Brace-Face

Easy, Breezy, Beautiful...

Marc Indelicato, at the 2008 SAG Awards.

S-S-S-S-S-Supa-Star

There were two songs from my childhood that never failed to scare the bejezus out of me: "Burning Down the House" by Talking Heads (I think the video had more to do with it than the actual lyrics) and "Rock Me Amadeus" by Falco. The scary part in the latter song was the monotone-voiced narrator reciting a timeline of Mozart's life and career, ending with "1791: Mozart composes 'The Magic Flute. On December 5th of that same year, Mozart DIES!" For a 10-year-old with mommy issues, that was some disturbing shit!

Now that I'm grown up and been through therapy, I have faced my Falco fear head-on and have come to love the man. I mean, who else can wear a hat like Toht from "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and still look amazing? That's why I nearly schrullened myself when I heard he was being given the full-on biopic treatment. "Falco: Verdammt, Wir Leben Noch" (translation: "Falco: Damn, We're Still Alive"), written and directed by Thomas Roth, premieres in Austria, Falco's homeland, on February 7. The titles a bit misleading, considering the singer died in a car crash in 1998 (the movie opens on the tenth anniversary of his death), but the man's popularity is more alive than ever there. He's even been canonized on a postage stamp.

Based on the trailer, I can only hope this movie gets a Stateside release. It looks like "Marie Antoinette" meets "Amadeus" meets the recent Ian Curtis biopic "Control", three of my all-time favorite films. Oh, and Grace Jones is also in this movie! Need I say more?

Separated At Birth

Left: Pete Wentz. Right: Gay porn star Dominic Pacifico.

Doo Doo Brown

I'm finally catching up on the first week of "American Idol" auditions (only fours hours of primetime this week, Fox? Such restraint!), and not a moment too soon, since it's been plugging up my DVR for three nights already and I need room for about 10 episodes of "Drake and Josh" airing this weekend on NIckelodeon. These episodes have always been my favorites of the season, because I, too, like many of the rejected auditioners, have dreams of being a successful singer. However, like 99 percent of them, I am tone deaf and mildly retarded and/or delusional about my singing abilities.

Case in point is one Temptress Brown. The 16-year-old Philadelphia high school student, a middle linebacker on her school's football team with the looks of "Sanford and Son's" Aunt Esther with a weight problem, was a standout on the humiliation scale and was ripped apart mercifully by numerous blogger and the creator of the video seen above. Fair enough. Her singing was terrible and her audition process even more so. The producers did one of those extended backstory clips on her, revealing she has a sick, obese mother who requires a wheelchair and an oxygen tank and that she wants to become the next American Idol to lift her spirits. She also loves animals.

Paula: "You love animals? What kind of animals do you have?

Temptress: "I have one dog, two cats, and ten kittens."

Paula: "Wow!"

Simon: "Ten Kittens?"

Temptress: "Yes sir."

Simon: "I like animals."

Temptress: [giggles demonically] "I'm glad you do."

Nevermind that she differentiates cats from kittens, like they are a separate species. It's the way she says "I'm glad you do" that really makes you realize this is one bitch not to be played with. I get the feeling if Simon said he hated animals, she'd have pounded his face in like a little kid playing Whack-A-Mole at Chuck E. Cheese. Then when she says she's going to sing "I'm Not Goin' Nowhere" by Jennifer Hudson, not only getting the title of the song incorrect but also seemingly not realizing that Hudson is not the song's original artist, you know it's all downhill from here. The girl might be sweet and would have had a great story if, indeed, she had the talent to match, but it's obvious the girl's brain synapses have short-circuited in a pool of delusion. By definition, she is therefore ripe for ridicule.

This is something I have absolutely no problem with. That's the whole point of these audition shows: let's all laugh at how bad these people are. And Temptress is about as bad as they come. But when she starts crying, Randy and Paula become patronizing assholes, hugging her, telling her that it's okay, and personally escorting her out the door. Even Simon loses his backbone, babbling something about loving German shepherds and lending a loving hand. As a viewer, you get the feeling that all the heckling you've inflicted on this girl up to this point has been wrong (well, not me, but certainly the person I was watching it with). It's as if the producers, who have, up to this point, packaged and presented to you this whole humiliation fest with a big red bow, are saying, "Shame on you for laughing. This is just a down-on-her-luck girl who wanted to make her life better."

Well, fuck you, American Idol producers. I refuse to feel bad. I will continue to mock the deluded, laugh at the misguided, and taunt the tone-deaf, and I will sleep soundly at night. It's unfair and insulting to your viewes to judge otherwise. You can't have your cake and eat it too. Besides, it looks like Temptress has already eaten it for you. Aw, snap!    

