il mio blog, d'anticonformista

we raised our glass and drank to times we had / but'd see no more / the pictures of the past would haunt us still / and there remains...

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Carly Simon, Jane Fonda, and Melanie Griffith pictured in Beverly Hills, this week.

Awwww! Had no idea these three were friends. Well, still don't. Know if they are, that is. But they do look adorable together. And leave it to The Fonda to photobomb other legends in such style!

And also, I concur with everyone commenting that said Jane Fonda's plastic surgery has reached a level of unreal accomplishment. It's just absolutely terrific. And this coming from someone who loathes anything and everything resembling such procedures with a fierce, fiery passion. But she looks so great! And she's fundamentally awesome and crazeballs and delightful and goofy and wears such lovely things, and if nothing else, she'll always be Barbarella, which certainly helps. And she still looks like herself, most importantly, not like some slightly wonky plastic mannequin copy of her former glory. And those earrings, dear god!

In short, I want their life style, I long for their surroundings, I envy their respective talents, I crave their wardrobes, and I wish to steal all of their former and current husbands and lovers, Antonio very much included and prominently topping the list, for myself to have and to cuddle. This is all purely a compliment. 

Trés charming indeed, favourite ladies. Keep it up, will you!

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Honestly.

I have never wanted a dress, any dress, any garment whatsoever, really, more than I want this dress. I crave it. Which is inconvenient, because I'm practically broke, and would like to dress up for Halloween in this thing. Very unfortunate.

Also, her hair. She looks like increasingly regal Brigitte Nielsen attempting to go incognito as Grace Kelly which, come to think of it, may be unfortunately close to the actual truth. (The Cut is writing about the dress here; it's Ralph Lauren, apparently, and they're actually dwelling on its overall impact on her regal-ness and ability to live up to her famous mother-in-law. Which may have something to do with the background here, very literally speaking. But still. Jesus.) And she does lead a weird soap-operatic life. And I'm not entirely sure she's mastered the French yet, in every sense of the phrase. I also willingly admit that I want to kill her husband. But I like her! She carries that gothic tent like a dream! Of a different career! All hail Princess Sadface. (And all bow admiringly to the Girls of Fug, let's, for coining that expression.) She is utterly breathtakingly beautiful and looks like she wants to kill her husband, too, and make a run for it, and elope somewhere exotic with a nice person in a suit who makes her cocktails and lets her swim for hours in the wild ocean whilst he gazes on adoringly. Don't we all. But that is one fabulous piece of dress. I do digress (a lot), but the point still stands: that is one hell of a fabulous piece of dramatic clothing that lures us into thinking it's a dress. I want it. I may not want her life, but I want her wardrobe, and I think I may be repeating myself widely in terms of things I've already repeated quite frequently in regard to other people. 

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Okay, so yes, I do, admittedly, unconditionally love this woman, possibly a great deal more than I even should, and have done so since literally the very first time she flung onto the music scene, but still. This is legitimately gorgeous, no? She looks fantastic, methinks. And her new record is phenomenal. I am talking 'bout the R Kelly duet, yes I am, and I never thought I'd express such admiration for R Kelly in any way, but he's actually really good too, when paired with Gagaloo. 

And I love me some Gaga in a fancy kimono, whilst channeling early seventies' onstage Freddie and all, and even if they've airbrushed her to death and beyond, she still looks reasonably much like herself and appropriately slightly bonkers and somewhat uncharacteristically normal at the same time, but quite like herself nonetheless. Recognizable, at the very least. In a great way. There's a win! Do I wish the photo setup had been a wee bit more intriguing? Yes. Do I wish for less photoshop and a tad more interesting backdrop? Hell yes. But I love her, and she looks lovely. Fine, Glamour, you're an overall entertaining read, you chose a fine garment, and an appealing cover star, and thus do indeed seem to have conquered this one.

And then, for the inside shoot, they decided to go all out in a Barbarella channels Patsy Stone channels Twiggy from space, and something to do with Christmas, in a slightly too vague and mischievously subtly o2 world-marketing fashion sort of a way. You know, Patsy already went there and did that, and it didn't look all that fashiony back then either, and it was meant as a joke. I suspect this ain't, and so I choose to diplomatically ignore it. Your photoshop skills still aren't all that grand either, people. In short: for your future reconsideration, that one.

Next time, leave her face alone, and put her on a grand piano with a sequin carousel on her head or something. She'd like that!

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Well, in the words of Mr C himself: 

"Wow. That's a bit of a moment! Thank you very much!"

...indeed.

