From Jazz Hands to Faux Pas

Theatre and film are two of my biggest passions, so when I heard that Neil Meron and Craig Zadan would be producing the 2013 Academy Awards, I figured they'd deliver the razzle dazzle like nobody's business. 

Partners at Storyline Entertainment, the executive producers brought shows like Chicago and Hairspray from the stage to the silver screen. While their most recent foray in television, Smash, reaffirmed a talent for bridging the gap between Broadway and Hollywood.

 I believe that the best art, like the best fashion, can result from combining high and low. In fact, shows like Chicago-- a smart social commentary about the sacred, the profane and all that jazz-- are the best argument for mixing things up. Which is why I was over the moon when I found out that Seth McFarlane would be hosting the Oscars. 

Between his creation of Stewie, the smart-mouthed toddler with an upper-crust British accent on the animated TV series Family Guy and Ted, last year's blockbuster about a teddy bear with the mouth of a stevedore, I figured Sunday would be a night to remember. So much so, that I emailed my sister-in-law Kim (a fellow-Ted fanatic) the picture below; with a pre-Oscar greeting saying, "Chillax, and Enjoy the Show!"

I hope she's still speaking to me.

The first sign that something was off came when Kristin Chenoweth appeared on the red carpet to interview the stars.

The Tony Award winning singer and actress struck me as an unorthodox choice because in spite of having guest-starred on TV shows like Sesame Street and Glee in recent years, her most rabid fans know her from hits like You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown and Wicked on Broadway-- where she is an undisputed darling. But as the hour wore on and Chenoweth's inability to curb her enthusiasm became more and more apparent-- it became clear to me that what works on the boards had obviously been lost in translation on the small screen.

Between the rising pitch of her voice and the bulging veins in her neck, I feared the perky little actress was on the brink of having an aneurysm every time she started raving about some "AAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAZZZZZZING!!!" gown...

Or marveling over how "short" she was in comparison to the assorted glitterati.

At 4'11', it strains credulity to imagine that Chenoweth never noticed she was on the petite side of the spectrum until standing next to Hugh Jackman on Sunday night. But... whatever. If you've ever had the misfortune of being held captive by a precocious seven-year-old telling one-too-many knock-knock jokes, or lecturing you on the evolution of dinosaurs; you'll have a good idea of what it was like watching Chenoweth go on and on, with no hook in sight.   

The dynamo went from being adorable to unbearable rather rapidly. But, she's so damned cute that I felt like a bitch for even harboring a critical thought. 

Until the Flying Nun came along, and said with her eyes what I was thinking all along:

"If this is New York's idea of payback for all the times sub-par Hollywood starlets were given lead roles on Broadway, to the exclusion of countless theatre actresses who could actually sing, dance and act live, we get it! We swear it'll never happen again. In fact, if you make Chenoweth disappear right now, we'll dispatch a private jet to bring Scarlett Johansson back to Los Angeles the second the curtain comes down on tonight's performance of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on the Great White Way. Deal?"

As manic as things were outside, things only got worse when McFarlane took the stage-- where he appeared stiff, awkward and unsure of what a frat boy like himself was doing in a nice place like the Dolby Theatre... not to mention hosting the entire shebang.

To make matters worse, his affect was completely flat. But I'd be willing to give him a pass on that score, since chances are the universe lacked enough energy to power McFarlane and Chenoweth simultaneously. (Kinda' like the time the lights went out at the Superdome midway through Beyoncé's electrifying half-time show at the Superdome.)

Of course, McFarlane was there to attract a younger demographic and boost viewership among the group least-likely to watch an Academy Awards ceremony. The gambit paid off nicely, according to the Nielsen ratings service, with a 20% bump in audience members between the ages of 18 and 34. But one man's treasure was apparently another man's trash, as McFarlane's rendition of songs like "We Saw Your Boobs"; jokes about Jews, blacks, Latinas, domestic violence; and one passive-aggressive swipe at Adele and Melissa McCarthy over their weight, managed to alienate and offend nearly every demographic watching... with the exception of young, white men.

http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/seth-macfarlane-insults-adele-melissa-mccarthy-for-their-weight-with-rex-reed-joke-at-the-oscars-2013252

I'm no slouch when it comes to juvenile humor. My sister has yet to forgive me for taking her (then-underaged) daughter to see "Brüno," and cracking up through scenes that my niece later suggested might not have been "appropriate for children." In other words, I'm pretty immune to being offended by comedy, as long as it makes me laugh. But what I find unacceptable, is a comic who's material is not funny. And this was the case with McFarlane: who, like Chenoweth, reminded me of the over-indulged kid who is foisted upon party guests by parents who make claims like: "I know all parents say this, but my little Seth is sooooo hilarious!!! (Parent turns to little Seth, and encourages:) "Go ahead, Honey, tell 'em the one about blah, blah, blah..."