The Drugs Don't Work

While I'm sad about death of Brad Renfro at 25, not only because I genuinely thought he was a talented actor but also (okay, mostly) because he was totally hot (oh, please, like that's not why you even care about him too!), I can't say that it's shocking, considering the kid's had a serious drug problem for years. And yes, I'll make an ass out of you and me and assume he died of a drug overdose--probably heroin, a la River Phoenix. Reports say that he was making strides in getting his life back on track and had recently wrapped production on the film adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis' "The Informers." Then again, trying to stay clean while co-starring in a movie with Mickey Rourke and pill-popper Winona Ryder is probably as difficult as me resisting the urge to go put on "Bully" right now and masturbate to Brad getting man-raped by Nick Stahl. Pretty damn hard. R.I.P., Brad. We hardly knew ya.   

Separated At Birth

Left: Victoria Beckham; Right: Tinky Winky

[Ed. Note: I hereby promise no more Victoria Beckham posts for a minimum of 30 days, or until she becomes the spokesperson for Always maxi pads, whichever comes first.]

More Stolen Files, Tess?

As far as print ads go, the new Marc Jacobs campaign, featuring Victoria Beckham and shot by Juergen Teller, is pretty brilliant. Whimsical, parodizing, sexual, and deceptively simple in concept, it's the embodiment of advertising as an art form, for it says so much more than just "buy something." One could say it captures society's obsession with consumerism and designer labels that literally eats some people alive; others might see shades of Alice in Wonderland, with Victoria as a modern day Alice falling down the fashion world rabbit hole. It also looks like Posh is getting plowed in a room at the Shore Club in Miami by a smiling shopping bag, which I'm sure she'd be totally fine with, since she probably fantasizes more about clothes than she does her husband at this point. You know, because I think even effing David Beckham would get boring after a while.

Unfortunately, what this ad is not is entirely original. The first time I saw it, I knew I had seen something like it somewhere before. Namely this:

Shockingly, it was a piece by the same artistic team I previously called out as a victim of artistic plagiarism--Slava Mogutin/Superm (blog link contains nudity). Last time it was the Marc Seliger-lensed August 2007 Vanity Fair cover featuring Shia LaBeouf. While not a complete rip-off, and despite feeling that Teller's image is the more powerful one, it does raise an eyebrow, don't you think?

What the Blood Clot?

If there's just one show you watch this weekend, make sure it's the Saturday night repeat of "30 Rock" on NBC featuring Carrie Fisher as a crazy writer-lady (is there any other kind?). But if you watch two things, I suggest you tune in to "What's Eating Victoria Beckham?" on WE: Women's Entertainment, Saturday at 3PM EST. This one-hour tele-bio, which doesn't let any of those boring journalism tentpoles like fact-checking and balanced reporting get in the way of giving you an inside look at the glamorous yet painful world or everyone's favorite femmebot. And by painful, I mean it has segments about every real and imagined plastic surgery she's had, dregs up her husband David Beckham's alleged affair, digs through the archives for photos and videos of a pre-Spice Girls Victoria Adams with bad skin (the Brits charmingly refer to zits as "spots") and concave teeth, and, of course, her enviously painfully thin physique (they really should have titled this show "What's Victoria Beckham Eating?" The answer is, obviously, not much [Ed. Note: God, I admire her discipline!]). All featuring "expert" commentary, to make us feel like we're not totally garbage people feasting on the misfortunes and personality disorders of others. That would be wrong. After all, this is airing on a network whose mission is to provide "education and assistance to women and girls so that they can lead a fulfilling life and achieve their full potential." And with that, I present to you this clip:

Whatseatingvictoriabeckham
Uploaded by brace-face

Tears of a Clown

Sarah Jessica Parker haters (not me!) might cry "Mr. Ed!" at the sight of her equine mug, but it recently brought "Project Runway" contestant Chris March to literal tears when the "Sex and the City" actress dropped by to partake in the design challenge on the increasingly tedious reality show. Overcome with emotion, the 44-year-old March turned on the waterworks to a level usually reserved for weird European Michael Jackson fanatics (or a Paula Abdul fan). "I just burst into tears," March said, stating the obvious before adding that his love for "Sex and the City" was one of the main reasons he moved to New York City (what, not "Central Park West"?)

Did I mention he's 44 years old? I know, I know, he's gay, and we're fraught with emotion, but come on, get a backbone!

I guess I shouldn't be so hard on him. I once had the same reaction watching a Spice Girls special on Fox back in the late nineties (whatever, like you didn't!). But in my defense, I was 21. And my boyfriend had just dumped me. 

Alright, enough embarrassing stories. My point is that crying when meeting your idol is just bad form. It's way better to make make THEM cry. For instance, if I were Charles, I would have asked Sarah Jessica if anyone's ever told her she resembles Richard Davis James, a.k.a. Aphex Twin. Why tear up when you can tear them down?

