Dear National News Producers,
There seems to be some confusion regarding which stock footage clips should be shown with which news item. For the avoidance of doubt, please stick to the time-honoured formula below:
- Story about drugs: close-up of someone cooking up a hit on a spoon
- Story about paedophiles: close-up of children's legs walking to school
- Story about obesity: close-up of numerous fat arses walking up and down Pitt Street Mall
- Story about hailstorm: close-up of local bloke's hand holding big f*ck-off hailstone
- Story about drought/water restrictions: image of puddle of water surrounded by cracked, dry earth
- Story about anything to do with Muslims: image of women in hijabs at local shopping centre
- Story about apartment building on fire: image of residents in jammies standing in street
- Story about bushfire: image of fireman squirting own face with hose
- Story about bush/sea rescue: image of person wrapped in blanket
- Story about sex scandal: image of Shane Warne
- Story about court case involving teenager killed in police chase: image of mother/sister/aunt arriving at courthouse with bad perm and cigarette
- Story about baby animals born at zoo, shown after the weather bulletin: whatever you like, channel has been changed immediately after surf/snow report
Please also tell Sandra to pull back on the fake tan.
Regards,
Jo.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Emails I May Never Send #12
Friday, November 10, 2006
White With Two Acting Lessons, Thanks
I've often been accused of making a big song and dance about nothing. Let's add this to the pile.
Actors on television can do a lot of things – they can cry on cue, throw themselves out of trucks, hold you in their thrall with an emotive soliloquy, make beach scenes look convincing in goosebump climates, feign mental disease and ride horses.
Why, then, is there not one of them that can convince me that the Styrofoam cup they're holding contains any liquid whatsoever? Actors can't do coffee. None of 'em. Put a takeaway cup o' Joe in their hand and watch them wave that thing around like a glowstick at a bad teenage rave. If that cup was full, all the extras would have stained clothes and third-degree burns.
Seriously, have a look. Tell me I'm wrong.
Actors on television can do a lot of things – they can cry on cue, throw themselves out of trucks, hold you in their thrall with an emotive soliloquy, make beach scenes look convincing in goosebump climates, feign mental disease and ride horses.
Why, then, is there not one of them that can convince me that the Styrofoam cup they're holding contains any liquid whatsoever? Actors can't do coffee. None of 'em. Put a takeaway cup o' Joe in their hand and watch them wave that thing around like a glowstick at a bad teenage rave. If that cup was full, all the extras would have stained clothes and third-degree burns.
Seriously, have a look. Tell me I'm wrong.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
America's Next Top Model Series Seven #6
Ummmm…. like… ummmm…. so… ummmm….
This week proves something we've all suspected for some time: modules doesn't talk good. I've only really said this to boyfriends before, but - don't speak, honey. Just stand there and look pretty. Here is, for want of a whole lot of better words, the 'I'm Bringing Syntax Back' episode of America's Next Top Module.
· Caridee is my new heroine. She may even be my new heroin, I'm so addicted to her. I'm thinking of making her my new heron, too, but that would just be silly. If that had been anyone else strumming guitar and singing ballads in the moonlight whilst other modules listened wistfully, it might have been a cheesy moment, instead of just being deeply, profoundly irrelevant.
· The modules busy themselves discussing the differences between the Twins (I have a twin sister myself, and I spend all my time telling her how pretty she is), commenting that Michelle is more outgoing (or perhaps out-coming?), whereas Amanda is more withdrawn. Suddenly Michelle drops a gentle, pink-hued bombshell, starting with "I've never had a boyfriend", and finishing with "I might be gay. I don't know". Her horoscope today reads: Gemini: People will be able to tell you and your sister apart from now on. Some girls are shocked (including Brooke, who instantly does a natty impersonation of a blow-up doll), but Jaeda succinctly summarises Michelle's bi-curiosity with "she might be straddling the fence". There's just too many jokes there. I give up. Amanda freaks out a little and Michelle tries to comfort her with "I told you before… right..?". Dunno about you, but if I was gay, I'd probably tell my sister about it before announcing it on camera to eight squillion viewers. Maybe I'm just weird.
· It's Tyra-Mail time, and the girls hoof it to a television studio where they're met by Mark Steines, the host of Entertainment Tonight who looks like he's been carved out of a block of Cliché Wax. He's there to teach the modules some interviewing skills, the sum total of which is the instruction "Ask a question. Get an answer". Coming soon: Mark's book about boxing, called Hit 'Em Till They Fall Down, and his rifle-safety leaflet Stick Goes Bang!. Each girl then has a turn at interviewing Mark, to show what they've just "learned". Caridee, who's allowed to read my diary, goes first, and cements her position as My New Best Friend when she checks the label on Mark's jacket and says "Who are you wearing? Oh! Mary-Kate And Ashley!". Brooke, who usually sounds like she's reading from a cue-card through a Quaalude anyway, does reasonably well, although she looks like she's doing a piece for Good Morning Stepford. Jaeda dissolves into giggles, presumably at how much more masculine than Mark she is. Amanda becomes Ummmmanda, and AJ starts badly with "How's it going", and then gallops swiftly downhill by breaking into hives. She chalks up her failure to her inability to "probe people", perhaps forgetting to add the phrase "without the aid of a flick-knife". Badass. It's Melrose's turn at last, and she steps gleefully into the spotlight, instantly making Mark her bitch. She's bloody made for this, which figures – the girls I hate are always so freakin' good at stuff. I'm sure that's not why I hate them, though. I'm not competitive at all. I bet, in a competition to find the least competitive person in the world, I'd kick everyone else's arse. I'm not alone in maligning Melrose, though – the other modules scowl and roll their eyes behind her back, nicknaming her "Smellrose". It's like parliament, this is.
· Challenge time, and the modules are dragged to Geoff Thomas Designs for a red-carpet jewellery launch. Mark Steines meets them and tells them they'll take it in turns to listen to him through an earpiece and interview a celebrity on the carpet as they enter. Sounds easy, until we realise that the "celebrity" is none other than Princess Polyurethane herself, Janice Dickinson, in a triumphant return to the only show in which she makes sense as a human being. She makes her entrance over and over again, accosted each time by a different stammering module in the most awkward series of interviews since Martin Bashir dropped in on Neverland. For some reason Caridee tells Janice she's "over-pungent", and then kicks herself in the diary room, unaware of the fact that it's probably a pretty accurate descriptor considering what usually happens when human flesh and synthetic materials rub together. Brooke learns a quick lesson when she opens with "So… what makes you so bitchy?", and Janice just walks away from her. Anchal has trouble with the whole microphone-to-speaking-person's-mouth concept, pointing it towards herself when she's listening and nodding. Eugena's interview is interrupted when a pigeon craps on Janice's shoulder, and Twin Michelle gets the jewellery designer's name wrong, which Janice finds hilarious. You can tell, because her face doesn't change. Amanda stutters, and Janice refuses to speak to AJ whilst she insists on wearing a moth-eaten homeless-person's beanie which resembles an unfortunate pair of medieval underpants. Janice remarks that she wouldn't wipe her car with the hat, harsh criticism from someone who lets her personal assistant inject botulism under her eyelids. AJ breaks out in hives again, like lots of red, inflamed full-stops at the end of lots of bad, disjointed sentences. Melrose, just to spite me, is really good, but Jaeda's entire interview consists of her muttering "So, um….. so…. um….. DAMN!". Melrose wins the challenge, and her prize consists of interviewing celebrities on the red carpet for ET at some random awards do. That's a prize, see. Not a job that everyone else would get paid for. A prize. All the other modules make faces like they've just tasted Windex.
· It's time for this week's Groundhog moment – as per every series, it's the Tyra One-On-One Chat, otherwise known as the 'First I'll Talk About Me, Then You Cry' segment. Tyra visits the Module Mansion and explains her worthiness as a mentor by announcing "I have done this career backwards and forwards – I know the ins and outs", and my eye starts twitching from all the slutty innuendo that rushes to my frontal lobe all at once. She starts the girl-on-girl chats, and draws out some information so shocking I'm reminded of last Thursday, when I ran out of staples. AJ likes to keep to herself, because she finds Melrose abrasive. Smelrose's heart beats faster when Tyra is around (perhaps straddling a few fences yourself, Mel?), and she's convinced that all the other girls are intimidated by her. Eugena admits she has to work on the emotion in her pictures, which is like Keith Urban admitting he doesn't mind a shandy after a gig. Caridee does actually surprise us, revealing that three months ago seventy-five percent of her body was covered in psoriasis, and that she's a photographer. Tyra tries to imply that perhaps Caridee, being a crusty kind of girl, hides behind the camera because she's scared to be in front of it. Whatever, Tyra. Eat some chicken. Michelle is told that she seems to be flowering and opening up, which is probably a euphemism for recently coming over all Leslie. Amanda has a good cry, saying that she's scared for her sister and what coming out on telly might mean for her. Tyra, with the sensitivity of a lanced boil, rushes in with "I cry, y'know. I cried yesterday. I cried for Two. Hours". Pooooor Tyra. I know, I know. Running out of Nutella can really suck.
· Buoyed by her pep-talk, Michelle decides to call her mother to let her know her chances of grandchildren have just been considerably reduced. It's just one of those ho-hum television scenarios – you know – same old story, watching identical twins in a modelling competition sit in a diary room whilst one of them comes out to their mother. It's actually almost a touching moment, as the Twins' mother sounds like the kind of person for whom band-aids, milk, cookies and gay empathy are all things she keeps in the top drawer, just in case. She reacts with "Don't fret. I love you, no matter what". Ooooooh – we love you too, Mrs Twin. You rock. Then, to end the phonecall, Michelle speaks three words which have so far made this episode for me. The timing, the context, the delivery – everything. Just before hanging up, Gay Michelle says "Happy Mothers' Day". Brilliant. It's freakin' Mothers Day, and Michelle comes out. Nothing says I love you like a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates, and your daughter announcing her penchant for other people's daughters. Hallmark may not have a card for that one.
· Melrose claims her red-carpet prize, and microphone in scrawny, self-obsessed hand, interviews some E-list celebrities (including Tyra) on a red carpet somewhere. She finds exactly the right mix of vacuousness and helium to really excel, and this segment is as interesting as shopping for grout.
· A Tyra-Mail tells the girls that for this week's photo shoot, they'll be working 'with the person who knows you best'. Jay meets them and tells them they'll be posing with their Photo-shopped selves as celebrity couples. I have to retract a statement I made a few weeks ago about the Extreme Hair photo shoot. This is, without a shadow of a doubt, the stupidest, STUPIDEST idea for a photo shoot EVER. Each girl will be dressed and made-up as one half of a celebrity couple and photographed, then dressed and made-up as the other half and photographed, and the separate images will be digitally merged. Dear. Sweet. God. I've never seen a segment in this show which required a make-up artist to provide a bag of fake five-o'clock-shadow before. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or order a bronze commemorative plaque.
· Eugena the Boring is Jay-Z (nose widened, eyebrows embushened, wigged, capped), and Beyonce (diva-fied, long wig, trampy frock). She is, in a word, boring.
Anchal is Oprah (red dress, curves emphasised, bad wig) and Steadman (curly wig, moustache, costume straight out of the dress-up box at Caringbah Primary). She does okay as Oprah, including smiling for the first time in the whole series, but as Steadman she comes across a bit like a Punjabi Mr Kotter. I am so disturbed.
