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There probably hasn’t been a movie release that I’ve looked forward to more than that of Pretty in Pink. In 1986, I was obsessed with the color. Love’s Baby Soft was my signature scent. All of my Merle Norman makeup that I had just been allowed to wear that year came in some shade of it. I wanted to grow up and be a Mary Kay salesperson so that I could tool around in a pink Cadillac.
When the movie came out in February of that year, I believed it was about me. I was Andie, Molly Ringwald’s character. Garrett, my crush from English class who was a foot shorter than me, was Blane. I would wear pink, dammit, to my 8th grade dance (like prom but for pipsqueaks) and kiss the boy.
Blane was played by Andrew McCarthy, and I loved him. I loved his boxy jackets, that little mouth, those twinkly eyes. For about 95 minutes. Until he kissed Andie in the rain at the end. You can see the kiss in slow motion in this video:
When I saw this in the mall movie theater, I almost regurgitated my popcorn. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but Andrew McCarthy was a gross kisser. I don’t know if it was the way he used his femme-y hands, or the fact that his face seemed to disappear when he mashed it against Molly Ringwald’s, or that he looked like he was kissing sideways, or that he kinda laps at her like a golden retriever. It was just…yick.
Much to my dismay, that scene was reenacted last night in the premiere of Lipstick Jungle, i.e. Sex and the City-on-downers. Lindsay Price’s character, Victory Ford, a clothing designer, becomes involved with a billionaire businessman played by Andrew McCarthy. After he sends his private jet to pick her up from a disastrous trip to Tokyo, they make out on the tarmac.
(Interesting fact about Lindsay Price: her mother is Korean, her father is German-Irish. Her mother was adopted by her father’s family, and they grew up as siblings. Then they later married and had kids. Again, eww.)
SNOOP: Aw sheeeeit, girl. Why you harshin’ my mellow?
RIHANNA: Well, I just don’t know what to do!
SNOOP: Fo shizzle? What the hizzle you talkin’ bout girl?
RIHANNA: DISGRASIAN wants me to join their pack. Can I even do that? What will Hova say?
SNOOP: [snaps alert] OH shit, girl! You can’t make DISGRASIAN wait!
RIHANNA: What? What? What do you mean?
SNOOP: You better get on that shit now! Like now, my gizzle!!!!
SNOOP: NOW! NIZZLE!!!!!!!!!
Japanese tech company NEC unveiled a new laptop computer Wednesday that is making me seriously contemplate chucking my Powerbook Garbaggio4 out the window once and for all:
I’m drafting my Dear Santa letter right now.
The 60th Cannes Film Festival is underway. Wong Kar-Wai’s My Blueberry Nights opened the festival, which will be screening highly-anticipated new films from DISGRASIAN Quentin Tarantino, Gus Van Sant, the Coen brothers and Kim Ki-duk, director of the profound Spring, Summer, Winter…and Spring.
But enough about movies. Last night was the opening night gala dinner, where everyone got all gussied up. Remember how last week I compared the Costume Institute gala to PROM?
Well, Cannes not only reminds me of Prom, it reminds me of my rival high school, where everyone drove BMWs, carried Louis Vuitton purses, and belonged to a country club. Their prom was held at a Four Seasons, ours was at a Marriott. I know because I went to both with my gay date Steve (more on this another time).
But Prom is Prom, even on the Cote d’Azur, so let’s stop dicking around and get on with the SUPERLATIVES already! Do you think these ladies CANNES handle it?