And so it begins:
Maybe THIS is why she’s been so basic-black lately: She knew she was going to hit the premiere in an anti-Catwoman white gown. But I kind of wish she’d stuck with the rut. I’m trying to look at this dress, really look at it, but I can’t. It’s super uninspired to me. It just hangs there. It exists. It is on her back. It is covering up her erogenous zones. There’s some draping. But nothing about this feels committed — there’s a bracelet, a half-hearted stab at rouging her lips so that the bright white doesn’t wash her out, but otherwise it’s maddeningly blah. I get that it’s a tough time for Anne, what with her crazy con-artist ex-boyfriend out of prison and banging on about how misunderstood he is, right on the doorstep of her wedding to a dude who seems both perfectly nice and perfectly noncontroversial, and she has to promote her summer blockbuster right after she had her hair chopped off on-camera to play a dying but virtuous French prostitute with a love child and a song in her heart. But I wish she’d come out with fashion guns blazing. This feels like the lazy, muted pop of a cap gun that didn’t quite scare the pants off his younger sister the way its user had hoped.