Caridee is Brad (fake stubble, aviator sunglasses, cap, toddlers in tow) and Angelina (full lips, dark hair, sunglasses, baby strapped to breast). She gives great Brad, but as Angelina she's the absolute business. Angelina wishes. Jay loves her, and possibly even turns straight for a second. Hot.
· AJ is Marc Antony (short hair, fake stubble, non-descript suit) and J-Lo (enhanced buttockage, glamour frock, wig). She looks spookily like Marc Antony, and as J-Lo she makes a great Jessica Simpson. She spends the whole shoot wearing an expression which reads "this is f*cking stupid", proving that she's way to smart to be a module. It shows, unfortunately.
Brooke is, with unfortunate timing, Britney (long wig, skanky outfit, real live white python) and Kevin Federline (corn-rows, stubble). She does a better Kev than Kev does, and then looks absolutely nothing like Britney. Like, she's thin, hot, and doesn't have taco in her teeth. As Jay says (and as Liz Smylie shouldn't), she's sassy.
· Jaeda is Whitney (wig, spangly dress) and Bobby (yellow sunglasses, gold chains, angular hair). I'm stunned as some actual personality and confidence is displayed – as Bobby (aka Grace Jones), she pops, locks, and runs the running man right outta town. As Whitney, she got soul. No suitcase full of weed, though. This ain't no airport.
· Michelle, in the most obvious writer decision since Scott & Charlene's wedding, is Ellen (suit, sneakers, short blonde wig), and Portia (sparkly gown, long blonde wig). She's convincing as Ellen, but much, much more modelly as Portia. Art imitates life again.
Amanda is Demi (a-la Charlie's Angels in black bikini and long dark wig) and Ashton (again, fake stubble and a baseball cap). Unfortunately for Amanda, no-one on earth is prettier than Ashton, but she does a damn fine Demi.
· Melrose disappoints again by being pretty freakin' good. She's Donald Trump (bad wig, scowl, suit), and Melania Trump (blonde wig, vacant I-don't-like-sex-anymore expression), and rocks every frame. She gets a laugh or two with her funny Donald face and funny Donald voice, and decides to milk it for all it's worth, hamming to camera "Melrose will be America's Next Top Model, or else you're fired". Really. The girl could write for Humphrey B Bear. Sensing that she didn't murder any of the English language in her last sentence, she adds "I feel alone – these girls are intimidated of me".
· Judgement time, and the modules board the Enterprise to face the judges, including Spunky Nigel, who I'm flossing my teeth for, Tyra, Twiggy, Miss Jay, and Matthew the photographer. Tyra has shoe-horned herself into quite a decent dark satin corseted shirt-dress, and her boobs look like two battery piglets. A mini-challenge is posed – each module is to watch footage from last season's finale party and give some commentary like they're presenting an entertainment show, or possibly flogging a dead horse. We get it. They can't talk. Move on. Anchal, Jaeda, AJ and Amanda are dreadful, but after Brooke figures out which end of the microphone is up, she does okay. Eugena calls Miss Jay a "trashbag", and Melrose does predictably and painfully well.
· Photographs are picked over – everyone drools over Caridee-as-Angelina, including Nigel, which is something I'll have to chat to her about. Friends don't steal friends' imaginary television boyfriends. That's the rules. Brooke-as-Federline is commended on her authentic role-play, and she reminds the judges that she can rap, too, although what rapping has to do with Kevin is anybody's guess. He's less a gangsta than a sad, slutty, gold-digging sperm-factory. Am I right, Brits? Nobody, of course, can stop the following tumbling from Brooke's mouth:
My picture's lookin' good, my picture's lookin' fly
I took it to the next level – I got high
Boys check it out, I'm revvin' it full throttle
I'm standin' here, I'm gonna be America's Next Top Model.
I don't know how to describe my reaction. Brooke rapping feels like Blue Tellytubby poppin' a cap in your ass. Incongruous, to say the least. Amanda is told her Demi/Ashton shot is very convincing, and Eugena's 'dead eyes' are again brought up as an issue. Tyra, in one of her tiresome yet life-enhancing demonstrations, shows the difference between an animated Beyonce and a dead-eyed Beyonce by yodelling and enduring some kind of neck spasm. The judges are disappointed in AJ's Marc/J-Lo photo, and Tyra remarks that Michelle's Ellen impersonation is frightingly… fri-nen-ing-en-ly,… fing-a-ding-a-dingally… disturbingly realistic. Melrose's arse is kissed loudly and wetly by all the judges over her shot, which causes all the other modules to look like they've just taken a bite out of a trough-lolly. Anchal is given props as Oprah, and Tyra blathers on about what an inspiration Oprah is, what with her charity work and ability to overcome obstacles. Anchal comments that yes, she does seem to be famous for eating quite a lot of donuts.
· The judges deliberate, gushing again over Caridee, questioning Jaeda's confidence, and discussing Anchal's donut comment. A box of donuts miraculously appears, and we're treated to vision of Tyra cramming her gaping maw with about fifteen of the suckers. I'm transfixed – it's like watching an anaconda swallowing a water buffalo, but without the table manners.
· Elimination time, and the modules are whittled down to just Badass AJ and Manly Jaeda. Tyra looks earnestly at them and tells them that neither of them seem to care whether they're modules or not – AJ has good pictures but no desire, and Jaeda has bad pictures and no confidence. Then, proving that male genitalia is no hindrance to high-fashion modelling, Jaeda is safe and AJ is out. Tyra tells Jaeda that "Bobby Brown saved your butt", which I'm thinking of getting tattooed on my own, and AJ says, clearly and articulately, without shedding a single tear, that "I think Tyra eliminated me for the right reasons – I sabotaged myself subconsciously". No wonder she got eliminated. She's got a manky woollen hat and a vocabulary. Bye, AJ. I'll miss you. Make sure and be a badass on your way out.
Next week, Eugena becomes frustrated with her mansion-mates, the modules have a monster photo-shoot, and everybody's taught to be a little bit sexier. Upsetting. Blood-letting. Pant-wetting.
This week proves something we've all suspected for some time: modules doesn't talk good. I've only really said this to boyfriends before, but - don't speak, honey. Just stand there and look pretty. Here is, for want of a whole lot of better words, the 'I'm Bringing Syntax Back' episode of America's Next Top Module.
· Caridee is my new heroine. She may even be my new heroin, I'm so addicted to her. I'm thinking of making her my new heron, too, but that would just be silly. If that had been anyone else strumming guitar and singing ballads in the moonlight whilst other modules listened wistfully, it might have been a cheesy moment, instead of just being deeply, profoundly irrelevant.
· The modules busy themselves discussing the differences between the Twins (I have a twin sister myself, and I spend all my time telling her how pretty she is), commenting that Michelle is more outgoing (or perhaps out-coming?), whereas Amanda is more withdrawn. Suddenly Michelle drops a gentle, pink-hued bombshell, starting with "I've never had a boyfriend", and finishing with "I might be gay. I don't know". Her horoscope today reads: Gemini: People will be able to tell you and your sister apart from now on. Some girls are shocked (including Brooke, who instantly does a natty impersonation of a blow-up doll), but Jaeda succinctly summarises Michelle's bi-curiosity with "she might be straddling the fence". There's just too many jokes there. I give up. Amanda freaks out a little and Michelle tries to comfort her with "I told you before… right..?". Dunno about you, but if I was gay, I'd probably tell my sister about it before announcing it on camera to eight squillion viewers. Maybe I'm just weird.
· It's Tyra-Mail time, and the girls hoof it to a television studio where they're met by Mark Steines, the host of Entertainment Tonight who looks like he's been carved out of a block of Cliché Wax. He's there to teach the modules some interviewing skills, the sum total of which is the instruction "Ask a question. Get an answer". Coming soon: Mark's book about boxing, called Hit 'Em Till They Fall Down, and his rifle-safety leaflet Stick Goes Bang!. Each girl then has a turn at interviewing Mark, to show what they've just "learned". Caridee, who's allowed to read my diary, goes first, and cements her position as My New Best Friend when she checks the label on Mark's jacket and says "Who are you wearing? Oh! Mary-Kate And Ashley!". Brooke, who usually sounds like she's reading from a cue-card through a Quaalude anyway, does reasonably well, although she looks like she's doing a piece for Good Morning Stepford. Jaeda dissolves into giggles, presumably at how much more masculine than Mark she is. Amanda becomes Ummmmanda, and AJ starts badly with "How's it going", and then gallops swiftly downhill by breaking into hives. She chalks up her failure to her inability to "probe people", perhaps forgetting to add the phrase "without the aid of a flick-knife". Badass. It's Melrose's turn at last, and she steps gleefully into the spotlight, instantly making Mark her bitch. She's bloody made for this, which figures – the girls I hate are always so freakin' good at stuff. I'm sure that's not why I hate them, though. I'm not competitive at all. I bet, in a competition to find the least competitive person in the world, I'd kick everyone else's arse. I'm not alone in maligning Melrose, though – the other modules scowl and roll their eyes behind her back, nicknaming her "Smellrose". It's like parliament, this is.
· Challenge time, and the modules are dragged to Geoff Thomas Designs for a red-carpet jewellery launch. Mark Steines meets them and tells them they'll take it in turns to listen to him through an earpiece and interview a celebrity on the carpet as they enter. Sounds easy, until we realise that the "celebrity" is none other than Princess Polyurethane herself, Janice Dickinson, in a triumphant return to the only show in which she makes sense as a human being. She makes her entrance over and over again, accosted each time by a different stammering module in the most awkward series of interviews since Martin Bashir dropped in on Neverland. For some reason Caridee tells Janice she's "over-pungent", and then kicks herself in the diary room, unaware of the fact that it's probably a pretty accurate descriptor considering what usually happens when human flesh and synthetic materials rub together. Brooke learns a quick lesson when she opens with "So… what makes you so bitchy?", and Janice just walks away from her. Anchal has trouble with the whole microphone-to-speaking-person's-mouth concept, pointing it towards herself when she's listening and nodding. Eugena's interview is interrupted when a pigeon craps on Janice's shoulder, and Twin Michelle gets the jewellery designer's name wrong, which Janice finds hilarious. You can tell, because her face doesn't change. Amanda stutters, and Janice refuses to speak to AJ whilst she insists on wearing a moth-eaten homeless-person's beanie which resembles an unfortunate pair of medieval underpants. Janice remarks that she wouldn't wipe her car with the hat, harsh criticism from someone who lets her personal assistant inject botulism under her eyelids. AJ breaks out in hives again, like lots of red, inflamed full-stops at the end of lots of bad, disjointed sentences. Melrose, just to spite me, is really good, but Jaeda's entire interview consists of her muttering "So, um….. so…. um….. DAMN!". Melrose wins the challenge, and her prize consists of interviewing celebrities on the red carpet for ET at some random awards do. That's a prize, see. Not a job that everyone else would get paid for. A prize. All the other modules make faces like they've just tasted Windex.
