. Yes, yes, she was a character, she had a personality (unlike—who is that blonde person with stuff in her hair—the name escapes me—something feline—never mind). But my dears, spitting on fabric, all of those ludicrous noises, that stoned smile…but worst of all, that dreck, er, dress.



The only thing worse than the front is the back, which unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) was not photographed. Suffice to say it made the front look lovely.

Please bear in mind that I am deeply sympathetic to those who have suffered traumatic brain injury (although it did not escape one’s notice that the show’s writers saw fit not to mention it until this episode, thus insuring maximum manufactured sympathy for the poor thing).

Nevertheless, once again, one imagines the writer’s room:

“If it bleeds, it leads! The crazy babe had her head split open! America’s gonna cry its guts out when she’s auf’d! Even that bitch Heidi will have to act like she cares! Top THAT, Housewives of Orange County!”

One must admit it was a bit of a surprise that Victorya survived this debacle.



Watching the model go down the runway caused your faithful correspondent motion sickness. (One might have thought the model had the traumatic brain injury and was only now learning to walk. Oh, dear, I do hope that’s not an upcoming challenge...)

My darling huggy-bear Chris came through beautifully, obviously he has finally listened to Tim telling him to get his head out of Disneyland and into the retail business. I feel so proud…almost like a mother… although of course I am far too young.



Rami won for this creation, although as others have pointed out, one cannot be not certain whether or not he won because of the dress or because guest judge Zac Posen was drooling over the designer himself.



As for moi, I believe Kevin should have won. Look at this classic style, the craftsmanship, the fit!



Call me old-fashioned, call me a traditionalist, but mon cher amis, this was the only outfit that was wearable. (I believe that before the hapless designers were unleashed in the Hershey store they were told to make a "wearable outfit"? ) By wearable, I mean that a human being could wear it. Outside of a television studio.

Of course, I might sign a different tune if I myself had a corporate sponsor. Feel free to take the hint, Tobelerone. Or Godiva. Or hell, even Nestlé.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

It's Official - Oprah Winfrey ADORES Breasts!

Dahlings –

Far be it for moi to criticize anyone else’s lifestyle (although if you dare criticize mine, beware! As it says below, I have efficient and nasty lawyers).

However, the hypocrisy of that Oprah Winfrey person. Yes, I know, she's rich, she pulled herself up by her anklestraps, she insists on being on every cover of that damn magazine urging women to "be the best you can be" or "build strong bodies 12 ways" or "Join the Army" or whatever it is. Etc. etc. etc.

So, in this day and age, why bother to pretend that you are a player of the pink oboe, when it is transparently obvious that you would rather eat the dark oyster? (Note I did not say “bearded clam.”)

My personal assistant had the television on this afternoon when she was supposed to be steaming my fabulous outfits. I'm going to the Marc Jacobs soiree at Gotham Hall this evening, and I need to have a selection of devastating garments handy.

Before I had a chance to discipline the foolish lumpkin, the sight on the plasma screen rooted me to the spot. Oprah Winfrey, delightedly standing behind a half-naked woman and fondling her breasts!

“I didn’t know Oprah had a side career in soft-corn pornography,” I thought. Then, I realized Ms. Winfrey was ostensibly fitting women for brassieres on her television program.

Perhaps it was the manner in which her hands caressed each woman’s poitrine, big, small and in between. The way she lovingly fondled the curve of the cups of the lingerie. Perhaps it was the rapturous gleam in her eye. But Oprah was enjoying this far too much!

Suddenly those 'rumors' about her friendship with Gayle seemed quite plausible.

And I’m certain that the participants on the show enjoyed themselves as much as Ms. Winfrey, if the eagerly screamed “THANK YOU, OPRAH!” s from the half-naked women were anything to go by. Who knows what happened when the cameras were turned off? Probably most of these women hadn’t been felt up so well since high school. (Although there were so many women, one has to admire Oprah’s stamina.)