   

That Holiday Stink

Aah, the holiday season is finally here! How do I know? Because the commercial for Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds is all over the TV. Seriously, though it's only been around since 1991, this commercial has become more of a Christmas tradition than "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and that god awful clay-mation "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" special, and I love it more every year. Shot in a Herb Ritts-ish black and white in what looks like Morocco (or some fantasyland where Liz is still thin and doesn't require the use of a wheelchair), the screen alternates between a bejeweled (bediamoned?) Liz peeking out from behind a swinging door at some stranger who just flew into town and Liz in a convertible surrounded by the paps, flashbulbs popping, with her best Alexis Carrington wig on. Then she crashes a high-stakes card game, threatens some dude name Von Ryan and throws some serious ice down on the table, cooing, "These have always brought me luck." All while some ominous Zamfir-type pan flute music plays over it. This campy mess is like a Spanish telenovella with white people [Ed. Note: Pause the clip at :24 for my favorite Liz expression]. Originally shot to run at perfume display counters in department stores, there's a 90-second version of this floating around somewhere, though I have yet to find it. I think I know what's going on my Christmas list! 

The New York Times: Star Vehicle For Taylor; A Scent Spot

It's All About the "O"

 

Pornstar "O"-Face or "Oprah's Favorite Things" audience member "O"-Face? Either way, there isn't a pair of dry panties in the bunch!

Everything Is Not Alright!

Wipe that grin off your face, Alicia. While a lot of people are gonna give you mad props on your performance on tonight's American Music Awards, I thought dueting with homophobic reggae artist Beenie Man was a slap in the face to your LGBT fans. I also thought you looked bottom heavy. Now, I know there are rumors about you and all, but c'mon. Couldn't you just have sabotaged Queen Latifah's performance or something? People might have actually applauded that! 

The Pokey Little Puppy

Calling Chris Brown's sophomore album "Exclusive" is a bit of a misnomer, considering that the roster of producers and guest stars on the album is like reading a who's who of today's r&b and hip-hop hit-makers and sound-biters (Will.I.Am, Scott Storch, Big Boi, Swizz Beatz, T-Pain, Kanye West, Jazze Pha, and the Underdogs, among others). The result is songs that sound comfortingly familiar ("With You" sounds like the fraternal twin to Beyonce's "Irreplaceable"; You'd swear "Lottery" was a Timbaland joint until you realize that the "Cry Me A River" sound-alike is actually produced by the Underdogs) and uncomplicated--perfect for the teen girls Brown (or at least his record label) is aiming for. 

That's not to say "Exclusive" isn't  satisfying. Practically every song is catchy and Brown's vocals have a nice bounce and boyish tone. "Hold Up" finds him uttering "Hold up, wait, wait a minute, I'm genuine with it, I'm not tryin' to put no pimpin' in it" with a type of out-of-breath diction that fits perfectly with his puppy dog image, like he's just chased after a girl on the schoolyard. His performance is excited, but you don't mind the slobber (he is cute, after all). And you can't really fault Brown for subject matter (namely, chasing after girls, girls chasing after him) that's a bit lightweight and repetitive--he's 18, what else is he gonna sing about?

Still, there are hints of maturity on "Damage" and "I Wanna Be," two of the slower jams on the album. The former has Brown apologizing to his girl for a PG-13 dalliance with another lover, while the latter is a plea to the object of his affection to let him be whatever she wants him to be. "Put me on your screen saver, all over your Myspace, make me one of your five favorites, that's where I wanna be..." he begs. After listening to "Exclusive" a couple times, you will.

The Good Shepherd

"The View" gave me an early Christmas present today with this clip featuring co-host Sherri Shepherd fa-la-la-ing about a Dodge Grand Caravan to get viewers inspired to enter the show's "Caroling for a Caravan" contest. You know when the producers agreed to this, they were all "Give it to the new girl!" The best part is that Sherri probably doesn't even care. Cuz, you know, she's too busy thinking about how she's going to feed her child, how she's going to take care of her family. 

What Am I, 15 Years Old?

I'm not so much a fashion snob (have you seen what I'm wearing?), so I'll freely admit that unlike most of my more sartorially-inclined friends who will only read men's fashion magazines whose cover prices are listed in British pounds or Euros, I really like mass-market men's fashion magazines like GQ and Details. Let's just say they don't make me feel as fat and useless as their oversized, high-gloss European contemporaries...or at least not as much--after all, they're still magazines. But that doesn't mean I want to be equated with Maxim and Stuff (R.I.P) readers. This banner ad featuring a sunglassed Cindy Crawford hosing herself down with what's probably leftover Piper-Heidsieck from one of her husband, Randy Gerber's, tacky hotel lounges, recently beckoned me to subscribe to GQ on the magazine's online portal, men.style.com. "Subscribe Now & Get A Free CINDY CRAWFORD Poster (Get It Now)" it teased. I think I'll pass. First, I'm gay, so perhaps a poster of recent coverboy Tom Brady would work better. But even if I was straight, I'm not sure that a forty-something married mom of two faking an orgasm would be that much of a turn-on. Second, where is one inclined to hang this? The living room? Office? I'll assume they're going for the college dorm demographic with this one, but again, refer back to my first objection...MILF's are so 1999, which is probably also the last time Cindy Crawford has been relevant. What happened to the days of free tote bags and cheap plastic mini radios? Come on, Conde Nast, it's time to rethink this come-on.