· It's time for this week's Groundhog moment – as per every series, it's the Tyra One-On-One Chat, otherwise known as the 'First I'll Talk About Me, Then You Cry' segment. Tyra visits the Module Mansion and explains her worthiness as a mentor by announcing "I have done this career backwards and forwards – I know the ins and outs", and my eye starts twitching from all the slutty innuendo that rushes to my frontal lobe all at once. She starts the girl-on-girl chats, and draws out some information so shocking I'm reminded of last Thursday, when I ran out of staples. AJ likes to keep to herself, because she finds Melrose abrasive. Smelrose's heart beats faster when Tyra is around (perhaps straddling a few fences yourself, Mel?), and she's convinced that all the other girls are intimidated by her. Eugena admits she has to work on the emotion in her pictures, which is like Keith Urban admitting he doesn't mind a shandy after a gig. Caridee does actually surprise us, revealing that three months ago seventy-five percent of her body was covered in psoriasis, and that she's a photographer. Tyra tries to imply that perhaps Caridee, being a crusty kind of girl, hides behind the camera because she's scared to be in front of it. Whatever, Tyra. Eat some chicken. Michelle is told that she seems to be flowering and opening up, which is probably a euphemism for recently coming over all Leslie. Amanda has a good cry, saying that she's scared for her sister and what coming out on telly might mean for her. Tyra, with the sensitivity of a lanced boil, rushes in with "I cry, y'know. I cried yesterday. I cried for Two. Hours". Pooooor Tyra. I know, I know. Running out of Nutella can really suck.
· Buoyed by her pep-talk, Michelle decides to call her mother to let her know her chances of grandchildren have just been considerably reduced. It's just one of those ho-hum television scenarios – you know – same old story, watching identical twins in a modelling competition sit in a diary room whilst one of them comes out to their mother. It's actually almost a touching moment, as the Twins' mother sounds like the kind of person for whom band-aids, milk, cookies and gay empathy are all things she keeps in the top drawer, just in case. She reacts with "Don't fret. I love you, no matter what". Ooooooh – we love you too, Mrs Twin. You rock. Then, to end the phonecall, Michelle speaks three words which have so far made this episode for me. The timing, the context, the delivery – everything. Just before hanging up, Gay Michelle says "Happy Mothers' Day". Brilliant. It's freakin' Mothers Day, and Michelle comes out. Nothing says I love you like a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates, and your daughter announcing her penchant for other people's daughters. Hallmark may not have a card for that one.
· Melrose claims her red-carpet prize, and microphone in scrawny, self-obsessed hand, interviews some E-list celebrities (including Tyra) on a red carpet somewhere. She finds exactly the right mix of vacuousness and helium to really excel, and this segment is as interesting as shopping for grout.
· A Tyra-Mail tells the girls that for this week's photo shoot, they'll be working 'with the person who knows you best'. Jay meets them and tells them they'll be posing with their Photo-shopped selves as celebrity couples. I have to retract a statement I made a few weeks ago about the Extreme Hair photo shoot. This is, without a shadow of a doubt, the stupidest, STUPIDEST idea for a photo shoot EVER. Each girl will be dressed and made-up as one half of a celebrity couple and photographed, then dressed and made-up as the other half and photographed, and the separate images will be digitally merged. Dear. Sweet. God. I've never seen a segment in this show which required a make-up artist to provide a bag of fake five-o'clock-shadow before. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or order a bronze commemorative plaque.
· Eugena the Boring is Jay-Z (nose widened, eyebrows embushened, wigged, capped), and Beyonce (diva-fied, long wig, trampy frock). She is, in a word, boring.
Anchal is Oprah (red dress, curves emphasised, bad wig) and Steadman (curly wig, moustache, costume straight out of the dress-up box at Caringbah Primary). She does okay as Oprah, including smiling for the first time in the whole series, but as Steadman she comes across a bit like a Punjabi Mr Kotter. I am so disturbed.
Caridee is Brad (fake stubble, aviator sunglasses, cap, toddlers in tow) and Angelina (full lips, dark hair, sunglasses, baby strapped to breast). She gives great Brad, but as Angelina she's the absolute business. Angelina wishes. Jay loves her, and possibly even turns straight for a second. Hot.
· AJ is Marc Antony (short hair, fake stubble, non-descript suit) and J-Lo (enhanced buttockage, glamour frock, wig). She looks spookily like Marc Antony, and as J-Lo she makes a great Jessica Simpson. She spends the whole shoot wearing an expression which reads "this is f*cking stupid", proving that she's way to smart to be a module. It shows, unfortunately.
Brooke is, with unfortunate timing, Britney (long wig, skanky outfit, real live white python) and Kevin Federline (corn-rows, stubble). She does a better Kev than Kev does, and then looks absolutely nothing like Britney. Like, she's thin, hot, and doesn't have taco in her teeth. As Jay says (and as Liz Smylie shouldn't), she's sassy.
· Jaeda is Whitney (wig, spangly dress) and Bobby (yellow sunglasses, gold chains, angular hair). I'm stunned as some actual personality and confidence is displayed – as Bobby (aka Grace Jones), she pops, locks, and runs the running man right outta town. As Whitney, she got soul. No suitcase full of weed, though. This ain't no airport.
· Michelle, in the most obvious writer decision since Scott & Charlene's wedding, is Ellen (suit, sneakers, short blonde wig), and Portia (sparkly gown, long blonde wig). She's convincing as Ellen, but much, much more modelly as Portia. Art imitates life again.
Amanda is Demi (a-la Charlie's Angels in black bikini and long dark wig) and Ashton (again, fake stubble and a baseball cap). Unfortunately for Amanda, no-one on earth is prettier than Ashton, but she does a damn fine Demi.
· Melrose disappoints again by being pretty freakin' good. She's Donald Trump (bad wig, scowl, suit), and Melania Trump (blonde wig, vacant I-don't-like-sex-anymore expression), and rocks every frame. She gets a laugh or two with her funny Donald face and funny Donald voice, and decides to milk it for all it's worth, hamming to camera "Melrose will be America's Next Top Model, or else you're fired". Really. The girl could write for Humphrey B Bear. Sensing that she didn't murder any of the English language in her last sentence, she adds "I feel alone – these girls are intimidated of me".
· Judgement time, and the modules board the Enterprise to face the judges, including Spunky Nigel, who I'm flossing my teeth for, Tyra, Twiggy, Miss Jay, and Matthew the photographer. Tyra has shoe-horned herself into quite a decent dark satin corseted shirt-dress, and her boobs look like two battery piglets. A mini-challenge is posed – each module is to watch footage from last season's finale party and give some commentary like they're presenting an entertainment show, or possibly flogging a dead horse. We get it. They can't talk. Move on. Anchal, Jaeda, AJ and Amanda are dreadful, but after Brooke figures out which end of the microphone is up, she does okay. Eugena calls Miss Jay a "trashbag", and Melrose does predictably and painfully well.
· Photographs are picked over – everyone drools over Caridee-as-Angelina, including Nigel, which is something I'll have to chat to her about. Friends don't steal friends' imaginary television boyfriends. That's the rules. Brooke-as-Federline is commended on her authentic role-play, and she reminds the judges that she can rap, too, although what rapping has to do with Kevin is anybody's guess. He's less a gangsta than a sad, slutty, gold-digging sperm-factory. Am I right, Brits? Nobody, of course, can stop the following tumbling from Brooke's mouth:
My picture's lookin' good, my picture's lookin' fly
I took it to the next level – I got high
Boys check it out, I'm revvin' it full throttle
I'm standin' here, I'm gonna be America's Next Top Model.
I don't know how to describe my reaction. Brooke rapping feels like Blue Tellytubby poppin' a cap in your ass. Incongruous, to say the least. Amanda is told her Demi/Ashton shot is very convincing, and Eugena's 'dead eyes' are again brought up as an issue. Tyra, in one of her tiresome yet life-enhancing demonstrations, shows the difference between an animated Beyonce and a dead-eyed Beyonce by yodelling and enduring some kind of neck spasm. The judges are disappointed in AJ's Marc/J-Lo photo, and Tyra remarks that Michelle's Ellen impersonation is frightingly… fri-nen-ing-en-ly,… fing-a-ding-a-dingally… disturbingly realistic. Melrose's arse is kissed loudly and wetly by all the judges over her shot, which causes all the other modules to look like they've just taken a bite out of a trough-lolly. Anchal is given props as Oprah, and Tyra blathers on about what an inspiration Oprah is, what with her charity work and ability to overcome obstacles. Anchal comments that yes, she does seem to be famous for eating quite a lot of donuts.
· The judges deliberate, gushing again over Caridee, questioning Jaeda's confidence, and discussing Anchal's donut comment. A box of donuts miraculously appears, and we're treated to vision of Tyra cramming her gaping maw with about fifteen of the suckers. I'm transfixed – it's like watching an anaconda swallowing a water buffalo, but without the table manners.
· Elimination time, and the modules are whittled down to just Badass AJ and Manly Jaeda. Tyra looks earnestly at them and tells them that neither of them seem to care whether they're modules or not – AJ has good pictures but no desire, and Jaeda has bad pictures and no confidence. Then, proving that male genitalia is no hindrance to high-fashion modelling, Jaeda is safe and AJ is out. Tyra tells Jaeda that "Bobby Brown saved your butt", which I'm thinking of getting tattooed on my own, and AJ says, clearly and articulately, without shedding a single tear, that "I think Tyra eliminated me for the right reasons – I sabotaged myself subconsciously". No wonder she got eliminated. She's got a manky woollen hat and a vocabulary. Bye, AJ. I'll miss you. Make sure and be a badass on your way out.
Next week, Eugena becomes frustrated with her mansion-mates, the modules have a monster photo-shoot, and everybody's taught to be a little bit sexier. Upsetting. Blood-letting. Pant-wetting.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Hung Like A Pun
I, like so many people this afternoon, have just returned to my desk with a plastic cup half-full of champagne (I'm obviously an optimist), after crowding around an office telly screen to watch the Melbourne Cup. Despite pulling the name of the hot favourite out of the sweep-bowl, my horsie lost. I think if I ever become a horse trainer, I'll call my prize nag Anticlimax, or perhaps Jatzencheese, after the traditional office race-day spread.
Whenever I watch a horsie race (which is once a year, in early November, probably obvious due to my reference to the Melbourne Cup as a "horsie race"), I'm reminded of an excellent waste-of-time game invented at the pub whilst I was at university. Lots of things happened at the pub whilst I was at university – in fact, thanks to eight years at art school, I'm now so well versed in the social arts I find it impossible to separate postmodern theory from the phrase "Schooner of VB", and even years later it's hard to smell a beer-soaked pub carpet without thinking of Manet's Olympia.
But I digress. The game, called "Pauper's Punting", was invented at the Rose Shamrock & Thistle in Paddington, at a table populated by scruffy art students with nothing in their pockets but small change and broken up bits of charcoal. The RST was blessed at the time with a generous horsie and doggie betting station, adorned on all sides with numerous televisions, hung from the ceiling like electronic, life-sapping bunches of grapes, each showing a different race. This is the perfect set-up for Pauper's Punting, as one barely has time to divvy up the spoils after one race before another begins, ensuring a cracking pace and plentiful excitement where perhaps very little is otherwise warranted.
Generally speaking, Pauper's Punting should not involve more than six or seven people, as the number of players must not exceed the number of quadrupeds hurling themselves down the racetrack. Each player assigns themselves a number which corresponds to the number of the doggie or horsie in each race. Every player then coughs up a whopping five cents into the kitty (or twenty, or fifty, depending on the number of days since payday, and subject to employment status and inflation). ABSOLUTELY no consideration is given to the animal's bloodline, the condition of the track, or the hilarious puns which can be made from their name. The point of the game, pure and simple, is blind competition. As each race finishes, the player who has assigned themselves the number of the winning beastie takes the kitty.