The rest of the program was the usual women’s’ kerfuffle, how to find the perfect pair of jeans and such. (Using size 10 women as examples--of COURSE size 10 women can find perfect jeans! My God! )

But I digress. Ms. Winfrey examined each woman’s derriere with a scrutiny that was quite discomfiting.

Yes, we all know she’ll never marry that eunuch Steadfast or Stiffpole or whatever his name is. If only she wouldn’t keep blowing smoke in the media’s eyes by pretending to blow Stiffpole. Come out, come out, Oprah! Then we will all know you are being your best possible you, as you like to say.

Must dress! Kisses!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Today's Fashion Thought:
We all know there is nothing like a dame. I've always liked the word dame. I hope someday I will be remembered as such: “She was a great dame," "She was one tough dame,”
I think of a dame as a gal who knows who she is. Who can be tough when she needs to be, but knows when mercy is called for.
Great in bed. Feminine without being prissy.
From "Damn Good Vintage," by the Zaftig Goddess

Michael Richards, David Letterman, Jerry Seinfeld...oh, dear

DAHLINGS –

I hope that all of you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, replete with turkey and all of the trimmings. (For you vegans out there, Tofurky and all the trimmings, whatever that may mean in your strange little world.) I certainly did, at a grand dinner hosted by--sorry, I am not allowed to say--I will only mention that I had to sign a confidentiality agreement before they would let me out of the lobby.

I am spending today in splendid idleness. And no garments that constrict the stomach in any way. (One suspects it was that last piece of pumpkin pie.)

Of course, it is obligatory to give thanks at this time of year. Not only am I grateful for my beautiful plus-sized figure and creamy skin, my thick blonde hair and well-turned ankles; I am deeply grateful for Bucky, my companion in good times and bad. The little darling would spend the entire day in my lap if he could, chewing freeze-dried bull penises (they call them bully sticks but really). Once I was carrying home a particularly large (14 inch) bully stick in the rain, and damned if the thing didn’t REHYDRATE! Quite a shock! I had my maid put it in the oven to dry out.

Come to think of it, I never did see it again…I do hope she gave it back to my dog.

This morning, I am profoundly grateful that I don’t have to spend time with:
Michael Richards
Rosie O’Donnell (Just because she's fat, that doesn't make her interesting)
TomKat , as they are so cloyingly named
Madonna

And so many other celebrities who are inflicted upon one in the course of going about one’s day. Note that I did not include Kelly Ripa. I believe the poor dear had some cause to be upset, when that strange person who looks remarkably like K.D. Lang put his/her/its hand over her mouth. (He was an American Idol, whatever that means.)

It is almost as though there is a continuum of nausea that these various annoyances induce, with Michael Richards at the absolute top of the heap, and at the bottom...let’s say….hmmm, there are so MANY…oh,say, Britney Spears, perhaps. The woman just WILL NOT go away.

Yes, in between my frantic preparations for the holidays, I did see Michael Richards’s sickening outburst, and I also saw his apology on David Letterman. First, let me say that Mr. Letterman asked very sensitive questions. Imagine if it had been Nancy Grace! “YOU HATE BLACK PEOPLE! ISN’T THAT IT? YOU HATE BLACK PEOPLE! SPILL IT!” Michael Richards would have been reduced to a babbling wreck…

On the other hand, even under the expert handling of Mr. Letterman, he was still a babbling wreck. And Jerry Seinfeld had to keep telling the audience, "It's not funny." Well, it was--if you enjoy watching Gestalt therapy combined with logorreah.

The pity of it all is, that even though Mr. Richards is doubtless wealthy beyond all dreams of avarice, his career was already over before this happened. For myself, his most memorable moment other than "Seinfeld" was pulling an enormous booger out of his nose in Weird Al Yankovich's low-budget flop "UHF". (In that movie, one must confess, the "Wheel of Fish" gag was tres amusant.)