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Benedict Cumberbatch and Harrison Ford on Graham Norton. Benedict Cumberbatch imitating Chewbacca whilst sitting next to Harrison Ford, on Graham Norton. Wearing suits. Benedict Cumberbatch being a complete fanboy in his barytone voice, in the face of a man with a barytone voice of his very own that had been left unrivalled until Benedict Cumberbatch came along. Benedict Cumberbatch and Harrison Ford discussing Star Wars. Benedict Cumberbatch and Harrison Ford bonding, barytone-ing, slapping backs, and being customarily protective of (and ever so slightly freaked out by) fangirls. Graham Norton being saved and redeemed in a big way by a random comedian called Jack who, methinks, just gained himself a quite considerable new legion of fans. Benedict Cumberbatch being told by Harrison Ford that he doesn't look a lot like Julian Assange, and Benedict Cumberbatch instantly thanking him before he quite realizes what he's in the middle of actually saying. Benedict Cumberbatch and Harrison Ford being the, by far, least awkward two people ever to have featured on a television screen in the middle of a show concept designed to be awkward. Benedict Cumberbatch being told by Harrison Ford that Sherlock is fucking fantastic, and just how much Harrison Ford admires his acting. Benedict Cumberbatch, with tears in his eyes, deciding he might as well retire from acting there and then.

Bloody hell, that went even better than any of us had any right to expect.

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Absolutely wonderful interview with the equally wonderful Warren Cann; highly underrated, ridiculously talented, exceedingly gorgeous, film star wannabe, and much-too-rarely-interviewed drummer extraordinaire of the band Ultravox. Also known as Hans Zimmer's good pal and co-band-mate in the not entirely completely realized, but oft-bootlegged project Helden.

All in all, and in other words, a very very good man indeed.

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David and Tina. Let's dance!

(Also, imagine living in a day and age where these two teamed up for sci-fi-inspired ballroom Pepsi Commercials. Seriously. With snogging. I absolutely fundamentally loathe Pepsi, and I still yearn for one after watching this.)

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And now, for two people who are, somewhat unfortunately, married to other, quite excellent, quite impeccable and quite frustratingly irreproachable people by now.

And who nonetheless constitute an indisputable OTP.

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Them brilliant folks.

Reed, Jagger, Bowie.

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The progressively evolving long evenings of 70's Bowie, Jagger and Reed. As captured on film by Mick Rock. Also featuring various hallucinogenic friends, multiple dishes, satin sheets worn as shirts, competitive eyebrows, and chaaampaaaaaagne.

And let's face it, we all wish we'd have had the opportunity to hang out with these guys, all together now, back in the day. To have been there, amongst the crowd, in the midst of their unending parties, the very sensation of it, not in some recirculated remastered form on Spotify, thirty years on, although, well, that's not really a complaint. Just saying. What I wouldn't give to be able to enjoy this madness first hand, in the actual moment of its on-going existence. (Okay, let's rephrase, what I wouldn't give to possess a TARDIS. The sheer convenience of it. Oh well.)

They were simply brilliant. Quite in general, just simply and absolutely brilliant. Always were. Still are. And, lest we forget, always will be.

Rest in peace, Mr Reed. You will be missed, you know.

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Lou Reed as captured in stills from Wim Wenders' Faraway So Close (In Weiter Ferne, So Nah!) with Otto Sander, where he features as the prudentially equivocal mentor and inspiring musical presence to Sander's angel character Cassiel. 

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I left my heart on a beach in Wales.

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Saving the worst for last.

(The absolutely most heart-breaking, most utterly devastating, most unbearably gut-wrenching moment in television history - also one to hold the dubious record and honour of being even increasingly fucking worse when viewed from behind the scenes. And there is just something about her walking slowly towards him in that last shot that seems to emphasize all too poignantly the ominousness of what is about to be irreparably, irretrievably broken and abandoned. Great. His face.)

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Man, I sometimes miss these two together on screen, on this show, so much it hurts quite unbearably. 

Never the same without. Quite right, too. But so very sad.

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Hey, remember when Doctor Who-promo pics used to look like this?

My god. They were so terrible at photoshopping back then. Truly. Dreadful. And all those semi-psychedelic, hallucinogenic, Kubrick-esque backdrops of something weirdly, seemingly unreal that was in fact actual real reality, just tinkered with, and with layers of fake vortex added on top. And the retouching and the shadow-lines, and, er, random council flats with dirt on them. And poor David who just looked so...drunk. All the time. If hilariously, geekily, charmingly drunk. And/or profoundly bored. And quite a bit like a man who simply couldn't wait to snatch Rose away for a quick snog and a rather more rewarding conversation about completely different things, elsewhere. Most importantly. Which was probably accurate enough. And those clothes! I can't believe they made Billie wear some of these things. Or that I, indeed, set out to purchase absolutely all of her outfits, in their entirety, myself, or garments that vaguely resembled them - based solely on these photo-stagings. Nor could I fathom, or did I ever even knew, that eyelashes attached to human eyes could actually hold those amounts of mascara. And, according to said Billie P, they couldn't. Allegedly, both they, and her entire head of hair, virtually fell off during filming. Along with the entire fabric of that famed, turquoise hoodie that shed itself like a cheap IKEA carpet across a whole, wide Dalek universe. The Doomsday hoodie. It would appear it lived up to its tagline. 