Deceptively simple, right? Right. Just like the absurd yet undeniable excitement generated from the "pageantry" of the Melbourne Cup each year, this is the best way known to enjoy your time in a racing-obsessed pub, without ever having to understand what a trifecta is or having to line up to pass your card to the bored, heavily-permed sheila at the little betting window. I've seen normally sedate, bespectacled companions reduced to whooping Eliza Doolittles in the blink of an eye, and if you play long enough and with enough conviction, you can take home a good thirteen or fourteen dollars. It's highly (and surprisingly) addictive, without there ever being a chance that you'll lose your shirt or your house. Dignity, sobriety and nice manners are the only things at risk, and who gives a crap about dignity?
Whenever I watch a horsie race (which is once a year, in early November, probably obvious due to my reference to the Melbourne Cup as a "horsie race"), I'm reminded of an excellent waste-of-time game invented at the pub whilst I was at university. Lots of things happened at the pub whilst I was at university – in fact, thanks to eight years at art school, I'm now so well versed in the social arts I find it impossible to separate postmodern theory from the phrase "Schooner of VB", and even years later it's hard to smell a beer-soaked pub carpet without thinking of Manet's Olympia.
But I digress. The game, called "Pauper's Punting", was invented at the Rose Shamrock & Thistle in Paddington, at a table populated by scruffy art students with nothing in their pockets but small change and broken up bits of charcoal. The RST was blessed at the time with a generous horsie and doggie betting station, adorned on all sides with numerous televisions, hung from the ceiling like electronic, life-sapping bunches of grapes, each showing a different race. This is the perfect set-up for Pauper's Punting, as one barely has time to divvy up the spoils after one race before another begins, ensuring a cracking pace and plentiful excitement where perhaps very little is otherwise warranted.
Generally speaking, Pauper's Punting should not involve more than six or seven people, as the number of players must not exceed the number of quadrupeds hurling themselves down the racetrack. Each player assigns themselves a number which corresponds to the number of the doggie or horsie in each race. Every player then coughs up a whopping five cents into the kitty (or twenty, or fifty, depending on the number of days since payday, and subject to employment status and inflation). ABSOLUTELY no consideration is given to the animal's bloodline, the condition of the track, or the hilarious puns which can be made from their name. The point of the game, pure and simple, is blind competition. As each race finishes, the player who has assigned themselves the number of the winning beastie takes the kitty.
Deceptively simple, right? Right. Just like the absurd yet undeniable excitement generated from the "pageantry" of the Melbourne Cup each year, this is the best way known to enjoy your time in a racing-obsessed pub, without ever having to understand what a trifecta is or having to line up to pass your card to the bored, heavily-permed sheila at the little betting window. I've seen normally sedate, bespectacled companions reduced to whooping Eliza Doolittles in the blink of an eye, and if you play long enough and with enough conviction, you can take home a good thirteen or fourteen dollars. It's highly (and surprisingly) addictive, without there ever being a chance that you'll lose your shirt or your house. Dignity, sobriety and nice manners are the only things at risk, and who gives a crap about dignity?
Thursday, November 02, 2006
America's Next Top Model Series Seven #5
Freaks.
I love a world in which a prosthetic elephant's trunk can be earnestly discussed as a fierce fashion accessory. It makes the drought, terrorism threat and cost of bananas just that much easier to bear. Brought to you this week by Rick James, it's the "Kind You Don't Take Home To Mother" episode of America's Next Top Module…
· Brentwood becomes Roswell as our girls commence the autopsy of recently-departed Monique, which can be succinctly summarised as "Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead". Nobody is sad to see the back of her, but we can see Hydra-esque signs of another ugly, loathsome head growing in her place. Are we ready to hate Melrose? Yes'm, we are.
· Thanks to "reality" television, society has busted the myth that when a bunch of girls get together at bedtime they all nude up and have pillow-fights. Sssshyeeah. As if. Everybody knows that what they really do is nude up and all pile into the one shower to giggle and scream. At least, that's what bunches of wanna-be modules do when they let off steam, and there's at least one tight-undied cameraman who can vouch for that. The still fully-clad and dry Melrose objects, claiming that the soapy shower shenanigans are stopping her from getting her three measly hours of beauty sleep. Megg, predictably and tiresomely, comments through her jutting dentures that all she wants to do is "rock and roll and have a good time". Her only endearing feature glimmers when she punctuates this with "bitch".
· Jaeda philosophically laments about her new look, saying that she notices people staring at her trying to figure out whether she's a "boy that's girly, or a girl that's boy-ey". I do have a soft spot for the poor girl, but I still think she looks like a man who ate another, more muscular man for breakfast.
· Anchal worries about how comparatively voluptuous she is, saying she has a tummy and breasts, surprisingly not also mentioning her great big arse. The impact is lessened somewhat by the fact that she's frying four eggs in lard as she's saying so.
· A Tyra Mail sends the modules to a studio, where they're met by ex-module and Canada's Next Top Model judge Stacey McKenzie, or as I'm calling her, 'Get The Broom! It's Hideous!' I know I may occasionally throw the odd blasphemous obscenity around, but Jesus. H. Christ. What a scary-looking motherf*cker. I vaguely remember her as one of the stewardesses from The Fifth Element, but that was before the frizzy Mohawk and talking-through-a-plastic-pipe man-voice. Bloody Hell. A contortionist appears who talks to the girls about "extreme posing", and he demonstrates by suddenly becoming Very Bendy Indeed. Part yoga, part "Look! Here's My Testicles!", our modules look on with increasing horror. Except Melrose, who exercises her tiresome talent for discussing herself and announces that since she does yoga, she'll probably be excellent. The girls don leotards and proceed to pretzel themselves under instruction. Anchal proves to be the Bendiest In The Land, and I'm forced to comment again about the almost disturbing size of her rack.
· Melrose isn't happy. Anchal stole her bendy crown, and she's pissed. She starts digging into Anchal about how she shouldn't moan about not being skinny if she's going to sit on her arse eating eggs all day. Anchal, as is her habit when she's awake, gets upset, and Melrose claims she's just trying to help by "telling her the reality of the situation". Because they're all in this competition to help each other. Just like a pack of rabid mastiffs in a pit are all there for some supportive, sharing roleplay.
· The inhabitants of the Module Mansion have divided themselves into two groups – the Misfits, consisting of girls like Melrose, Eugena, Brooke, Jaeda and the Twins, who are probably social pariahs in the outside world and all bitter and twisted about it, and the Chooffers – otherwise known as Chicks Who Smoke, consisting of Caridee, AJ, Anchal and Megg. The Chooffers, despite being a bit more emotional and the type of people who would want to willingly hang out with Megg The Rock Groupie Skank, are my favourites, partly because I probably would've wanted to be in their group at school, and partly because of behaviour displayed during this week's Inarticulate Bitchiness. The Misfits are all crammed into the spa (not difficult with a body-fat count in the negative), and Melrose starts an Anchal Personality Assassination Session, taking care to give the English language a good working over as well, stating "At first I thought she was one of the stiffest competitions here, but now she's not". She continues to waah waah about Anchal's insecurities and wobbly bits, unaware that the Chooffers are listening intently from the balcony above. Anchal, because she's breathing, has another snotty cry, and AJ comforts her with the awesome "I've got your back, honey". Dig that girl. And don't think for a second she couldn't hold her own in a scrag brawl. She's badass.
· Megg has a nose like a burst barbecue sausage. There. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer.
· The Modules are corralled to a joint called "Oasis" for dinner, and there is a place set at the table for a "special guest", which turns out to be Twiggy. Woo. She gives a bland speech in aviator sunglasses about how posing styles have changed over the decades, and emphasises the need for the girls to be themselves and innovate. I love Twiggy, but I'm kind of more interested in cleaning crumbs out of my keyboard right now. Melrose, sensing an opportunity to talk out of her own sphincter, manages to bogart all of Twiggy's attention with tales of herself and how fabulous they both are. Caridee, to camera, cements herself as my possible future bridesmaid as she comments upon the hilarity of watching Melrose ingratiate herself with guests, saying "it's funny to see her stick her nose right up their arse". After Twiggy leaves, Melrose gushes, completely oblivious to the irony, that "Twiggy is huge".
· Another day, another Tyra Mail, and the modules haul bony arse to the 'Fashion District' to meet Bao Tranchi, a quirkily-quiffed fashion designer who has apparently invited some guests to come and view her creations in 'human art installations' for this week's challenge. She asks the modules to "please contort yourselves", and gives them each an outfit and a piece of jewellery to wear whilst balancing precariously on top of pedestals. Fashion: ten points. Make-up: ten points. Hair: Buy That Man A Beer. All the girls look brilliant with the exception of Melrose, whose hair is combed and co-erced into a kind of follicular gimp mask. Nothing she says in this segment can be taken seriously now. Nothing.
· The modules assume their angular positions atop the pedestals – Caridee comments that she feels "more like art than a model", and Brooke says wide-eyed that she was "shaking like Jello", making it sound like she's reading from the side of a cereal packet after dropping some MDMA. Eugena the Boring is, for once, not boring at all, and rocks it. Melrose is confident for a change, Twin Michelle looks like she's intentionally giving the audience an opportunity to smell her arse, and Jaeda looks like Manly Lego. Megg is uggly. But we know that. In her new guise as Not-Quite-So-Boring-Anymore, Eugena wins the challenge, and is presented with the $35,000 worth of jewellery all the modules wore for the challenge. She is, as they say in her 'hood, Buggin'.
· After the challenge, with her stupid hair-mask still in place, Melrose gives the girls a quick modelling lesson, subtitled How To Be A Wide-Eyed Twat. Making her usual abortion of the mother tongue, she states "I wish I woulda had a bit more smile. There's two faces – this (setting her jaw and looking constipated), and this (setting her jaw and looking slightly less constipated). See the difference? That'll sell an outfit". Yuh-huh. As long as that outfit has sleeves that tie at the back, you might be right, honey. The other modules stare in disbelief at the condescending pile of self-engrossed tendons standing before them, and collectively all think the same thing: "Shut" and "Up", although I think AJ might have tentatively added "Or I'll knife you in the colon". Because she's badass.
· Tyra drops in on the Module Mansion like a flame-grilled Whopper for one of her infamous pep-talks. She starts with "Everyone's all happy and smiley because I walked in here" proving that ego might in fact be directly proportional to back-fat, and continues with "Let's talk about fear and insecurity", after which Melrose, in a surprise akin to finding a Rice Bubble in a box marked "Rice Bubbles", talks about herself for a day and a half. Not getting the dirt she wants, Tyra marches straight to the nub of the business by asking if there are any "interpersonal" problems in the house. Melrose again talks about herself, and Anchal, in another breakfast-cereal-esque surprise, has a bit of a cry. She tells Tyra how she overheard Melrose dissing her in the Jacuzzi, and moans that she was an ugly child who never had any friends. Melrose looks momentarily sheepish before becoming distracted by her hair, and seems happy to have been pigeon-holed as "The Mean One".
