I've always admired/feared the way the English grip their celebrities. It's such a very small island with just so maaaannnnyyyy tabloids. If you are famous at one time, even for one thing, you will continue to be covered, regardless of your having any sort of career, for many eons. If you are "of the moment" you will be covered to death. So, if you're among those soignée Harry Potter children (relevant, present, A-list) or if you were once a one-hit wonder or soap (or reality) actor who now has got gouty and unemployed, either way, you will be in magazines and papers, receiving all form of publicity, great and small. It's a shame how ready to out-mode--in general--Americans are, positively exiling all who/anything that lacks "freshness" or "power." But, however charmingly encompassing their coverage, it's also a shame how ruthless English schlock journalists can be, most likely to attack or smear, outright lie-tell. Anyhow...this above lady, Nicola Roberts, is a member of Girls Aloud, the most successful of a spate of U.K. reality television bands from the early aughts (como Danity Kane). They've had something like twenty top ten hits in the U.K., though a glance at the numbers, shows them peaking at #10 and #11 in 2008. They are reaching "the end of a glittery reign" perhaps? I'm out of touch with these dynamics overseas, but I get the distinct impression that Ms. Roberts is entering the "famous as a former famous person" phase of her Brit celebrity story arc. And--mall makeup aside--she has never looked better. There should be more breasts addressed this way in fay-shun, not as overspill, but as form, through sheer fabric, or none at all (como las Minoans). It's stripper by way of Mary Quant by way of Poiret, absolutely charming. And I imagine it's being roundly mocked (that's always a good sign). Here are some more views.
Showing posts with label little britain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label little britain. Show all posts
Sep 22, 2009
Snap
I've always admired/feared the way the English grip their celebrities. It's such a very small island with just so maaaannnnyyyy tabloids. If you are famous at one time, even for one thing, you will continue to be covered, regardless of your having any sort of career, for many eons. If you are "of the moment" you will be covered to death. So, if you're among those soignée Harry Potter children (relevant, present, A-list) or if you were once a one-hit wonder or soap (or reality) actor who now has got gouty and unemployed, either way, you will be in magazines and papers, receiving all form of publicity, great and small. It's a shame how ready to out-mode--in general--Americans are, positively exiling all who/anything that lacks "freshness" or "power." But, however charmingly encompassing their coverage, it's also a shame how ruthless English schlock journalists can be, most likely to attack or smear, outright lie-tell. Anyhow...this above lady, Nicola Roberts, is a member of Girls Aloud, the most successful of a spate of U.K. reality television bands from the early aughts (como Danity Kane). They've had something like twenty top ten hits in the U.K., though a glance at the numbers, shows them peaking at #10 and #11 in 2008. They are reaching "the end of a glittery reign" perhaps? I'm out of touch with these dynamics overseas, but I get the distinct impression that Ms. Roberts is entering the "famous as a former famous person" phase of her Brit celebrity story arc. And--mall makeup aside--she has never looked better. There should be more breasts addressed this way in fay-shun, not as overspill, but as form, through sheer fabric, or none at all (como las Minoans). It's stripper by way of Mary Quant by way of Poiret, absolutely charming. And I imagine it's being roundly mocked (that's always a good sign). Here are some more views.
May 22, 2009
Too Darn Hot
P.M.C., who has set off with his love for their new (oh-my-goodness) home in Lebanon (a French colonial fantasy, among other things), began to peel away the layers of my Anglophilia several years ago. He was feeling uncertain about the island, and I trusted his judgement implicitly (being that he spends much more time/has some ancestors over there). And I could agree that London's profile as playland for the megamega-rich and Euro-trashy was smelling unsavory, smelling wholly unlike, say, a Wodehouse story.
When it comes to Jeeves and Wooster, my Anglophilia knows no bounds (or peeling), responds to no shifts or trends or irritating demi-aristos with weak chins and Mystic Tans. Wodehouse's Britain is one lodged in the era between the Wars in the most essential (and pleasing) way—the din of the Great War at the players' backs wholly ignored for the sake of Fred and Estelle lightness. His stories of town and country, club and breakfast-table are touched with the high style of that moment, the quick, comic, fast, freshness of (new) Modernity. Yet they are also stilted and wholesome, like a film set of a Swiss resort or the jam aisle at Fortnum and Mason—devoid of war, poverty, illness, and sex. The curious (and necessary) *absence of sex* in Bertie Wooster's accounts of bachelorhood is addressed in an odd, smart little Post post from yesterday.
Carry on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)