I was going to call this just a “Cannesnibus,” but then I realized people would think I was implying something about Kate, France, and cannabis, when in fact I’m just trying to make terrible wordplay involving the word “omnibus.” So instead, I’m asking y’all to put on your Twelve Angry Men hats and judge whether Kate Beckinsale, Cannes juror 2010, did herself proud on the film festival’s red carpet.
The prosecution wonders where Kate ate lunch, and asks if someone would notify the proprietor of the restaurant that she left with her napkin still tucked into her skirt. Further, it wonders why everything in the bodice is floaty AND flappy AND off-kilter, suggesting that it looks as though it has been through a hurricane, or perhaps been fugged by a smoke monster. The defense points out that it’s different and cool and an amalgam of interesting colors, concluding in really lovely pumps. The prosecution suggests that argument is as boring as certain parts of Pearl Harbor.
The defense is all, “Pretty pretty pretty pretty,” but the prosecution can’t figure out why somebody painted a belt on this thing with glitter, or why her boobs are wearing a fake bow-tie. The defense is all, what, would you rather she wore an ACTUAL belt and bow-tie with this thing? The prosecution invokes the Ben Affleck’s Highlights Defense: Just because they aren’t the worst part about Pearl Harbor doesn’t make them right.
The prosecution says, “Are they making an Underworld sequel set in Studio 54?” The defense states that this is shiny, prompting the prosecutors to object on the grounds that simply making factual declarations is a really boring defense, and that their opposition isn’t even trying. “Fine,” says the defense. “Should we talk about how she’s probably really pissed that nobody gave a shit about vampires back when she played one, and how she could totally pass as Bella Swan’s mother, if Bella Swan’s mother were in any way important to anything, but because she isn’t, Kate is SOL again? And now that I’m done rambling about vampires, do you even remember what the hell we were talking about? You don’t? WIN.”
The defense purrs that this is one toga party it would like to be invited to, but the prosecution is not amused, suggesting that this is the pink version of that scene in Pearl Harbor where Evelyn gets funky with Danny in the middle of all that drapey white fabric that might be a parachute, which raised all sorts of questions about whether it’s very considerate to rub your hot sex all over some dude’s safety net, and/or whether it was a clumsy metaphor for the fact that Evelyn and Danny did NOT themselves use a safety net, and also, shouldn’t there have been better security on the army base? COME ON. The defense stands up and asks if it can call Cuba Gooding Jr. as a witness, based on the idea that he hasn’t got anything better to do and he might have some really helpful insight, but the judge decides that would be an irrelevant digression and refers everyone to Cuba’s IMDb page to prove just how busy he has been, even if you haven’t heard about any of it.
The prosecution is unsettled that the bodice looks as if it’s in the act of being unzipped. The defense suggests that this is exactly what’s fetching about this — the way it’s opening up like a flower, the way poor toothy little Red did once he experienced the touch of a good woman, in the form of Jaime King. The prosecution wonders when the Pearl Harbor references will stop; the defense says that will happen when the cable movie channels finally stop running it all the time, AHEM, ENCORE. The prosecution doesn’t care for how the bottom half of the dress is reminiscent of sweatshirt material, but the defense shouts that it’s pretty and flattering and interesting, even if the giant bouffant is played out, and thinks J.Lo should’ve worn this to the Oscars. The judge bangs the gavel and curses that if anyone so much as HINTS at inviting J.Lo to this party, there will be a mistrial, because whatever she wears will create a whole distracting side-trial of its own and then justice will collapse in on itself.
The prosecution chortles that this exhibit is aptly named, as F is the grade it would give both to this dress and to Josh Hartnett’s stupid mustache in Pearl Harbor. The defense argues that Josh Hartnett did not have a mustache in Pearl Harbor, and the prosecution is all, “Really? Well, he’s got one now, and it’s so awful that it eclipses any memory of his face WITHOUT a mustache, and now his legacy is reedy and pubescent.” The defense can’t argue with that, but prefers to note that this dress fits Kate really well, and that her husband is a pleasant amalgam of Ryan Reynolds and this dude Scott Clifton who used to be on soaps. The prosecution wonders why it looks like Kate’s dress has alopecia of the ruffles, suggests a charity gala might be in order, and then provides a budget breakdown for a kidnap-and-rescue operation to liberate that bow from her waist. The defense just wants to know about the guy with the giant mustache in the background, and whether that’s who Josh Hartnett and his facial hair will grow up to be. “He wishes!” cackles the prosecution, and they all slap hands and rent Here on Earth so they can watch him romance Leelee Sobieski before she — SPOILER — dies of knee cancer. The judge is all, “Hell, if I knew it’d be that kind of party, I’d have stayed home with Crossroads and some mashed potatoes,” and calls an end to the trial.