· Photo-shoot time, and the modules are dragged out to the middle of nowhere and met by Mr Jay at a creepy-looking circus. Today the girls will be dressed as underwear-clad turn-of-the-century circus freaks and photographed, which is why this show should be prescribed in tablet form. Everyone is introduced to the editor-in-chief of Seventeen Magazine, Atoosa Rubenstein, who will be observing today's shoot, and I must say that for an irritating woman with a name straight from Jewish Pokemon, she don't arf come up with some choice comments.
· AJ is "Cannibal Lady" with blood on her chin, posed in a cage with raw meat and scrappy bones. Despite the carnage, she looks fabulously angular and cool. Brooke is "Rubber Girl", but comes off decidedly un-rubbery, the Twins are predictably posed as "Siamese Twins" and as usual scrub up quite norse with big hair, big eyelashes, and a time-share forehead. Megg is, joyously, "Bearded Lady", and comments unnecessarily "Dude, I have a beard. I've never seen myself with a beard before". Dude, why would you have? She looks truly awful, and poses like a grey rag soaked in custard. She gets upset about "over-thinking" her poses, and sheds a few rock n' roll tears. Caridee is "Elephant Lady", and has the aforementioned prosthetic trunk glued onto her face, and if she's not the hottest parasol-toting pachyderm ever to be caught on film, I'll eat my hat. Atoosa squeals "I didn't even notice you had a snout, 'cause you were so fierce!", which I may get printed on a t-shirt. Eugena is "Bird Lady" with a less-impressive prosthetic beak, but she actually shows some personality and looks pretty good. Anchal, unkindly cast as "Giant Lady", looks gorgeous but only 'giant' around the bust. Jaeda is "Strong Lady", and has abdominal muscles spray-painted on top of her abdominal muscles, which is a bit like drawing a moustache on a picture of George Negus. She lifts a prop barbell and grumpily waves goodbye to her chances of ever having heterosexual relations again. Melrose is "Lady With Old Face And Young Body", and does okay, although I keep expecting her to say to Nicole Kidman "But mummy… I am your daughter!"
· The modules are summoned to the Starship Enterprise for judgement, and it almost kills me to admit that Tyra doesn't look like a cut-price prostitute this week. Her white frock appears to be the right size, and her hair is just kind of… curly. Disappointed, Tyra. I expect much less from you next week. The usual crowd is there, including Spunky Nigel, whose rubbish bin I'm going through, and guest judge Atoosa (to whom I keep wanting to say "Bless you!"). The photos are sifted through - Miss Jay clucks and mimes some birdseed-eating at Eugena's Bird Lady, Amanda and Michelle are generally regarded as Twins sans Chins, and Jaeda terrifies everyone with her photographic impression of Angry Steroid Abuser Swallowing Pinecone. Megg gets a bit teary when she sees her photo, in which she looks more than a little brain-damaged, and Tyra tries to soften the blow with the woeful "Y'know – a real bearded lady is probably insecure, too – use it". Caridee is applauded for her ability to not let an elephant's nose inhibit her, and Atoosa exclaims that the photo makes her want to buy her own proboscis.
· The judges deliberate, and Atoosa summarises Brooke in one fell swoop by saying she wants to put her on top of a cupcake. No. No, I don't understand it either, but it still makes sense. Eugena still has dead eyes, Caridee "owned her trunk", and Twiggy has to be told that Jaeda's abs aren't real. "Oh, Twiglet", sighs Miss Jay.
· The modules file back in and the successful names are hollered one by one, until it's just down to Jaeda the Man and Rawk N' Rawl Megg. Megg is told she has an ugly "Rock on" personality, and Jaeda is told she's too insecure about the hair she has no choice but to endure. Then, finally, proving that things are right with the world and that the judges retinas all function, Megg is sent home. She tearfully consoles herself to camera by saying she's "like, gonna, like, be a musician/model". Uh-huh. Bye, Megg! Don't fellate any roadies on your way out!
Next week, Twin Michelle confesses that she might be gay, Janice Dickinson makes an appearance, and Brooke asks Janice why she's such a beeyarch. Curious. Spurious. Injurious.
I love a world in which a prosthetic elephant's trunk can be earnestly discussed as a fierce fashion accessory. It makes the drought, terrorism threat and cost of bananas just that much easier to bear. Brought to you this week by Rick James, it's the "Kind You Don't Take Home To Mother" episode of America's Next Top Module…
· Brentwood becomes Roswell as our girls commence the autopsy of recently-departed Monique, which can be succinctly summarised as "Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead". Nobody is sad to see the back of her, but we can see Hydra-esque signs of another ugly, loathsome head growing in her place. Are we ready to hate Melrose? Yes'm, we are.
· Thanks to "reality" television, society has busted the myth that when a bunch of girls get together at bedtime they all nude up and have pillow-fights. Sssshyeeah. As if. Everybody knows that what they really do is nude up and all pile into the one shower to giggle and scream. At least, that's what bunches of wanna-be modules do when they let off steam, and there's at least one tight-undied cameraman who can vouch for that. The still fully-clad and dry Melrose objects, claiming that the soapy shower shenanigans are stopping her from getting her three measly hours of beauty sleep. Megg, predictably and tiresomely, comments through her jutting dentures that all she wants to do is "rock and roll and have a good time". Her only endearing feature glimmers when she punctuates this with "bitch".
· Jaeda philosophically laments about her new look, saying that she notices people staring at her trying to figure out whether she's a "boy that's girly, or a girl that's boy-ey". I do have a soft spot for the poor girl, but I still think she looks like a man who ate another, more muscular man for breakfast.
· Anchal worries about how comparatively voluptuous she is, saying she has a tummy and breasts, surprisingly not also mentioning her great big arse. The impact is lessened somewhat by the fact that she's frying four eggs in lard as she's saying so.
· A Tyra Mail sends the modules to a studio, where they're met by ex-module and Canada's Next Top Model judge Stacey McKenzie, or as I'm calling her, 'Get The Broom! It's Hideous!' I know I may occasionally throw the odd blasphemous obscenity around, but Jesus. H. Christ. What a scary-looking motherf*cker. I vaguely remember her as one of the stewardesses from The Fifth Element, but that was before the frizzy Mohawk and talking-through-a-plastic-pipe man-voice. Bloody Hell. A contortionist appears who talks to the girls about "extreme posing", and he demonstrates by suddenly becoming Very Bendy Indeed. Part yoga, part "Look! Here's My Testicles!", our modules look on with increasing horror. Except Melrose, who exercises her tiresome talent for discussing herself and announces that since she does yoga, she'll probably be excellent. The girls don leotards and proceed to pretzel themselves under instruction. Anchal proves to be the Bendiest In The Land, and I'm forced to comment again about the almost disturbing size of her rack.
· Melrose isn't happy. Anchal stole her bendy crown, and she's pissed. She starts digging into Anchal about how she shouldn't moan about not being skinny if she's going to sit on her arse eating eggs all day. Anchal, as is her habit when she's awake, gets upset, and Melrose claims she's just trying to help by "telling her the reality of the situation". Because they're all in this competition to help each other. Just like a pack of rabid mastiffs in a pit are all there for some supportive, sharing roleplay.
· The inhabitants of the Module Mansion have divided themselves into two groups – the Misfits, consisting of girls like Melrose, Eugena, Brooke, Jaeda and the Twins, who are probably social pariahs in the outside world and all bitter and twisted about it, and the Chooffers – otherwise known as Chicks Who Smoke, consisting of Caridee, AJ, Anchal and Megg. The Chooffers, despite being a bit more emotional and the type of people who would want to willingly hang out with Megg The Rock Groupie Skank, are my favourites, partly because I probably would've wanted to be in their group at school, and partly because of behaviour displayed during this week's Inarticulate Bitchiness. The Misfits are all crammed into the spa (not difficult with a body-fat count in the negative), and Melrose starts an Anchal Personality Assassination Session, taking care to give the English language a good working over as well, stating "At first I thought she was one of the stiffest competitions here, but now she's not". She continues to waah waah about Anchal's insecurities and wobbly bits, unaware that the Chooffers are listening intently from the balcony above. Anchal, because she's breathing, has another snotty cry, and AJ comforts her with the awesome "I've got your back, honey". Dig that girl. And don't think for a second she couldn't hold her own in a scrag brawl. She's badass.
· Megg has a nose like a burst barbecue sausage. There. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer.
· The Modules are corralled to a joint called "Oasis" for dinner, and there is a place set at the table for a "special guest", which turns out to be Twiggy. Woo. She gives a bland speech in aviator sunglasses about how posing styles have changed over the decades, and emphasises the need for the girls to be themselves and innovate. I love Twiggy, but I'm kind of more interested in cleaning crumbs out of my keyboard right now. Melrose, sensing an opportunity to talk out of her own sphincter, manages to bogart all of Twiggy's attention with tales of herself and how fabulous they both are. Caridee, to camera, cements herself as my possible future bridesmaid as she comments upon the hilarity of watching Melrose ingratiate herself with guests, saying "it's funny to see her stick her nose right up their arse". After Twiggy leaves, Melrose gushes, completely oblivious to the irony, that "Twiggy is huge".
· Another day, another Tyra Mail, and the modules haul bony arse to the 'Fashion District' to meet Bao Tranchi, a quirkily-quiffed fashion designer who has apparently invited some guests to come and view her creations in 'human art installations' for this week's challenge. She asks the modules to "please contort yourselves", and gives them each an outfit and a piece of jewellery to wear whilst balancing precariously on top of pedestals. Fashion: ten points. Make-up: ten points. Hair: Buy That Man A Beer. All the girls look brilliant with the exception of Melrose, whose hair is combed and co-erced into a kind of follicular gimp mask. Nothing she says in this segment can be taken seriously now. Nothing.
· The modules assume their angular positions atop the pedestals – Caridee comments that she feels "more like art than a model", and Brooke says wide-eyed that she was "shaking like Jello", making it sound like she's reading from the side of a cereal packet after dropping some MDMA. Eugena the Boring is, for once, not boring at all, and rocks it. Melrose is confident for a change, Twin Michelle looks like she's intentionally giving the audience an opportunity to smell her arse, and Jaeda looks like Manly Lego. Megg is uggly. But we know that. In her new guise as Not-Quite-So-Boring-Anymore, Eugena wins the challenge, and is presented with the $35,000 worth of jewellery all the modules wore for the challenge. She is, as they say in her 'hood, Buggin'.
· After the challenge, with her stupid hair-mask still in place, Melrose gives the girls a quick modelling lesson, subtitled How To Be A Wide-Eyed Twat. Making her usual abortion of the mother tongue, she states "I wish I woulda had a bit more smile. There's two faces – this (setting her jaw and looking constipated), and this (setting her jaw and looking slightly less constipated). See the difference? That'll sell an outfit". Yuh-huh. As long as that outfit has sleeves that tie at the back, you might be right, honey. The other modules stare in disbelief at the condescending pile of self-engrossed tendons standing before them, and collectively all think the same thing: "Shut" and "Up", although I think AJ might have tentatively added "Or I'll knife you in the colon". Because she's badass.