One mused as one watched the desperate ex-comedian flounder on-camera: Doesn’t the man have a publicist? Doesn’t he know enough about show business to read a prepared statement?

Meanwhile, the young men who were the target of the attacks have hired opens-her-legs-to-the-stars attorney Gloria Allred, who was probably feeling the draft of not being in the headlines recently. My only question is a fairly mild one. Will they let us see what prompted Mr. Richards to go berserk? Or is his outburst, as they say, “the money shot”? If you know, don’t hesitate to write in. I'm sure we'll be hearing from the Reverend Al Sharpton at any minute.

Dahlings, I will write more later, but the dictation machine’s batteries are running low, and I have to go berate my assistant. I’m not sure about what, but talking about Mr. Richards has put me in a foul mood, and there is certainly something she is doing wrong.

That reminds me...the Ebay Vintage clothing community is having a Vintage Blow Out Sale from November 22-29, all items fixed price at $19.99 or less. Finish your Christmas shopping with vintage! (And please, do make me an offer on that HIDEOUS Eduardo robe!) I have many lovely goodies up for delectation, with more to come!

Vintage 70s aqua diva dress, XL B42

Vintage 80s Ultra-New Wave Asymmetrical Close Mans' Denim Jacket, XXL CH50

Vintage 80s Magadesian black leather low-heeled pumps, size 11.5W

Do stop by! The link is on your right.



Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Project Runway or Stalag 17?

Dahlings,

We are back in New York in my fabulous Central Park West apartment. Bucky has been rescued from the doggie spa, where his toenails were trimmed but NOT painted, an omission I will remind them of. I like to have Bucky in a French manicure, it looks SO stylish on naturally black nails. My hostess in North Carolina, although a woman of great style and taste, does not care much for dogs.

I had the (mis)fortune of tuning in to "Project Runway" last night. My dears, is this Fashion In The True Sense? I think not! Is this how we want to encourage the next generation of designers? By disemboweling them on the tube? Heidi Klum, who reminds me of nothing so much as a sadistic Nazi commandant in drag, has ruined the sunny, happy image I had of her from those glasses ads in shop windows.

Not that the other fashion phonies surrounding her were any better. They'd all sell their mothers into prostitution if they thought it would get them a network deal. Perhaps they already have?

The gleam in Ms. Klum's eye as she surveyed the formerly disgraced contestants (that strange female hippie and the angry old queen--yes, I know he's married, but spare me) walking out in confusion, and the other designers grabbing each other's lapels and looking as if they'd soiled themselves--well. Our Ms. Klum was having a high old time.

Doubtless she spends her private time torturing mice at the bottom of wooden barrels: "You. First you are in. Then you are out. But now you are SQUISHED!" I pity her children.

And the clothes--mon dieu, the clothes! If that strange little blond accented female--Oolee, I think her name was--made one more colorful flowy boho dress, I was going to throw myself out of the nearest window. Laura Bennet, the preggers one with the ostentatiously dyed red hair and razor cheekbones, did lovely things, even if they were all painfully derivative of styles past. However, she does live in New York City, so one must forgive her mistakes and move on.

But who was that THING with the tattoos around his neck? Does he have the faintest idea of how that will look when he is a chicken-necked oldster? (Oh pardon me, people like that don't tend to grow old.) All it did was draw attention to the fact that he could use a chin implant. Not the intended effect, one supposes.

Call me mad, but the fashions that Michael Knight made...with the exception of that long purple dress that belonged on a female extra in "Shaft"...were quite marvelous. He has a real respect for the rounded female figure, and when was the last time you saw THAT quality in a fashion designer?

Must dash - I have many splendid things to list. Halloween has turned out to be very busy at the Bounteous House of Style, so I have to keep listing! First I have to locate my assistant, who sneaked out of here while I was dictating this into my personal recorder for transcription. Probably on the floor of my closet sobbing again. I do wish she wouldn't do that, she tramples my gowns.

Here is some of what you will find:





Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog