I was quite the vision: starched hair, my mug painted with shimmering terra cotta bronzer, and sporting a custom-made tuxedo shirt in periwinkle (to match the subtle shadow in the corners of my eyes). Monsieur Fashion Critic was poised on the red carpet to drool, gush, plotz, and possibly tinkle in my YSL tuxedo pants at the sight of Nicole Kidman's impeccable couture. This was Oscar night and the dress code was impossibly glamorous.
The first star hits the red carpet. A towering blonde beauty wrapped in red taffeta. Oh my God! Could it be Charlize? Gwyneth? She inches closer. I hyperventilate at the thought of interviewing this screen queen, until I realize it's...Heidi Klum? What is she doing here? Maybe I should have read my research packet. Was there a documentary nominated about the Victoria Secret Ipex bra? And look at what she's wearing. In her voluminous red Galliano, she was the bridesmaid of Frankenstein! Oktoberfest could have been held under the skirt of her gown.
As she moves on, I try to recover from the shock of seeing a reality show hostess with little command of the English language stepping out on the most exclusive red carpet. But not to worry -- in minutes my orbs will feast on bonafide movie stars. But then, Cameron flits over in a -- gasp-- cutesy ponytail, looking like a sun damaged Hilary Duff. Her strapless peach Dior was a bolt of boring. And don't get me started on the dueling Jennifers. The right, proper Jennifer Garner was stiff and unsexy in a heavy black Oscar de la Renta and your "standard issue" diamond choker -- an ensemble better suited for Angela Lansbury picking up the Jean Hersholt award. And Jennifer Hudson? Her gown was an ill-fitted, visible panty line shower curtain. Did she pick this up at Target? Just because Proenza Scholuler went there doesn't mean she had to.
Where has the glamour gone? All these women parading around in cheap looking red satin made it feel more like a casting call for Cathouse than the 80th Annual Academy Awards. There simply aren't any standards anymore. Nicole Kidman, always the queen of fashion, is usually as dependable as a Maytag. You could always count on her to be refined. But when she hit the carpet in an unfortunate bib of rocks, she looked like a Diamonique model on QVC.
Some people blame this year's lackluster red carpet on the post-writers' strike blues. Others whisper that spotlight seeking stylists are too busy putting out their own line of breast cutlets to really care. I disagree. I think the stars are deathly afraid.
Perhaps it's better to be safe than thrilling when the world's media will be dissecting every nanodetail of your outfit the next morning. But I say, if you can't wear spectacular gowns worthy of the biggest night in Hollywood, then the red carpet will become so boring that no one will watch. My fear is that next year if you want to see a well-groomed comely creature work a carpet, you'll have to tune into the Westminster Kennel show instead.