· Tyra drops in on the Module Mansion like a flame-grilled Whopper for one of her infamous pep-talks. She starts with "Everyone's all happy and smiley because I walked in here" proving that ego might in fact be directly proportional to back-fat, and continues with "Let's talk about fear and insecurity", after which Melrose, in a surprise akin to finding a Rice Bubble in a box marked "Rice Bubbles", talks about herself for a day and a half. Not getting the dirt she wants, Tyra marches straight to the nub of the business by asking if there are any "interpersonal" problems in the house. Melrose again talks about herself, and Anchal, in another breakfast-cereal-esque surprise, has a bit of a cry. She tells Tyra how she overheard Melrose dissing her in the Jacuzzi, and moans that she was an ugly child who never had any friends. Melrose looks momentarily sheepish before becoming distracted by her hair, and seems happy to have been pigeon-holed as "The Mean One".
· Photo-shoot time, and the modules are dragged out to the middle of nowhere and met by Mr Jay at a creepy-looking circus. Today the girls will be dressed as underwear-clad turn-of-the-century circus freaks and photographed, which is why this show should be prescribed in tablet form. Everyone is introduced to the editor-in-chief of Seventeen Magazine, Atoosa Rubenstein, who will be observing today's shoot, and I must say that for an irritating woman with a name straight from Jewish Pokemon, she don't arf come up with some choice comments.
· AJ is "Cannibal Lady" with blood on her chin, posed in a cage with raw meat and scrappy bones. Despite the carnage, she looks fabulously angular and cool. Brooke is "Rubber Girl", but comes off decidedly un-rubbery, the Twins are predictably posed as "Siamese Twins" and as usual scrub up quite norse with big hair, big eyelashes, and a time-share forehead. Megg is, joyously, "Bearded Lady", and comments unnecessarily "Dude, I have a beard. I've never seen myself with a beard before". Dude, why would you have? She looks truly awful, and poses like a grey rag soaked in custard. She gets upset about "over-thinking" her poses, and sheds a few rock n' roll tears. Caridee is "Elephant Lady", and has the aforementioned prosthetic trunk glued onto her face, and if she's not the hottest parasol-toting pachyderm ever to be caught on film, I'll eat my hat. Atoosa squeals "I didn't even notice you had a snout, 'cause you were so fierce!", which I may get printed on a t-shirt. Eugena is "Bird Lady" with a less-impressive prosthetic beak, but she actually shows some personality and looks pretty good. Anchal, unkindly cast as "Giant Lady", looks gorgeous but only 'giant' around the bust. Jaeda is "Strong Lady", and has abdominal muscles spray-painted on top of her abdominal muscles, which is a bit like drawing a moustache on a picture of George Negus. She lifts a prop barbell and grumpily waves goodbye to her chances of ever having heterosexual relations again. Melrose is "Lady With Old Face And Young Body", and does okay, although I keep expecting her to say to Nicole Kidman "But mummy… I am your daughter!"
· The modules are summoned to the Starship Enterprise for judgement, and it almost kills me to admit that Tyra doesn't look like a cut-price prostitute this week. Her white frock appears to be the right size, and her hair is just kind of… curly. Disappointed, Tyra. I expect much less from you next week. The usual crowd is there, including Spunky Nigel, whose rubbish bin I'm going through, and guest judge Atoosa (to whom I keep wanting to say "Bless you!"). The photos are sifted through - Miss Jay clucks and mimes some birdseed-eating at Eugena's Bird Lady, Amanda and Michelle are generally regarded as Twins sans Chins, and Jaeda terrifies everyone with her photographic impression of Angry Steroid Abuser Swallowing Pinecone. Megg gets a bit teary when she sees her photo, in which she looks more than a little brain-damaged, and Tyra tries to soften the blow with the woeful "Y'know – a real bearded lady is probably insecure, too – use it". Caridee is applauded for her ability to not let an elephant's nose inhibit her, and Atoosa exclaims that the photo makes her want to buy her own proboscis.
· The judges deliberate, and Atoosa summarises Brooke in one fell swoop by saying she wants to put her on top of a cupcake. No. No, I don't understand it either, but it still makes sense. Eugena still has dead eyes, Caridee "owned her trunk", and Twiggy has to be told that Jaeda's abs aren't real. "Oh, Twiglet", sighs Miss Jay.
· The modules file back in and the successful names are hollered one by one, until it's just down to Jaeda the Man and Rawk N' Rawl Megg. Megg is told she has an ugly "Rock on" personality, and Jaeda is told she's too insecure about the hair she has no choice but to endure. Then, finally, proving that things are right with the world and that the judges retinas all function, Megg is sent home. She tearfully consoles herself to camera by saying she's "like, gonna, like, be a musician/model". Uh-huh. Bye, Megg! Don't fellate any roadies on your way out!
Next week, Twin Michelle confesses that she might be gay, Janice Dickinson makes an appearance, and Brooke asks Janice why she's such a beeyarch. Curious. Spurious. Injurious.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
America's Next Top Model Series Seven #4
Rowr. Sssssssss.
The tension builds this week at the Module Mansion as benevolence turns to malevolence and nice becomes ice. We're reminded that it doesn't matter how pretty, poised and skinny you are – mixing dumb with evil always makes a volatile home brew. This is Whore Wars Episode 4: The Panty Menace.
· We're lulled into a false sense of girly fun as the modules let off steam by lining up some mattresses on the staircase of the Mansion and sliding down them, all the while screaming like a stove full of easily-pleased kettles. Ain't no Scrabble or book-learnin' in this house – when these girls are bored, they chuck themselves off the stairs.
· A Tyra-mail summons the girls all the way to the backyard for a challenge, where they're met by Miss Jay, who is resplendent in a white blouse and black tutu, curtsying on a tightrope. That's the brilliant, life-affirming thing about ANTM challenges – they make sentences like that possible. Realism: no. Sadistic, random activities designed with humiliation and physical injury in mind – Lord, yes. I'm starting a foundation to ensure that this show is preserved for future generations. Brooke remarks that "Miss Jay is soooooo fabulous", and even though she's speaking from the heart, it still sounds like she's translating some semi-obscured hieroglyphics. This week's theme is 'Balance and Posture', and the modules are asked to walk the wire whilst still showing emotion. Shouldn't be too hard, provided you include "Oh, f*ck, I'm gonna die" in your definition of 'emotion'. Caridee comments that she "can't even walk a straight line when I'm dead sober", and then proves it (emotions shown: fear, hilarity, concentration). Eugena the Boring mistakes "tightrope" for "flatline" (emotions shown: ennui, drug-induced coma), and one of the twins is unsure about the whole situation, saying "my sister's feet are really flat-feeted". Um…. honey? That probably means yours are, too. And you're like, really articulant and that. Melrose does perfectly on the wire, and we're reminded of the brimming Melrose/Monique war as Monique looks on, squinting with jealous rage like an angry powerpoint. Monique doesn't do so badly herself at first, but then falls after a quick maniacal giggle (emotions shown: jealousy, mental illness). Pointless. But good.
· We move back inside to the Gladiatorial Arena Du Jour – the phone-room.
In one corner:
Melrose the Mauler
Lightweight
Physical advantage: Butter wouldn't melt in mouth.
Special skills: Very, very big eyes. Crowd favourite. Not certifiably insane.
And in the other:
Mogadon Monique
Cuckoo-weight
Physical advantage: Looks like a mean bitch.
Special skills: Obvious mental disability. Excess of bodily juices. Spawn of Satan.
Melrose calls her mother in the phone-room, primarily to tell her about her new enemy, Monique. With impeccable timing and an impressive cat's-bum mouth, Monique storms into the room, wailing that she had already called dibs on the first phonecall. Unmoved, Melrose slams the door. On Monique's arse. See, girls usually don't get violent, because we're too good at storing up hatred until it pours forth, like so much bitter green bile, in caustic verbal tirades. We haven't had much practice at the physical stuff, so when we do decide to get violent, it's… it's… what's the word…. pathetic. And hilarious. No punching. Not even a bitch-slap or a good, old-fashioned eye-gouge. Slammed a door on her arse. Choice. Phonecall over, the two adversaries squeeze past each other in the kitchen and bring out an old schoolyard scrag-fight classic: the Narrow Pass With "Accidental" Shoulder-Charge. When Monique finally gets a turn on the phone for a maternal whine, she declares "Mama, I'm gonna f*ck her up! Excuse my French". That's one loopy mother/daughter relationship. La Umbilicus Diabolique.
· The Monique/Melrose fracas escalates, and like two axolotls in a tank, they circle and scowl, causing the other Mansion inmates to observe from a distance with an increasingly nervous sense of anticipation. Monique and Eugena the Boring, who is fast becoming Monique's ever-willing flunky, do their hair in the bathroom and plot nasty things. Monique explains in her increasingly slurry, seemingly crack-induced drawl, that she's going to wipe her dirty panties on Melrose's bed while she's sleeping. This is disturbing in a number of ways – firstly, that this is the second time Monique has initiated a crotch-based attack on her nemesis, the first being the Hoo-Hoo Dew incident from last week. Secondly, Monique seems to be convinced that her bodily juices (which are, it would seem, in plentiful supply) are heinous and repugnant enough to be used as a substance of torture on the unworthy. She has a Funky Fanny, and she's not afraid to use it. Sneaking into the bedroom, she wipes the fetid garment on Melrose's doona, to the horror and incredulity of the other modules. In their eyes, Monique has now crossed over from 'Nutty Gal' to 'Hide The Knives'. Jaeda worries that Monique may chop up all their clothes, whilst Anchal, possibly alluding to some benign childhood trauma, is scared that she might throw lemonade at them. Because, of course, lemonade would be much worse than panty-muck. The Whore War incites much conversation amongst the modules, and somebody suggests that Monique might just be trying to seek some attention. You think? That's like saying that Paul McCartney's ex-wife might be a little bit of a bitch.
· An ad-break, and I'm thrilled to see that Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag is advertising for next season's auditions. Skinny junkies with lank hair and attitude problems: coming soon to a shopping centre near you.
· Our modules are trolleyed off in the Ditz-Wagon to meet Miss Jay at a… place. With cobblestones. I couldn't really concentrate on the location, because every synapse in my body was firing in response to Miss Jay's massive frou-frou baby-doll dress complete with masquerade mask. I think s/he's trying to seek some attention. Jay introduces Bre from series 5 of ANTM, and despite the fact that she was quite certainly a one-woman panorama of drama in her own time, whenever past modules come back to haunt present series, it's an exercise in yawn. She's there to demonstrate her 'signature walk', which still looks like she's channelling a feisty pony with bunions. There's a line drawn along the cobblestones, and the modules have to do a quick-change into gowns, heels and masks, and - this is the challenging bit that separates modules from mortals – WALK IN A STRAIGHT LINE. I know. I know. It's like what they do at NASA. Unsurprisingly, due to the high degree of difficulty, a lot of the girls suck at their task. The twins in particular appear even more gangly and awkward than usual, even though you'd think their wingnut ears would provide at least some kind of balancing influence. AJ, who I'm inviting over for fondue soon, is a clear contender as she storms down the makeshift runway with ease and attitude. How does she master such a complex feat of co-ordination? She explains: "I'm a natural walker. My feet just go one in front of the other". I can't believe she'd just let her secret out like that. Melrose stops just short of gracing us with the sound of splintering tibia, Anchal is either drunk or controlled by someone who's drunk, and Caridee (there's a fondue fork for you too, sweetie) is reasonably good, if a little melodramatic and theatrical. Just stop and turn at the end, hon. No need to mime the complete works of Barbara Cartland.
