Tina Rowley

writer + (performer) + [space left open for surprises]

the adeledazeem awarbs

Labies and gemplemang, welcone. Welcone to The 88th Annual Barkabamy Mawars, where the one and only most famous of the talented are celimated for all of their harb worm making the thing we love most: the scoomies! I looked all of that up on Boogle so I know I've pronounced everything right.

Also, I've had a big realization. 

I don't think I'm going to win a Barkabamy Mawar in my lifetime.

Tina, whaaat? 

No, listen. I know it sounds off, but hear me out. I feel like there's something about how I'm not part of the film industry that plays into this somewhere. I call this an "instinct". And don't worry! This is relaxing. I can finally stop mentally designing my Oscar gown, which has morphed and grown statelier through the years as my fantasy road to the Oscars has grown longer and more circuitous, the sleeves in the daydream lengthening to match. The sleeves can grow no longer. I am finished.

And now to work.

"Dear Sir/Madam,

We are sending back this faulty nanny. She doesn't engage with the children. Occasionally she puts a hand on her hip and pivots, but that's all. Also, she never sings and her bag doesn't have any furniture in it. YOU, SIR/MADAMS, HAVE DEFRAUDED ME. 

I remain respectfully yours, etc,                                                                                     humble servant,                                                                                                           endebted,                                                                                                                           Mrs. Tina Kunz Rowley"

Giuliana Rancic's skirt is beige/tan, which is different from the top, which is white. When I saw her on Oscar day, I thought she looked like a very nice ballerina. Today I feel nothing. 


Well, well, well! Aren't you a Kelly Osbourne who ate the canary? For the first time in who knows how long, I think she looks great, lavender hair and all. She's sporting her classic "smiling is for chowderheads" expression, which is so much more successful when the wardrobe battle is won. Which makes it all the sadder that she only got to wear this outfit for about fifteen minutes or something, because something happened to the...something, blah blah blah something about a neck? Her neck wouldn't fit up the stairs? Something about stairs? Neck? There was a precipitating event. And she had to change into this:

A squiggly-wiggly see-through black dress with her mother attached to it. Sharon Osbourne looks tired here, like this happens a lot. Neck won't fit up the stairs again. Mom!

Kelly looks smug, like she can yell mean things at passersby from behind her mom's shoulder, and if anyone steps to her about it Mrs. Osbourne will sue them/take a bite out of their cheek. I think Mrs. Osbourne would like to change this pattern, but kids are hard and they've been doing it this way for so long now. Sigh. 

Viola Davis! It gives me enormous pleasure to salute you now, as I didn't enjoy not enjoying your fancy, war-torn leprechaun look of a previous year.

You're in green again, but this time in this sleek, leafy shape, and that perfect little fingerwave hairstyle is a joy. And those cuffs give you a drop of edge with zero try-hard vibe. Waaa! You're perfect! 

I'm in the mood to rhapsodize again! Let's not stop! Kerry Washington is always beautiful and styled out exactly so, but something about this makes it my favorite Kerry Washington moment ever. It's so relaxed and luscious. That smokey amethyst color with those deep lips, her perfectly imperfect loose, full hair, the subtlety of the jewelry, even the wrinkles on the gown. The wrinkles are so chill and humanizing, somehow. I love them. Don't everybody go be wrinkled, now, you hear? They're not adorable on everybody. Just on Kerry Washington. Well, listen. Life's not fair. 

This was my first view of Anna Kendrick, and I was all, 'eeeey, all riiiiight, Fonzie-style. I love strappy black numbers like this. (Side note: will someone please start a design line called Arthur Fonzarelli? Thank you.) And I like the heck out of Anna Kendrick, so I always want things to go well. 

But what? What? Where do I begin? I think I'll ramp up in order of severity here. 

First, I want to speak to the black trim at the crew neck and shoulders. I want to speak to this muscle shirt vibe they're making. I'll be brief: NO. 

Next I want to address those swaths of boob fabric: You are odd and ill-conceived, tarty without being sexy. Be strong, swaths. Take this in. Learn about yourselves. 

And finally, I point my finger at the gothic and yet somehow cheerful daisy disaster fabric malingering beneath the boob swaths. J'accuse! 

What happened, Anna Kendrick? Did the dress fly apart between the waist and the bust, and did your limo pass by a Pacific Fabrics, and did your plucky 12-year-old sister say "I have an idea! I can fix this!" And then, Anna Kendrick, DID YOU LET HER? Did you let her jump out of the limo and run into that Pacific Fabrics and then jump back into the limo with that depressing Bratz doll fabric and start stitching? DID YOU? 