Invariably, kids like these are seldom hilarious, and their ability to pick up on non-verbal cues telling them so tend to be terribly undeveloped: leaving captive audiences to literally grin and bear it until Little Seth runs out of steam and trots off to bed.

My only motivation for grinning and bearing Big Seth's nearly five hour schtick was a determination to see Benh Zeitlin win an Oscar in each of the three categories (Best Picture, Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay) for which his debut film, "Beasts of the Southern Wild" was nominated, and to cheer when his secret-weapon of a leading lady, Quevenzhané Wallis, took home her statuette for Best Actress.

Seems me, Benh and Quevenzhané couldn't win for losing on Oscar night.

My disappointment that "Beasts" didn't get the recognition it deserved in any category (how could a director who elicited such unforgettable performances from two non-actors not get the nod for Best Director?!) would turn to utter despair by the end of the show, as McFarlane and Chenoweth burst into a song & dance about "Losers." Demonstrating a callousness that would have shocked a sociopath, the two even called out Wallis in their    duet-- in spite of the nine-year-old's having stayed up well past her bedtime, and with tremendous grace, to endure a too-long, self-important, boring production that had nothing to do with the honorees, and everything to do with the producers.

I wish I could report that McFarlane and Chenoweth were the only celebrities suffering from Fish-Out-of-Water Syndrome. But that was the overarching theme of a night in which Meron and Zadan seemed to excel at taking performers out of their comfort zones, and putting them in very awkward positions.

Channing Tatum and Charlize Theron doing a ballroom dance was the most benign example of the trend. And while the choreography was lovely, the entire exercise was apropos of nothing.



Catherine Zeta-Jones's bumping and grinding through "All That Jazz" only served as a reminder that it takes a lot more than a pretty face to deliver the kind of scissor kicks, moxie and charm that made stars out of Chita Rivera, Bebe Neuwirth and Ute Lemper when they played Velma Kelly on Broadway. As for singing, there was never cause for speculation that any of the latter three ever lip-synced their way through a live performance-- which was not the case when Zeta-Jones made her comeback on Sunday night.

Michelle Obama's surprise cameo to announce Best Picture also struck me as a random choice on the parts of the producers. Were FLOTUS an avowed patron of the arts, her appearance might not have been so discordant. But between her thanking the Hollywood community for their "vitally important" work-- though not so vital as to warrant a personal appearance in LA for the ceremony-- and the spectre of military service men and women-as-props standing behind Obama, it'll be a long time before anyone convinces me that any showman can produce an affair to remember.

And yet these missteps were nothing compared to the biggest faux pas of the night: which became apparent when the lovely Jennifer Lawrence took a tumble as she ascended the stage to accept her Best Actress Oscar for "Silver Lining Playbook." (Though, if one had to stumble in public, one could only hope to fall with such élan. Between her roles in "Winter's Bone" and "The Hunger Games," I have to admit that I'd always seen Lawrence as a diamond in the rough. But she looked more like a Hitchcock heroine than victim as she lay semi-prone at the foot of the stairs. I even found a lovely symmetry to the vantage point: which showed off the drape and cut of her pale pink silk brocade Dior Haute Couture strapless gown, Chopard diamond necklace and structured-yet-soft chignon to magnificent effect!)

As is her style, Lawrence recovered with typical wit, humor and candor: "Thank you. You guys are just standing up because you feel bad that I fell and that's really embarrassing but thank you." 

