Fugger: Rumer Willis

Fugelle and Rumfug

MICHELLE TRACHTENBERG: Hey, Rumer. You look different.
RUMER WILLIS: So do you!
MICHELLE: Well, I’m trying this new thing where my pants are unflattering and my shirt is from Motherhood maternity. I think it’s really working to create intrigue!
RUMER: And I’M trying this new thing where my clothes are a size too small, and I look like an escort who got her tie bitten off by a coked-up business executive during a team-building drug orgy! I think it’s really working to create… um…
MICHELLE: … pity?
RUMER: … Look, I’ll take it, okay?

Fug Madness 2010, Round One: Bjork Bracket


Whenever we see a celeb wearing giant sleeves, I often wonder what they’ve got up them; in Carrie’s case, it was a high Fug Madness seeding that was secreted up this billowing white arm-bugle:

At the time, I wondered whether Carrie was keeping Sleeve on a leash, or vice-versa. Almost a year later, I still have no answers. Only questions. And confusion. My brow is like, “SLOW DOWN, Underwood, you could grate cheese on my furrows.”

And yet, Carrie’s Bring Your Arm To Work Day matchy-matchy white nonsense is being met bravely by some resplendently nutty offerings from socialite Fabiola Beracasa:

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Unfug It Up: Rumer Willis

I love how it looks like the girls in the poster are shrieking at Rumer and Demi.

[Photo: Splash News]

Not that shrieking is necessarily warranted here. Demi looks lovely and dignified. But Rumer… she’s getting there, she really is. The jacket is intricate and interesting. But it’s also a tad mature: I could it on anyone ranging from Cate Blanchett to Meryl Streep or Helen Mirren to freaking Barbara Walters in that thing. Okay, maybe not Baba Wawa, unless she put a camisole under it, but you get the gist — don’t clothe yourself into your golden years, Rumer.

I’d almost like to see them trade outfits. Maybe we’d find out that it takes a very particular face and body to pull off an explosion of ruffles, but it also might be fun to see Rumer in a dress that’s not strapless, since she has a pathological inability to choose one that wants to stay above her ribcage.  As for Demi, she could totally work the lace, and would probably do better than pairing it with a truly unremarkable pair of black pants. They definitely don’t compete with the top, it’s true, but they don’t enhance it either. In fact, they’re kind of rolling over and playing dead. I’m glad Rumer herself is not — if Demi Moore were my mother, I might consider giving up completely and becoming a shut-in who never shaves and eats only what can be foraged from the attic — but I do wish she’d done something else here.

How would you fix this? Swap their clothes? Keep them in their outfits, but lose the pants (and replace them with something else)? Give them more exciting shoes? Or are they perfect just the way they left the house? Fair readers, let us know. You know the rules: On topic, on manners, on Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen. Merci.


Well Played, Rumer Willis

By George, I think she’s got it.

[Photo: FlynetOnline.com]

That might be the best I’ve seen Rumer Willis look. It’s probably no coincidence that this is also the most like Demi I’ve ever seen her look, but regardless: The kid has been through some REALLY rough phrases. Remember this? That mammarial crime made my soul yawp. And the experiment with red hair had really mixed results. There’s so much more where those came from — an entire Fug Madness nomination’s worth. I mean, essentially, Rumer is only famous for a) being Demi’s daughter; b) having Demi tell her at the Golden Globes, DURING the telecast, to stand up straight; and c) for wearing strapless dresses that constantly sagged south, limply, on her frame. So I’m relieved for her that she looks cute, clean, and well-made-up for this Letterman appearance. Maybe a role in ABC’s rumored St. Elmo’s Fire TV series is not far behind.

… Although I hope it is, because that remake sounds like BLASPHEMY. I mean, one of the producers said they imagine it having a similar tone to Friends. ST. ELMO’S FIRE IS NOT FRIENDS. Did Joey play the saxophone, rock a mullet, and deflower his cardigan-wearing best friend? Did Chandler stalk a really wooden doctor of dubious appeal? Did Monica open all the windows in her empty apartment and sit there crying in the cold breeze while Rob Lowe banged on the door? NO. And I definitely don’t recall Ally Sheedy doing this:

Kinda would’ve ruined the emotional climax of the movie if Ally stuck her head up the business end of a turkey before pulling a Kelly Taylor (in fact, beating Kelly Taylor to the punch by about ten years) and choosing herself.

I’m sure Rumer Willis would be THRILLED that a post in which I finally compliment her has devolved into an excuse to post that photo of Monica shimmying for Chandler like a stripper with a Thanksgiving fetish. But, hey, kid, take your compliments however they come.


Rufug Willis

Okay, so the pendulum swung back: Rumer’s got the hair working for her again, but the dress is back to being suspect:

Nothing says “classy” like a dress with photos on it of a woman’s hand holding a cigarette. She’s basically in costume as lung cancer, and if that doesn’t get a girl in the mood to wear a frilly tutu, I don’t know WHAT does.

Actually, for a long time, I stared at it and thought it was an order of french fries from McDonald’s, and sat here trying to think of a name for a ballet in which Rumer might be starring that’s based on the secret pain of the Hamburgler. All I came up with was The Clowncracker, which needed some workshopping, or Ron Lake, which sounds just as much like it could be about your accountant as about how one fast-food chain’s clown continually defeats a man who’s trying to steal his beef. Sigh. Fortunately it’s a moot point.


MTV Movie Awards Fug Carpet: Rumer Willis

Rumer Willis always presents me with such a quandary. I feel like any compliment I give her is almost GRUDGING, like, “She looks good… FOR HER,” when in fact at this point I am rooting for her to hit it out of the proverbial ball park so that I can cross her off my list of worries.

But when she goes and does stuff like this, it makes it so hard.

I’d be curious to see the dress on someone else — someone slightly less, well, awkward — to see how I feel about it for real, but my first thought was: Wow, she is wearing a stained-glass window somebody designed based on a blackjack table. And her hair is all mussed and sweaty as if she had been sitting at said blackjack table for 18 hours straight, drinking free vodka tonics and losing a boatload of cash that she can’t win back again. I can smell the casino on her. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… can we get Rachel Zoe on this case, please? Say what you will about that one — and we have, and will continue to — but she usually knows what she’s doing, whereas clearly Rumer does not.


Rumer Fuggis

As you all know, we used to find Rumer Willis really frustrating, as one of the primary examples of celebuspawn who often act they’re entitled to their own slice of the fame pie just because they are genetically tied to people we HAVE embraced. But you probably also know — and if not, well, I’m mentioning it now — that we can’t help feeling some sympathy for the kid, too, because Demi Moore is her mother. And Demi Moore, whether with constant help or just a little here and there or just a lot of sex with her young stallion husband, appears to get hotter every time she leaves the house. So what went from annoyance at Rumer trying to bait the paps into photographing her at Kitson kind of morphed into us rooting for the kid, as she got parts in The House Bunny and tried to make it work as an actual actress who receives paychecks and might get her face on DVD packaging someday.

So let’s start off with some pros: Rumer is figuring out something nice to do with her hair. And she’s not wearing a dress that’s hell-bent on dropping off or drooping to the side and exposing her braless boobs. These are all major advances.

[Photo: FlynetOnline.com]

But her nice tailored suit jacket would’ve looked SO MUCH BETTER with something other than high-waisted hot pants that sag at the crotch, creating either the world’s saddest and least manly polterwang, or the illusion that her pelvis is smirking.