· AJ is informed to the surprise of nobody that she has won the challenge, and that her prize consists of picking two other modules to join her in the Dennis Quaid Charity Fashion Show (oxymoronically tantamount in my mind to the Big Kev Book Of Healthy Heart Recipes) in Texas. She picks Caridee and Megg, who responds with "Yeeeeeah!! Rock and rolllll! This is so RAD!!", which reminds me to add 'vomit bucket' to my list of Things To Buy When Next At Bunnings. I've long had a theory: if a clothes shop has the word "fashion" in its name, one is guaranteed not to find anything fashionable inside. If you have to keep telling people you're something, then you're patently not. Consequently, if you have to keep screeching "ROCK AND RAAAWWWLLL", at the top of your voice, you've probably got Celine Dion's back catalogue on your iPod. The three girls fly to Texas and meet Dennis Quaid, who is quite obviously enamoured with Caridee's norks, backstage at the show. Other modules taking part in the parade are all has-beens from previous series of ANTM. It's a charity do, after all. They were young, and they needed the runway. Our girls are flung down the catwalk, and AJ is born for this shit – and she knows it. "Yeah, I'm badass", she exclaims, and I re-think my fashion boutique theory. Because she is. She's badass. Megg is woeful. The momentum generated from her oversized bottom teeth seems to just drag her down the runway, and her dropped-pie-like excuse of a face just comes along for the ride. Caridee is, and it breaks my heart to say so, awful. She doesn't strut so much as have a bit of a fit in slow-motion, like De Niro in Awakenings, but without the stripy pyjamas and three-day growth. Never mind. She pretty.
· Monique, not happy that the focus has been removed from her in favour of Sane People With Personal Hygeine, falls desperately ill. Well, she speaks slowly, sweats, and keeps a bucket by the bed. Every season somebody gets sick, but they always assume the persona of Module Martyr and soldier through photo-shoots and such. Every season someone is rushed to hospital, sirens wailing, and hooked up to something which makes them feel better, and then whooshed back to the Module Mansion in time for their next meaningful task, to awed whispers of "She's so brave", and "Is that puke on her shirt?". Monique is a freakin' amateur. In the style of Tyra, of course: Worst. Fake. Sickie. Ever. It almost looks like she walks herself to hospital, where she lies down for a minute, and then walks home. Diagnosis: Dehydrated. Melrose blames "bad energy", but I reckon being Beelzebub's sex slave can make a girl feel a bit crook, too.
· The next morning, the modules are summoned to this week's photo shoot. Monique somehow manages to gather the strength to haul her arse into the Wagon, and the girls are met by Jay, who introduces them to designer/photographer Charlie. They're told that they'll be doing a mock-up runway show, and have to look poised and photo-worthy at all times, as the photographer will be in the makeshift 'media pen', snapping away. Monique has a sudden attack of the flutters, and decides she's going to take the car home and sit on her arse instead of undertaking the shoot, because she's so weak. What's that, Monique? You're weak? Why didn't you say so before? And again? Over and over?
· The final part of the photo-shoot challenge is revealed: the runway is actually a series of blocks all strung together. Floating. In a pool. Bless, you writers and producers. You continue to Rock. My. World. Megg pumps her fist with excitement and I gag up a piece of dinner. The audience, fresh from an audition at a cut-price drag show, file in and take their seats, and we're on. Brooke stops at the end of the runway and does what I first think is a little dance, but then realise is the flailing, desperate movements of Plain Girl On Surfboard. Jaeda makes the swift transition from Muscular Man to Muscular Man With Inner-Ear Infection, and Anchal is laughable. The girls are not helped at all by the fact that they're trying to "rock" frocks straight from Dynasty: The Linda Evans Years. Caridee manages to walk the whole length of the runway with her left tit hanging out – instead of feeling like a right tit, she storms on through regardless, and the pixel pixies have a field day. Megg seems to be asleep, prompting me to do same, but AJ predictably sets the floating catwalk on fire. Twins Michelle and Amanda again scrub up surprisingly well, but still manage to look like anaemic monkeys on skates. Eugena summons the Patron Saint of Windmills, then promptly plunks herself into the water, scraping some flesh off her knee in the process, and Melrose is confident. The modules all come out at once for a finale walk, and the moment goes down as one of the snot-shooting funniest things I've seen all week. Picture a suburban shopping-centre marionette show in which the puppets are all made out of toilet-rolls and pipe-cleaners, add some class A drugs and a wind machine, and you're there. Side-splitting.
· Monique sits at home lamenting her fate, and introduces this series' First Bible Reading. At some point a module will always refer to the gospel to get her through the hard times, because we all know that God Loves Fashion. Doesn't it say in Naomi 15: "and He tried on the pink Manolos, and yea, they were good". Very few modules have done a reading quite as dramatically as Monique, though – on a banana lounge by the pool, in a floppy hat, with a single, glistening tear rolling down her face. I was expecting her to writhe, hiss and scream "It BUUURRRNS!", but I was sadly disappointed.
· ELIMINATION: I have to, of course, start with Tyra's outfit. Better than in previous weeks, but still evidence that last night's chicken WILL NOT be crammed happily into The Size Tyra Still Thinks She Is In Her Head, we're inflicted with a light blue corset which has the unfortunate habit of squashing Tyra's boosies into captive things the size of dinner plates. Poooooor Tyra's boosies. Twiggy, Miss Jay and Spunky Nigel, who I'm making bikkies in the shape of, are all there (surprise!), with guest judge Charlie the Photographer. Today's elimination challenge is to show the judges a signature walk whilst balancing a fruit bowl on your head, which is why watching this show should be made Federal Law. Suffice to say, fruit (including Miss Jay) starts bouncing all over the place, with few highlights other than Caridee getting rid of the fruit and wearing the bowl as a hat. I have to say at this point: Our Man Jaeda looks like she could bench-press a Mustang. That is all.
· Photos are picked through, and Monique is asked why she didn't complete the shoot. "I'm really sick and really weak", she moans, and the judges give her crap about it. Nigel tells Brooke that she's "a bit of a fruit and nut", which doesn't mean much, but anything which comes from Nigel's mouth is fine with me. The judges tell Eugena that her eyes are dead in photos, which is nothing compared to the pus-oozing, yellow-with-death appearance of her manky runway injury. Ew.
· The judges deliberate, and an event occurs. This event makes me want to crawl back into the womb. We'll call it the Great Episode Four Calypso Debacle, and then we'll try to forget it ever happened. I hate to espouse the potential infringement of copyright, but seriously – YouTube. Go. Whilst discussing Monique, Miss Jay decides to sing his opinion, "She don't wanna be here", Negro Spiritual Style, prompting all judges to thud on the table in time, repeating the "chorus" again and again. Tyra, sniffing the faint scent of Time To Be A Freak, imagines she has a soulful voice and starts embellishing the basic melody with trills, grunts, and wwwwoooooooahs, and dances her great, gelatinous mound of a body around the desk. If this song is released as a single, I'm shooting myself in the stomach. It goes on for too long, and then it just keeps on going. You know that look people get on their faces when they're watching their drunk septuagenarian auntie hoik up her skirt and dance the Macarena at a wedding? Go there.
· Time for the fall of the axe, and the modules' names are tiresomely read out one by one, until only Monique the Merciless and Eugena the Boring remain. Tyra gouges Monique with the fact that she doesn't want it enough, and implies that perhaps she wasn't all that sick. Eugena gets a roasting about how cocky she is, even though she's nowhere near as good as past contestants. Then, in a move sure to take the psychotic thrill out of all future episodes, Monique is sent home. She comments that the "whole time here was a waste", adding 'Ungrateful Troll' to her already heaving resume. Bye, Monique! Don't scare any nuns on your way out.
Next week: All the modules cram into the shower at once, Anchal sobs with insecurity, and Melrose turns sour as her Boss of the Mansion reign crumbles. Soap. Mope. Misanthrope.
The tension builds this week at the Module Mansion as benevolence turns to malevolence and nice becomes ice. We're reminded that it doesn't matter how pretty, poised and skinny you are – mixing dumb with evil always makes a volatile home brew. This is Whore Wars Episode 4: The Panty Menace.
· We're lulled into a false sense of girly fun as the modules let off steam by lining up some mattresses on the staircase of the Mansion and sliding down them, all the while screaming like a stove full of easily-pleased kettles. Ain't no Scrabble or book-learnin' in this house – when these girls are bored, they chuck themselves off the stairs.
· A Tyra-mail summons the girls all the way to the backyard for a challenge, where they're met by Miss Jay, who is resplendent in a white blouse and black tutu, curtsying on a tightrope. That's the brilliant, life-affirming thing about ANTM challenges – they make sentences like that possible. Realism: no. Sadistic, random activities designed with humiliation and physical injury in mind – Lord, yes. I'm starting a foundation to ensure that this show is preserved for future generations. Brooke remarks that "Miss Jay is soooooo fabulous", and even though she's speaking from the heart, it still sounds like she's translating some semi-obscured hieroglyphics. This week's theme is 'Balance and Posture', and the modules are asked to walk the wire whilst still showing emotion. Shouldn't be too hard, provided you include "Oh, f*ck, I'm gonna die" in your definition of 'emotion'. Caridee comments that she "can't even walk a straight line when I'm dead sober", and then proves it (emotions shown: fear, hilarity, concentration). Eugena the Boring mistakes "tightrope" for "flatline" (emotions shown: ennui, drug-induced coma), and one of the twins is unsure about the whole situation, saying "my sister's feet are really flat-feeted". Um…. honey? That probably means yours are, too. And you're like, really articulant and that. Melrose does perfectly on the wire, and we're reminded of the brimming Melrose/Monique war as Monique looks on, squinting with jealous rage like an angry powerpoint. Monique doesn't do so badly herself at first, but then falls after a quick maniacal giggle (emotions shown: jealousy, mental illness). Pointless. But good.
· We move back inside to the Gladiatorial Arena Du Jour – the phone-room.
In one corner:
Melrose the Mauler
Lightweight
Physical advantage: Butter wouldn't melt in mouth.
Special skills: Very, very big eyes. Crowd favourite. Not certifiably insane.
And in the other:
Mogadon Monique
Cuckoo-weight
Physical advantage: Looks like a mean bitch.
Special skills: Obvious mental disability. Excess of bodily juices. Spawn of Satan.
Melrose calls her mother in the phone-room, primarily to tell her about her new enemy, Monique. With impeccable timing and an impressive cat's-bum mouth, Monique storms into the room, wailing that she had already called dibs on the first phonecall. Unmoved, Melrose slams the door. On Monique's arse. See, girls usually don't get violent, because we're too good at storing up hatred until it pours forth, like so much bitter green bile, in caustic verbal tirades. We haven't had much practice at the physical stuff, so when we do decide to get violent, it's… it's… what's the word…. pathetic. And hilarious. No punching. Not even a bitch-slap or a good, old-fashioned eye-gouge. Slammed a door on her arse. Choice. Phonecall over, the two adversaries squeeze past each other in the kitchen and bring out an old schoolyard scrag-fight classic: the Narrow Pass With "Accidental" Shoulder-Charge. When Monique finally gets a turn on the phone for a maternal whine, she declares "Mama, I'm gonna f*ck her up! Excuse my French". That's one loopy mother/daughter relationship. La Umbilicus Diabolique.