I, on the other hand, was feeling anything but magnanimous toward the men who brought jazz hands to the general public. What would it take, I wondered, for Zadan and Meron-- men who'd spent their entire careers observing women wearing floor-length gowns and high heels-- to realize that the combination of the former with a highly-polished staircase is a disaster waiting to happen? Could neither showman anticipate the need for walkers, who might be strategically positioned to assist women through the most vulnerable legs of their journeys, from seat to stage, as they accepted their Oscars? Or is that simply beyond the pay grade of the average producer?

That said, there's nothing like a damsel in distress to bring out a knight in shining armour when and where you least expect it.



Kudos to Jean Dujardin (who was presenting the award), and Hugh Jackman (who was seated in the front row, proximate to the actress)-- both of whom immediately leapt into action with outstretched hands the second Lawrence lost her footing. The evidence of such chivalry being alive an well in LA, albeit via France and Australia, made my heart leap in my chest. And, best of all, proved that I could still count on Hollywood to deliver the razzle dazzle when the chips are down.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

When Dorothea Lange's now-iconic portrait, "Migrant Mother" was published in the San Francisco News in 1936, as part of a story demanding relief for starving migrant workers, the picture mobilized public opinion and led to collective action. Nearly 80 years later, the image is primarily lauded for its artistry-- conveying the kind of quiet nobility, dignity and perseverance for which The Greatest Generation is known. But in its day, the photograph literally saved the lives of pea pickers who'd been starving until Lange stumbled upon their camp and snapped five exposures of a mother with three of her seven children.

"The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera."

-Dorothea Lange

At its best, photography has the power to inform, enlighten and change minds. But the art form also has the power to shape perceptions, which may or not be rooted in reality, in which case the manipulation of shadow & light can be a very dangerous tool. 

For better or worse, mass media has mastered the art of saying nothing while speaking a thousand words through the use of photography. And based on a recent image out of South Africa, I am reminded that a picture can also tell us as much about the observer, as it does the observed.

When the image below was recently used to illustrate a New York Times cover story about Oscar Pistorius, it looked familiar. And yet, I couldn't figure out where I'd seen it before-- never mind why I had a nagging sense that something was wrong with this picture.

There was something about the snapshot of Pistorius-- who stands accused of murdering his girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp, in cold blood-- that reminded me of something or someone from my past? Something... pious... is the only way to describe it. Odd, I know, given the circumstances under which his image was captured.

Eventually, the clues added up and the answer dawned on me.

The reason I was feeling so sorry for the protagonist in the tragic tale of a young woman gunned down as she stood behind a locked bathroom door in her boyfriend's home, is because the lighting and composition of the Times's picture came as close to making  Pistorius look like a religious icon as anything I can remember in recent history. 

For starters, there was his bowed head and stooped posture...

His contrite expression...

And the suggestion of an unwarranted persecution.

The juxtaposition of Pistorius standing before a bank on onlookers, had a positively apostolic ring to it.

And as for the halo of light that appeared to emanate from the Blade Runner himself: well, it would be putting it lightly to say I felt manipulated when considering that halos are typically reserved for those with unimpeachable character.

I don't know who bears ultimate responsibility for the picture that ran in the Times, but I'd give anything to have been in on the editorial meeting just to hear what, if any, observations were shared. Did anyone else see what I saw in the Pistorius-as-martyred saint image? Or, am I being hyper-sensitive?

Given the coterie of photographers dispatched to Pretoria to cover this story, I imagine the  Times had access to a multitude of pictures from which to choose.

This picture of Pistorious, looking teary-eyed and sorry, was taken at the same bail hearing where the more angelic likeness was snapped.

As was this exposure-- which preserved a more sinister expression for posterity.

And yet, the picture the Times decided to run looked better suited to a 21-century retelling of "The Passion of the Christ" than what I've come to expect of murder trials involving once-beloved, testosterone-addled athletes accused of crimes of passion against their blonde, better halves.

 Then again, maybe this is cause for celebration, because the choice to run a  picture of an alleged killer looking like a choir boy is surely a harbinger of the media's evolution. 

Maybe the Dark Ages-- when crime suspects were photoshopped to make them appear more menacing-- are finally behind us.

Maybe the depiction of fallen idols as unpolished, nefarious, degenerates-- on the cover of glossy magazines which are, ironically, typically devoted to photo-retouching and idol worship-- has lost its caché.