Well. You've got nerve. I'll give you that. 

I'm going to confess something. Cate Blanchett is a brilliant actress, duh, and one of our great style icons. But after watching her interviews and acceptance speeches this weekend, I've decided that I don't love her personally a whole lot. I appreciated the content of her speeches, how it's time for Hollywood to recognize that female-driven films can make plenty of money—nothing not to love there. But there's something about her polished, shiny, hard exterior that leaves me cold. There. I said it. Cate Blanchett would make a terrible stuffed animal. 

But you know those little board books for babies where they learn all about texture? Pat the Bunny? That type of thing? She'd be a great one of those! Feel her chandelier earrings. Whoa. Bumpy. Feel the sequins and metallic embroidery/screws/whatever. Ohh. Pointy. Scrapy. Ow. 

I have a new Amy Adams dilemma. The question I have is this: is Amy Adams cool, or not, or what? On the one hand, you got The Fighter. She's boss as fart in that film, and that performance came out of her from somewhere. And I haven't seen it yet, but she looks pretty badass in American Hustle. And on the other hand, you got Julie & Julia, which...hoo boy. I have this fear that the Julie & Julia Amy Adams is closer to the truth, which brings me to this gown/hair/whole scene. 

She said with this outfit that she was just dressing to please herself this time. And amen, of course. Do your thing. But the thing is is that if this is your thing, your thing isn't my thing. All prim and buttoned-uppy. I prefer the thing you do when you're dressing for others and NOT being yourself. Welp, I better go listen to Free to Be You and Me now. 

Do we all agree that if we need a representative for the human race at some point, Lupita Nyong'o is elected? Yes? Motioned, seconded, passed. Now please excuse me for a moment. I've had a difficult week and I'm going to vacation for a second in the folds of this miraculous beach-blue dress, listening to Lupita having thoughtful conversations in that soothing, musical voice. You won't even know I'm there, Lupita. I will be small and motionless, like a pebble. 

 Last weekend, instead of giving two normal old acceptance speeches (the Independent Spirit Awards were on Saturday and he won one of those, too) Matthew McConaughey graced us with a TED talk on independent film AND a sermon/Tony-Robbins-style personal empowerment seminar. Amazing! And what's more, they were free! I kept scanning around my TV screen for a number to call to give my credit card information, but there wasn't one! These were on the house, ladies and gents. I call that largesse. 

And doesn't Camila Alves look beautiful? She really does. Her dress has the gravitas of Ancient Greece and the allure of strawberry ice cream together again for the first time like never before. I love it. 

P.S. Confidential to one M. Mc.C: The wait is over. You're your own hero now! Those bonds have matured! Cash 'em in! 

P.P.S. to M.M.: You're so right. Ron Woodruff is always whining, like, ohh, thank me! I won't even talk about AIDS victims. *cough* narcissists *cough* I love how you held your ground. You don't play that shit. That's not livin'.

P.P.P.S.: One of the pleasant things about being married to an Australian is learning all sorts of little words and phrases from another culture. Like, for example, prawn. As in, "That guy's a fucking prawn."

It is my contention that after we die, we get to go hang out on an endless, sloping lawn dotted with magnificent shade trees where floating angel things bring us gin and tonics. Here comes one now. She doesn't have to have her eyes open because we don't have bodies so if she spills our drinks on us, no big!

"Draping? Pink? We're supposed to do draping and pink? Please be clear with me, are we doing draping and pink or trying to avoid it because everyone else is doing it? Wear it? Okay, I'm doing it."

Kristin Chenoweth has it on good authority that an army of elves is coming to kill her. Ha ha, elves! Shoot your arrows through this! HAHAHA I'M STILL ALIVE!!! 

Anne Hathaway has it on even better authority that they're really only aiming right in the middle of the torso. 

Sally Hawkins makes me happy. I don't care if she looks like my tiny, twiggy, 8th grade self—who used to pray nightly to God for an ass—in this photo. I don't care if she looks like she's borrowing her grandmother's slightly-too-big dress. She's the business, and she was adorable in those red carpet interviews, all dizzy and giddy and speechless. I'm sticking her in my old Adidas bag from junior high and running. 

Charlize Theron has a real John Singer Sargent "Madame X" thing going on here. That neckline. 'Zounds. I was more excited when I didn't know there were little clear straps at work, but this is still pretty glorious.