· The Monique/Melrose fracas escalates, and like two axolotls in a tank, they circle and scowl, causing the other Mansion inmates to observe from a distance with an increasingly nervous sense of anticipation. Monique and Eugena the Boring, who is fast becoming Monique's ever-willing flunky, do their hair in the bathroom and plot nasty things. Monique explains in her increasingly slurry, seemingly crack-induced drawl, that she's going to wipe her dirty panties on Melrose's bed while she's sleeping. This is disturbing in a number of ways – firstly, that this is the second time Monique has initiated a crotch-based attack on her nemesis, the first being the Hoo-Hoo Dew incident from last week. Secondly, Monique seems to be convinced that her bodily juices (which are, it would seem, in plentiful supply) are heinous and repugnant enough to be used as a substance of torture on the unworthy. She has a Funky Fanny, and she's not afraid to use it. Sneaking into the bedroom, she wipes the fetid garment on Melrose's doona, to the horror and incredulity of the other modules. In their eyes, Monique has now crossed over from 'Nutty Gal' to 'Hide The Knives'. Jaeda worries that Monique may chop up all their clothes, whilst Anchal, possibly alluding to some benign childhood trauma, is scared that she might throw lemonade at them. Because, of course, lemonade would be much worse than panty-muck. The Whore War incites much conversation amongst the modules, and somebody suggests that Monique might just be trying to seek some attention. You think? That's like saying that Paul McCartney's ex-wife might be a little bit of a bitch.
· An ad-break, and I'm thrilled to see that Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag is advertising for next season's auditions. Skinny junkies with lank hair and attitude problems: coming soon to a shopping centre near you.
· Our modules are trolleyed off in the Ditz-Wagon to meet Miss Jay at a… place. With cobblestones. I couldn't really concentrate on the location, because every synapse in my body was firing in response to Miss Jay's massive frou-frou baby-doll dress complete with masquerade mask. I think s/he's trying to seek some attention. Jay introduces Bre from series 5 of ANTM, and despite the fact that she was quite certainly a one-woman panorama of drama in her own time, whenever past modules come back to haunt present series, it's an exercise in yawn. She's there to demonstrate her 'signature walk', which still looks like she's channelling a feisty pony with bunions. There's a line drawn along the cobblestones, and the modules have to do a quick-change into gowns, heels and masks, and - this is the challenging bit that separates modules from mortals – WALK IN A STRAIGHT LINE. I know. I know. It's like what they do at NASA. Unsurprisingly, due to the high degree of difficulty, a lot of the girls suck at their task. The twins in particular appear even more gangly and awkward than usual, even though you'd think their wingnut ears would provide at least some kind of balancing influence. AJ, who I'm inviting over for fondue soon, is a clear contender as she storms down the makeshift runway with ease and attitude. How does she master such a complex feat of co-ordination? She explains: "I'm a natural walker. My feet just go one in front of the other". I can't believe she'd just let her secret out like that. Melrose stops just short of gracing us with the sound of splintering tibia, Anchal is either drunk or controlled by someone who's drunk, and Caridee (there's a fondue fork for you too, sweetie) is reasonably good, if a little melodramatic and theatrical. Just stop and turn at the end, hon. No need to mime the complete works of Barbara Cartland.
· AJ is informed to the surprise of nobody that she has won the challenge, and that her prize consists of picking two other modules to join her in the Dennis Quaid Charity Fashion Show (oxymoronically tantamount in my mind to the Big Kev Book Of Healthy Heart Recipes) in Texas. She picks Caridee and Megg, who responds with "Yeeeeeah!! Rock and rolllll! This is so RAD!!", which reminds me to add 'vomit bucket' to my list of Things To Buy When Next At Bunnings. I've long had a theory: if a clothes shop has the word "fashion" in its name, one is guaranteed not to find anything fashionable inside. If you have to keep telling people you're something, then you're patently not. Consequently, if you have to keep screeching "ROCK AND RAAAWWWLLL", at the top of your voice, you've probably got Celine Dion's back catalogue on your iPod. The three girls fly to Texas and meet Dennis Quaid, who is quite obviously enamoured with Caridee's norks, backstage at the show. Other modules taking part in the parade are all has-beens from previous series of ANTM. It's a charity do, after all. They were young, and they needed the runway. Our girls are flung down the catwalk, and AJ is born for this shit – and she knows it. "Yeah, I'm badass", she exclaims, and I re-think my fashion boutique theory. Because she is. She's badass. Megg is woeful. The momentum generated from her oversized bottom teeth seems to just drag her down the runway, and her dropped-pie-like excuse of a face just comes along for the ride. Caridee is, and it breaks my heart to say so, awful. She doesn't strut so much as have a bit of a fit in slow-motion, like De Niro in Awakenings, but without the stripy pyjamas and three-day growth. Never mind. She pretty.
· Monique, not happy that the focus has been removed from her in favour of Sane People With Personal Hygeine, falls desperately ill. Well, she speaks slowly, sweats, and keeps a bucket by the bed. Every season somebody gets sick, but they always assume the persona of Module Martyr and soldier through photo-shoots and such. Every season someone is rushed to hospital, sirens wailing, and hooked up to something which makes them feel better, and then whooshed back to the Module Mansion in time for their next meaningful task, to awed whispers of "She's so brave", and "Is that puke on her shirt?". Monique is a freakin' amateur. In the style of Tyra, of course: Worst. Fake. Sickie. Ever. It almost looks like she walks herself to hospital, where she lies down for a minute, and then walks home. Diagnosis: Dehydrated. Melrose blames "bad energy", but I reckon being Beelzebub's sex slave can make a girl feel a bit crook, too.
· The next morning, the modules are summoned to this week's photo shoot. Monique somehow manages to gather the strength to haul her arse into the Wagon, and the girls are met by Jay, who introduces them to designer/photographer Charlie. They're told that they'll be doing a mock-up runway show, and have to look poised and photo-worthy at all times, as the photographer will be in the makeshift 'media pen', snapping away. Monique has a sudden attack of the flutters, and decides she's going to take the car home and sit on her arse instead of undertaking the shoot, because she's so weak. What's that, Monique? You're weak? Why didn't you say so before? And again? Over and over?
· The final part of the photo-shoot challenge is revealed: the runway is actually a series of blocks all strung together. Floating. In a pool. Bless, you writers and producers. You continue to Rock. My. World. Megg pumps her fist with excitement and I gag up a piece of dinner. The audience, fresh from an audition at a cut-price drag show, file in and take their seats, and we're on. Brooke stops at the end of the runway and does what I first think is a little dance, but then realise is the flailing, desperate movements of Plain Girl On Surfboard. Jaeda makes the swift transition from Muscular Man to Muscular Man With Inner-Ear Infection, and Anchal is laughable. The girls are not helped at all by the fact that they're trying to "rock" frocks straight from Dynasty: The Linda Evans Years. Caridee manages to walk the whole length of the runway with her left tit hanging out – instead of feeling like a right tit, she storms on through regardless, and the pixel pixies have a field day. Megg seems to be asleep, prompting me to do same, but AJ predictably sets the floating catwalk on fire. Twins Michelle and Amanda again scrub up surprisingly well, but still manage to look like anaemic monkeys on skates. Eugena summons the Patron Saint of Windmills, then promptly plunks herself into the water, scraping some flesh off her knee in the process, and Melrose is confident. The modules all come out at once for a finale walk, and the moment goes down as one of the snot-shooting funniest things I've seen all week. Picture a suburban shopping-centre marionette show in which the puppets are all made out of toilet-rolls and pipe-cleaners, add some class A drugs and a wind machine, and you're there. Side-splitting.
· Monique sits at home lamenting her fate, and introduces this series' First Bible Reading. At some point a module will always refer to the gospel to get her through the hard times, because we all know that God Loves Fashion. Doesn't it say in Naomi 15: "and He tried on the pink Manolos, and yea, they were good". Very few modules have done a reading quite as dramatically as Monique, though – on a banana lounge by the pool, in a floppy hat, with a single, glistening tear rolling down her face. I was expecting her to writhe, hiss and scream "It BUUURRRNS!", but I was sadly disappointed.
· ELIMINATION: I have to, of course, start with Tyra's outfit. Better than in previous weeks, but still evidence that last night's chicken WILL NOT be crammed happily into The Size Tyra Still Thinks She Is In Her Head, we're inflicted with a light blue corset which has the unfortunate habit of squashing Tyra's boosies into captive things the size of dinner plates. Poooooor Tyra's boosies. Twiggy, Miss Jay and Spunky Nigel, who I'm making bikkies in the shape of, are all there (surprise!), with guest judge Charlie the Photographer. Today's elimination challenge is to show the judges a signature walk whilst balancing a fruit bowl on your head, which is why watching this show should be made Federal Law. Suffice to say, fruit (including Miss Jay) starts bouncing all over the place, with few highlights other than Caridee getting rid of the fruit and wearing the bowl as a hat. I have to say at this point: Our Man Jaeda looks like she could bench-press a Mustang. That is all.
· Photos are picked through, and Monique is asked why she didn't complete the shoot. "I'm really sick and really weak", she moans, and the judges give her crap about it. Nigel tells Brooke that she's "a bit of a fruit and nut", which doesn't mean much, but anything which comes from Nigel's mouth is fine with me. The judges tell Eugena that her eyes are dead in photos, which is nothing compared to the pus-oozing, yellow-with-death appearance of her manky runway injury. Ew.
· The judges deliberate, and an event occurs. This event makes me want to crawl back into the womb. We'll call it the Great Episode Four Calypso Debacle, and then we'll try to forget it ever happened. I hate to espouse the potential infringement of copyright, but seriously – YouTube. Go. Whilst discussing Monique, Miss Jay decides to sing his opinion, "She don't wanna be here", Negro Spiritual Style, prompting all judges to thud on the table in time, repeating the "chorus" again and again. Tyra, sniffing the faint scent of Time To Be A Freak, imagines she has a soulful voice and starts embellishing the basic melody with trills, grunts, and wwwwoooooooahs, and dances her great, gelatinous mound of a body around the desk. If this song is released as a single, I'm shooting myself in the stomach. It goes on for too long, and then it just keeps on going. You know that look people get on their faces when they're watching their drunk septuagenarian auntie hoik up her skirt and dance the Macarena at a wedding? Go there.
· Time for the fall of the axe, and the modules' names are tiresomely read out one by one, until only Monique the Merciless and Eugena the Boring remain. Tyra gouges Monique with the fact that she doesn't want it enough, and implies that perhaps she wasn't all that sick. Eugena gets a roasting about how cocky she is, even though she's nowhere near as good as past contestants. Then, in a move sure to take the psychotic thrill out of all future episodes, Monique is sent home. She comments that the "whole time here was a waste", adding 'Ungrateful Troll' to her already heaving resume. Bye, Monique! Don't scare any nuns on your way out.
Next week: All the modules cram into the shower at once, Anchal sobs with insecurity, and Melrose turns sour as her Boss of the Mansion reign crumbles. Soap. Mope. Misanthrope.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Emails I May Never Send #11
Dear Bindi Irwin,
Go to school, honey.
Them critters is dangerous.
Best,
Jo.
Go to school, honey.
Them critters is dangerous.
Best,
Jo.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