And maybe all men can expect the Lance Armstrong treatment going forward: being given the benefit of the doubt against all odds, heroic portraits gracing the cover of national magazines, and headlines confiding "I Still Believe in Lance Armstrong" (even after the cyclist had just announced that he would no longer contest charges that he'd doped to win each of his seven Tour de France titles-- which were later revoked when Armstrong admitted that he had, in fact, cheated in each of the contested races).

But I have my doubts.

I am fed up with the press's willingness to abandon the fundamentals of objective storytelling the second once-beloved public figures fall from grace. The media's propensity for aiding and abetting the public's rush to judgement, before the accused have had their day in court is a stark example of the deterioration of a public trust. But what I find even more egregious is the uneven treatment of subjects based upon race.

Which brings to mind another hero of 20th century photography: Gordon Parks.

Parks bought his first camera-- a Voightländer Brilliant, for $12.50-- at a pawn shop in 1937, and honed his craft alongside Dorothea Lange while they both worked for the Farm Security Administration: a New Deal effort created to combat rural poverty in America during the Depression. Parks eventually went on to become the first African American hired as a photojournalist for Life magazine, but his experience there, and at countless other newsrooms, sensitized him to the insidious nature of racism. 

Working in a pre-civil rights America, Parks identified a pattern among white editors in which they would habitually select the most unflattering images of black people to accompany their copy. Later in life, Parks was candid about the practice, and often talked about how if he submitted 100 images of black subjects, 99% of which were positive, time and again the sole negative image would be selected for publication. 

 The experience taught Parks how one picture could be used to either advance ignorance or inspire understanding; encourage indifference or foster compassion; elevate or indict his subjects-- and informed his decision to be more judicious about what he submitted, and to whom, for any given assignments throughout his career. 

I'd like to believe that Parks's successors, whether people of color or not, working in newsrooms today don't have to work under such constraints. But if the picture that inspired this blog is any indication of the shape of where we are-- I can only imagine what icons like Parks and Lange would have to say about the ugly abuse of such a beautiful art form.

With Best Friends Like These

As I watched the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show on Tuesday night, my attention was constantly diverted by the co-stars of the production. Which is kind of ironic because the real stars were something else!

There were big dogs with cuddle-factors that were off the charts...

Mid-sized models dogs with outsize glamour...

And one Komondor whose irrepressible natty dreads were groomed to turn heads!

Naturally, it took a village to get these pups ready for primetime... with endless standing around...

Teasing...

Spritzing...

And some last-minute whisker management.

When all was said and done, a five-year-old affenpinscher named Banana Joe won Best in Show. Westminster judge, Michael Dougherty, apparently had a soft spot for the little fella' "with the muscle tone of a big dog," as he put it.

While the runaway crowd pleaser was Swagger, an Old English sheepdog.

 And yet, I could not take my eyes off of the handlers: who ran a sartorial gamut from the sublime...

To the ridiculous.

In an arena where prudence and practicality obviously had no place in the quest for glory, I could not fathom why so many of the handlers had a personal style that could only be described as painfully pragmatic. In fact, the pattern was so pervasive that I started to theorize that perhaps dog breeding and handling attracts a certain demographic... like former nuns or prison matrons. (Having attended Catholic schools from 2nd grade through high school-- where the sisters wore civilian clothes that looked a lot like what I saw at Westminster-- I feel I can speak on the subject with some authority. As for the matrons, I watched enough bad TV in the 70's to pontificate on what Big Mama wears in the big house.)

Eventually, it dawned on me that there might be some unspoken rule that penalizes handlers for making an effort to appear attractive to anyone not tethered to a leash. But then this dynamic duo dashed across the screen: blowing my theory to smithereens.

Ditto for Swagger's handler: who was downright swaggalicious himself, with that bald head and perfectly manicured goatee.

Which is not to say that all the guys were as keen to put their best foot forward.