Oh well. I'm being snarky and mean. At least the two of them look incomparably, unmistakably and redeemingly adorable. And, very visibly, as though they both wish to be somewhere else entirely. Together, though. Such wonderful togetherness in the face of the unbelievably awkward. Isn't this romantic. The fanfiction that could be made from these stills alone. And, I'm sure, has. God I miss old-new-Who. They had absolutely no idea what they were doing, and it was so charming. Good times!

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A Lifelong Affection: Brigitte Nielsen, the one and only (really, though)

When confronted with own urges to make an actual list of girl crushes, so-called, however brief and short-ranging a catalogue that this challenge usually comes to amount to, in my case, I do nonetheless tend to forget about good old Brigitte here. Which is a pity, rather, and quite the unfortunate incident, because as it happens, she quite significantly tops that list, and with great margins. I mean, Grace Jones and Nastassja Kinski are wonderful, absolutely wonderful, but this one could slay them both dead with a tip of her little finger. She's just this inherently raucous, rambunctious force of nature that you just have to reckon with whether you like to or not. I, however, love her. In fact, I always wanted to be her. Which, granted, does make her more of a hero than a crush. But I just find her immensely appealing in every sort of way. Ever since I watched that film Cobra with Sly Stallone, all endlessly dreadful dragged-out cinematic nonsense of it; and then suddenly this absolutely amazing music video-esque bridge scene appears out of nowhere, and completely obliterates any and all plot-points, of which very few were attempted to be made to begin with; and yet, all that soon ceases to hold much significant meaning whatsoever, because dancing sort-of-rhythmically to the exceptionally cheap, bass-less synth pop they managed to cough up on their very limitingly minuscule budget, is this endlessly leggy, ridiculously striking blonde warrior princess, who just saunters in and saves the whole film. And the day. Which is saying something, when you were originally set to inhabit the eye candy role in a Stallone vehicle. 

And boy, hasn't she lead an interesting life too. To top it all. Fluent in four languages. A whole bunch of kids. Lived all over the planet. Is a genuinely, legitimately good actress. Can sing. Has sung. With FALCO, of all people. For a legitimately good song. In the accompanying video to which she proves she can dance the ass off most people, including, and most prominently, Falco. Viennese balls, Hollywood mansions, gala premieres, numerous reality shows and dresses and whips and drugs and rock'n'roll and various other terrifyingly unhealthy and decidedly entertaining endeavours. She's just this...giant, Danish thunderstorm of adventurousness and awe-some, well, and awe-inducing, ever so slightly fearsome (and my god, that picture is the best thing ever), gorgeously grand, impeccably built, incomparable crazy. Which I'm certain her...what is it, five, six interchangeable husbands, old and new, lovely little Sly included, will consent to also. Well, because they probably wouldn't even tinker with the idea of considering any alternatives, because there might be consequences and they very certainly wouldn't be jolly. She may look like an überphotogenic, elegant, divine queen of old Hollywood, with a completely deceiving aura of absolute harmlessness...and then she just kicks you to death. With her pinky. You know, Red Sonja. Kicking butts. Plural. Oh well.

And the hair. Don't even get me started on the hair. I COVET this woman's hair.

And, much like Kate Upton, the latter sort of flailing along and trying to find the original amazonian's footsteps to lead herself onto some sort of actual track, this one too looked infinitely, remarkably much better with clothes on. Indeed, never in the history of mankind have 6 feet on top of stilettos looked better squeezed into a corset. And it should also be mentioned that she remains the only woman in the history of mankind to actually pull off fake breasts. Wonderful Gitte. Never change! Well, maybe stop doing drugs and stop drinking and don't necessarily divorce your Italian waiter husband number halfway to a dozen, maybe, because I think this one loves you. And if he doesn't, well, kill him. Very convenient.

And maybe make a new film. A properly decent one. Wouldn't go amiss either.

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HOLY SHIT. Whilst we crazy collectives are anxiously awaiting more Sherlock (as we have been doing for the past...well, I can't even remember a time when I was actually enjoying fresh Sherlock instead of anxiously, petrifiedly and absolutely disturbingly overly enthusiastically waiting for more), it would appear that a couple of folks who are more or less remotely related thereto have decided to team up for something to kill the impatience with. These three lovelies have a new film out! TOGETHER! It's called "Locke". Thank you indeed! And it's full of other nice people too. Now, where may this little gem be found? I need some! Get me some!

More pics (and terrible journalism, beware) may be encountered here.