Man, June Squibb is serving up some right on, 84-year-old Oscar goodness up in here. She's fucking delicious, like the Platonic ideal of Mrs. Claus out at a golden anniversary gala for her and Santa. All fluffy and rosy and colorful and beaming. I can't stand it.  

Naomi Watts is a sexy, severe angel of justice. If we go astray, she will punish us in an erotic and benevolent way and we will like it so much that we won't know whether to do better next time or not.

Oh, Julie! Julie Delpy evoked something so pleasing for me with this. She reminded me of being a little girl in the 70s, and watching our hippie adult friends of the family get dressed up for special occasions. Just themselves, natural but dolled up, nice and easy. She's gorgeous as bananas, and even more so for just being in her own skin so beautifully. You go get a nice glass of chablis after this, Julie, and relax to some classical guitar. You've earned it.

Look at that face. So dreamy. Keep going just like you are, wizard. 

Ice Storm! Portia de Rossi's going to a key party in a different corner of the 1970s. Whatever key she picks, she's not chickening out. It's on. 

Olivia Wilde is dressed for that same party, but I don't think she and Jason Sudeikis know it's going to be a key party. Once they find out, they'll joke about going with it even though she's ten months pregnant because they're cool like that, but then they'll make their way to the exit before the shit goes down. 

Leslie Mann and Judd Apatow, however, are totally going through with it. Also, her Dijon mustard floaty butter frock is so pretty and now I would like some egg salad. 

Kate Hudson lays it down in her 40s-meets-Halston disco goddess situation. Once again, for the record, all you lucky fuckers with no tits owe me a drink. I'm forever jealous of your bralessness. 

I feel like I'm contractually obligated to discuss Jennifer Lawrence but it's difficult because she's so boring here. I am not wowed by her hip capes or this bright color and I am actively displeased with this matronly hairdo.

But I thank her for throwing me a bone and wearing her necklace backwards. 

Similarly, the good Sandra Bullock, while she looks perfectly lovely here, makes me feel a little sleepy. Why must everybody be in such good taste all the time? Can't we gun it a little sometimes? 

A little bird tells me we can.

Yay! Oh, thank god. 

Do you all realize that what Liza has going on here is the point of getting old? This is a gigantic platter of Fuck It Supreme. She's all, "I'll go braless whenever I motherloving want and I'll wear pants-pajamas and boot-loafer-whatevers to the Academy Awards and I like the goddamn color blue and it suits me so I'm putting it everywhere. You heard me. Everywhere. My Color-Me-Beautiful season is Winter and I look divine in these jewel tones, which I know because I've been around the GODDAMN BLOCK. Now get me a glass of plain old Curaçao on the rocks because I'll look great holding that, too." 

There's aging with quiet grace, which I think is grand, and the other superb option is whatever the fuck Liza Minnelli is doing here. 

And who cares what age you are? Go nuts, motherfuckers! Here's Bette Midler back in 1982:

See, now, that's insane and I feel alive (if slightly headachy) just looking at it. In 1982 I thought bronze lamé was the bomb, myself, and here she is taking a jacuzzi in it. With a Ren Faire exploding magic scarf shoulder, no less! WTF?! Hurray! 

I mean, she looks great here, and if I were still in the race for an Academy Award, this is exactly the kind of thing I'd wear. But I'm not. I think I'm not. I'm probably not. I kind of frankly honestly don't know at this point. Things have shifted since the beginning of this post. 

I don't have a lot to say about Idina Menzel, except that she looks in a successful way like Kyle Richards wrestled Demi Moore back to the late '80s. (Not the hair metal '80s. The Reagan WASP '80s.) But my larger point in including her here is to thank John Travolta for the wonderful gift to humankind. His boofed intro with that amazing delivery is the greatest comic gem to happen in a long time. He pronounced every syllable like he was eating miniature hors d'oeuvres in a library to the beat of a tiny metronome. 


Ach! The delicacy! The lead up is almost funnier than the botched name. Oh, baby. I can't even meditate quietly any more. After about fifteen minutes of silence, the words

(((Adele Dazeem)))

float through my mind and I burst out laughing like a seal. 

Ah, me. *wipes tear* 


Ah, la, la. It never stops. This is my new brain. By the way, that up there is Pharrell in shorts with his tall wife, Mark Twain, who has had a little bit of work done. 

And now we come to the end of the post. Jared Leto, who is a very nice boy, has been supporting us all the way through. 

Whereas Angelina Jolie is very subtly flipping us off with her bosom. Fine. We'll see ourselves out.