Friday Buzzkills: Knowing when to quit, and when to never start in the first place
I'm back, and as much as I (and no doubt some of you) enjoyed my vacation from doling out the dour, all good things must come to their inevitably disappointing conclusion. For a moment I thought perhaps my glasses would be permanently rose-tinted by the still-lingering giddy rush of new marriage, or my brain forever softened by the cool island vibes of our honeymoon. "How can I expose the gray and distended underbelly of the Hollywood beast when I'm so freaking happy?" I thought. Then Annie Liebovitz photographed Miley Cyrus looking like she'd just spent a night with Roman Polanski, the world once again spent the week debating when it's okay to think about fucking our teenage starlets, and suddenly all was right with the world. Heaven can wait. It's Friday Buzzkills time.
– While my own wedding was something of a spectacle (indeed, I'm still picking the fatted goat out of my teeth), I have to admit it could never earn the "for the ages" distinction of this couple who agreed–nay, competed–to be married at the Made Of Honor premiere. After all, nothing says, "I treasure the bonds of matrimony and hold them sacred" like having your ceremony be the sideshow to the launch of a middling rom-com, then asking a just-ordained Mary Hart from Entertainment Tonight to oversee your vows. Now that's a marriage that will last forever–just like the public's love for Patrick Dempsey!
– Speaking of things both old and borrowed, probably the most talked-about sex scandal this week had to have been the revelation from Barbara Walters that she had an affair with Massachusetts Senator Edward Brooke–whose previous distinction of being the first African-American to be popularly elected to the Senate will probably now be forever tainted by his legacy as "that guy who boned Barbara Walters." Similarly, your entire weekend will now be tainted by visions of Barbara Walters having sex, a prospect that no amount of soft focus can make appealing.
– Now that Babs' libido is in full swing again, perhaps she'd be interested in hooking up with TV Land's new "cougar" dating show, part of the network's strategy to target viewers in their 40s and 50s and encourage the delusion that they should still be behaving like twentysomething bar-skanks. The as-yet-untitled "Cougar Project" will follow a group of young men as they compete for the affections of a "sexy and accomplished mature woman," and it's just the latest attempt by television execs to capitalize on the "hot trend" of older women preying on younger men that peaked approximately 30 episodes of The View ago. Of course, if you want definitive proof that a "trend" has achieved maximum annoyance, as usual you need look no further than Saturday Night Live.
– But when it comes to icky premises for reality TV, nothing tops this Craigslist casting call dug up by Defamer looking for "virgin surgeons" (unfortunately, not what you're thinking). Yes, some enterprising producer believes the pressures of a young surgical resident's maiden swing of the scalpel would make excellent fodder for a reality show, where the presence of a camera crew and the weight of a million basic cable-viewing eyes can surely only act as a performance enhancer when spilling a stranger's guts for the very first time. (If the show proves to be a success, look for the sister series, My First Malpractice Suit.) Of course, we'd probably be willing to overlook all the putting lives in danger for the sake of cheap entertainment if they used this as the theme song.
– And if that show is really looking for ratings-grabbers, perhaps they can do a special celebrity edition where they finally peel back Nicole Kidman's hermetic seal and give her various wires and pulleys a once-over–after all, now that she's been cast to play Dusty Springfield, she could probably use a tune-up (not to mention a soul implant). Unfortunately for her, Kidman's Dusty project, another collaboration with Hours scribe Michael Cunningham, will also have to compete with a similar biopic starring Kristin Chenoweth–who both actually looks the part and is a proven singer–making Kidman's version seem even more wrongheaded (although we all know Chenoweth's movie won't get half the attention). But while Australia's most famous android probably isn't the most obvious candidate to play the "White Queen Of Soul," consider all that Kidman and Springfield have in common: They both lived on Earth. They're both white, British women (Australian, British–same difference). And they both endured dogged questions about their own sexuality while famously courting the company of gay men (guess which one of those won't come up on the publicity junket?):
– Peter Jackson's problem-plagued adaptation of Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones–coincidentally, also Hollywood's pet name for Nicole Kidman–has temporarily shuttered production over "creative differences" between Jackson and his art director over "the best way to depict Heaven." (Apparently he didn't agree with Jackson's idea that Heaven should "just look like a lovely patch of New Zealand.") This comes after star Ryan Gosling was booted from production after only a couple of days due to on-set clashes with Jackson, a move that was initially blamed on Gosling's behavioral quirks but in hindsight might have been an early sign that Jackson has finally crossed the line dividing "temperamental genius" to "self-destructive cock," at least judging by this damning-with-faint-praise quote from co-star Susan Sarandon: "He kept pushing me to be more and more extreme, and sometimes that's when you make your big mistakes so I'm not sure how it will come off." Sounds…promising?
