NY Mirror

A bash of her own, Roseanne was a pisser—the color of sunshine—as the host of the Lane Bryant plus-sized fashion show, reminding us that she's the empress of bonbons and bon mots. (Her opening crack—"Are there any gays here?"—was done in the spirit of celebration, not panic.) Cracklin' Roseanne claimed that she once wanted to be a model, "but I was allergic to cigarettes and laxatives and the heroin made me splotchy and even lazier somehow." Fully recovered, she added that she was thrilled with the evening's Cabaret theme because "I'm such a fan of the Nazi era, and it's back in style with the whole Bush thing!"

After the show, I told Roseanne that Dubya's cousin Billy Bush had been in the front row, but she didn't seem to mind since she had no idea who he is. But the evening's star dancer, Ami Goodheart, knew who Tommy Tune is. When a handler told her, "Tommy wants to see you, but he won't come backstage—you have to come out," she did so and learned that Tune adored her Josephine Baker-like moves. Lordy, I wish I could similarly praise Kelly Osbourne's post-runway-show performance of "Papa Don't Preach," but her screeching was so awful it was clearly England's revenge on Madonna.

Whoopi Goldberg's version of the title song boosts the Ma Rainey's Black Bottom revival, whose problems have become so publicized that when Charles S. Dutton's character screams at his bandmates, "We're doin' my version," you wonder if he's really talking to the director. Alas, unlike in Noises Off—the play about backstage antics, enlivened one night by Patti LuPone yelling and throwing things—life doesn't imitate whatever.

Speaking of revivals, let us now praise Film Forum, which resuscitates the most watchable classics in pristine prints (though their popcorn is too expensive). They recently dredged up Rosemary's Baby, Roman Polanski's perfectly made picture about a guy who sells his soul—and his wife's body—to Celine, I mean Satan, in exchange for a part in some creepy play. As the ultimate West Side horror story, it touched my soul, and Mia Farrow cements it more than ever, whether she's being chicly cute ("Tannis, anyone?) or fashionably outraged ("What have you done to its eyes?").

And now it's back to the dancing waters and fake gondola rides. As the esteemed Michael Jackson (what have you done to its nose?) said about Vegas on TV last week, "Tacky? Are you silly?"

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