When someone on the red carpet is truly just feeling herself, we all know. Ban the bleached teeth and assholes of the Illuminati give me a middle-aged Australian anarchist who looks like she bought her outfit at Christopher & Banks. Black jacket bedazzled with a roller derby patch that looks like it came from JoAnn Fabrics? Check. No wonder we all found Mad Max: Fury Road costume designer Jenny Beavan’s outfit to be the most remarkable of the evening. Who are these unremarkable people with individual incomes to rival those of small countries? Why do they look so goofy in such expensive, tame clothing? Fashion is full of miracles, so where were the swan dresses? (Possible answer: staying home in protest.) Ill-fitting strapless nightmares abounded (the best comment of the night went to my boyfriend, who asked why Sarah Silverman looked like she was being squeezed out of a tube). The world’s elite came together for one night and it was as awkward as a high school prom. The red carpet was a veritable Ringling Brothers parade of brightly colored, twenty-thousand-dollar gowns on colorless bodies with interchangeable heads. Last weekend’s #OscarsSoWhite served as yet another powerful reminder that, in general, the United States Entertainment Industrial Complex is suffering from a sort of ecological disaster in which a parasitic species (fine-boned, unhappy-looking white entertainers) has dramatically outnumbered other members of its genus (glamorous, powerful black entertainers).
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