– No matter how much of a My Year Of Flops candidate The Lovely Bones may end up being, we can at least be thankful that the old cheap theater gimmick of Smell-O-Vision isn't around, so no one will be forced to endure a manufactured aroma of "Rotting Elbow" to lend it verisimilitude. Of course, that day may not be far off if Brett Ratner has his way: The hackteur who never met a convention he didn't like (unless you're talking about Comic-Con) enthusiastically told the not-so-lovely bones of Variety columnist of Army Archerd that he "likes the idea of the scented cinema" before cryptically suggesting, "Maybe we'll have some in theaters again?" Hopefully! We can only imagine the sensual cornucopia of attending un film du Ratner enhanced by flooding the aisles with his signature fragrance of oily desperation and Axe Body Spray.
– While Ratner is unquestionably Hollywood's most unctuous poseur, he'll really have to step up his game if he wants to compete with the true charlatans out there–baldly egregious fakes like "medium" Jacqueline Murray, who claims to have channeled the beyond-the-grave confessions of Jim Morrison and INXS singer Michael Hutchence in her new book, A Tale Of Two Brothers. Over the course of two volumes of 732 revealing and not-at-all-made-up pages, Murray and a coterie of established psychics ("established" in the 21st-century sense that they all have Web sites) talk with Morrison and Hutchence about the circumstances surrounding their respective deaths and the controversial myths about their lives "as only they can tell them," taking time out for sidebar conversations with Morrison paramour Pamela Courson and Paula Yates, the mother of Hutchence's orphaned child Tiger Lily. By way of proof of her mystical connection, Jacqueline offers this poem "channeled from Jim Morrison." Jacquie, Jacquie… "Channeling" Jim Morrison and then writing a shitty poem about it doesn't mean you're a psychic. It means you're 15. You'll feel better when you move out of your parents' house.
– Say what you will about the occasional insipidness of The Lizard King's lyrics, he never quite reached the level of "aw, fuck it" exhibited by Phil "Sussudio" Collins (and here I'll be honest: I have a soft spot for both of them). Sadly, even though lyrics and composing and stuff aren't really his strong suit, Collins recently announced plans to semi-retire from everything but songwriting, meaning your chances of seeing him put another murderer in his place with a searing live performance of "In The Air Tonight" just dwindled to zero. But Collins tells NME he will continue to write, "because he does not know how to stop," which means your chances of seeing Josh Groban over-emoting his way through another mawkish Collins-penned ballad to underscore footage of frolicking CGI animals just soared to "so likely they're already engraving the Oscar."
– While Collins saying he's hanging up the mic might seem a little premature, at least he knows when to bow out semi-gracefully. Better that than devolving into a sad, ashy husk like Whitney Houston, whose post-Bobby comeback got off to what would charitably be called a shaky start–as in 7.2 magnitude–with a disastrous concert in Tobago. Houston was paid $3 million to perform at the Plymouth Jazz Festival, a figure that breaks down to about $428, 571 for each of the seven songs she managed to get through, all of which featured Whitney's new crack-enhanced, raspy tenor. Delivering an aborted version of "I Will Always Love You" and an odd rendition of "I'm Every Woman" that found her "squatting" (?), Houston spent most of the show shouting out, "I love you Trinidad!" to which the audience repeatedly answered, "This is Tobago!" In Whitney's defense, however, she doesn't really give a shit.
– Of course, there's no reason Whitney can't bounce back–as everyone knows, she's just a T-Pain cameo and a Timbaland beat away from a hit single, and they can always multi-track and Auto-Tune her voice no matter how thin and coke-dusted it gets. And odds are tons of people will buy it: Just look at Sean Puff Daddy Diddily Doo Combs, whose continued success in the music industry recently netted him a Hollywood Star despite his name being a punchline in the hip-hop world for nearly a decade. While logic dictates that Combs should be washing up on the sandy shores of VH1 Celebreality by now (Love Daddy; you know they've pitched that shit), Combs' empire continues to expand to include a serious focus on acting and a new role as brand manager for Ciroc vodka, which promises to net him as much as $100 million–money he no doubt plans to spend on adding "yeah, that's right" to every hit song from the past 20 years and calling it an album.
– We've pointed out time and again that it's not a just universe, but when the careers of coattail riders like Combs continue to blossom while a true innovator like Orange Juice leader and respected solo artist Edwyn Collins is felled by crippling infirmities, you have to believe that maybe the Devil really is in charge of this business of rock 'n' roll. While Collins has bravely returned to the stage after suffering two massive cerebral hemorrhages in 2005, it's as a shell of his former self, having forgotten all of his songs' lyrics due to his new battle with dysphasia. Collins performed at Shepherd's Bush Empire recently while seated on a stool, his speech "faltering," and unable to fulfill song requests from the audience, saying flat out, "I can't do that song because I can't remember it." Inspirational, admirable, commendable–yes. But also really fucking depressing. Here's Edwyn in healthier times.
Have a super weekend!