I hadn't seen clodhoppers like the ones above since graduating from university-- where the-thicker-the-rubber-soles/the-more-tenured-the-professor seemed to be the case on our small campus in New England. And yet, for all the missteps among the menfolk, an apparent competition for Worst in Show by the women was so vigorous that I felt compelled to research Westminster's dress code. Who knew? Maybe the fairer sex was officially dissuaded from dressing in a fashion that might make the most of their feminine charms and prejudice the judges. A quick Internet search revealed that no such rules are stated or implied. The effort also yielded a video that proves my curiosity about this particular breed of woman is not unprecedented.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=3u-quGlpzGM

It's anyone's guess as to how long the combination of ill-fitting, nondescript, knee-length skirts with nude pantyhose and sensible, black flats has been en vogue at the dog show. And why any woman would voluntarily embrace this de facto uniform is a complete mystery to me. Granted, the Women of Westminster (WOW) are not the sportiest specimens to commandeer the floor at Madison Square Garden-- all four versions of which have hosted the Westminster dog show for it entire 137 year history-- so I wasn't looking for contestants to bust a move in the latest Lululemon activewear and Addidas trainers. But with Fashion Week taking place just 30 blocks north of the Garden, under the tents at Lincoln Center, I suppose part of me harbored the fantasy that a smattering of aspirational influence might trickle downtown and make the WOW aspire to appear as if they actually gave a damn about how they looked in public.

Boy, was I wrong.

Perhaps, like too many women, the dog handlers reached the wrong conclusion that great style precludes comfort, and vice versa. Or maybe they operate under faulty assumption that a woman's vanity has no place in the workplace. To which, I say, even if one's job description includes getting slobbered on, having to kowtow to an animal with more idiosyncrasies than a rock star, or keeping one's pockets filled with smelly doggie treats-- this is no excuse for allowing oneself to go to wrack and ruin. Besides, if you know the lower half of your body is going to appear on TV-- why not dress for the inevitable close-ups?

Sturdy, untanned calves featuring oversized paw-print tattoos, for example, might cease to draw unwanted attention if cloaked in a floor-length skirt, or wide-legged trouser. The more voluminous and diaphanous the fabric, the better. And while black is always an elegantly slimming choice, the color should coordinate with that of your dog's coat to minimize any stray hairs standing out against your garment, as you and Snoopy trip the light fantastic around the ring.

Another easily avoided faux-pas was the prevalence of amorphous, black flats against pale, white skin. It's worth noting that such pairing are not renown for catapulting any woman into the Fashion Hall of Fame, to my knowledge. And while the need for a shoe that facilitates speed, mobility and comfort at Westminster ought to be paramount; all three goals can be met with a sassy little heel.

Whether a kitten heel like those favored by Michelle Obama (who knows a thing or two about the value of a solid but stylish shoe that can go the distance), or t-strap, or ankle wrap favored by tango dancers (who know a thing or two about turning up the heat when it's showtime)-- both classic silhouettes flatter all leg shapes and sizes. Even the most  moderate heel will elongate the wearer's leg and make thick ankles appear more slender; while the solid construction ensures comfort for hours on end.

And nothing says footloose and fancy free like a splash of red.

Peep-toe shoes are another great alternative. In which case, pedicures are a must-- lest a lady risk losing style points for baring claws that are less polished than those of her pooch.  Nudes (as in a flesh-toned shoe) are another surefire way to create the illusion of a longer leg, and a shoe that shimmers under the footlights is a great way for even the most demure handler to channel her inner-Beyoncé.

Pride in one's personal appearance notwithstanding, perhaps the most compelling reason for any reluctant showgirl to elevate her game at Westminster might be to uphold her dog's reputation for being man's best friend. Because after seeing what went down at Westminster, I have to admit that my only recurring thought was With best friends like these, who the hell needs enemies?!

There is no doubt in my mind that if dogs could talk, the ones competing for Best in Show would have said "You're wearing that when we go out tonight?!," to their mistresses before heading out for their moment in the spotlight. But until that day happens, I think I'll just stick with my two-legged besties-- upon whom I can rely to tell it like it is if I lose my fashion sense.

Well, maybe not my actual best friend, Collette. Because when I emailed her the image below and asked what she would say to me if I wore a similar getup on our next girls' night out, her immediate response was "I would still love you!"

Whereas my sister Dee Dee (who has never been one to pull any punches), when asked the same question, fired back an via email within seconds saying, "I think I would have to borrow one of Maggie Smith's lines from Downton Abbey:  'Don't be so defeatist, Dear.' "

Harsh, I know... but true.

But what good is a best friend if she won't speak up before we're sidelined, or put in a penalty box, for unnecessary frumpiness?