By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
And that provides a very useful segue to mentioning that for the part of Rachel Dawes, Maggie had taken over from the previous film's much taller Katie Holmes. But gutsy Katie didn't react by just staying home and taking care of Suri. She dragged her out for photo ops—and also made her Broadway debut in All My Sons to much PR hoopla. And theatergoers said, "Eh."
No one was nonchalant about the bust-up of Madonna's marriage over a baseball player, though fans were concerned about who would get custody of the British accent. But Madge kept soaring, while the owner of some real Britspeak, Amy Winehouse, brilliantly sang about self-destructing while actually doing so, as you were tempted to call Mary-Kate Olsen. Even darker than The Dark Knight was the footage of Winehouse apparently smoking crack—no doubt in between garden salads and green-tea smoothies. A head on a stick, with hair that reaches up to Palin's helicopter rifle, Winehouse fused Billie and Dusty into a wanton crazy salad that made her a modern-day Judy Garland, minus the children or the authorized prescriptions. Even weirder than her being beamed, visa-less, into the Grammys, was her crooning at Nelson Mandela's gala event for AIDS about not wanting to go to rehab. I'm sure he was thrilled.
Photography by Ivylise Simones
Styling by Kate Erwin for www.katharineerwin.com
Makeup by Merrell Hollis for MAC Cosmetics
Hair by Cesar Ramirez using L'Oreal Professionnel Serie Expert Volume Expand and Belegenza Taffy at kenbarboza.com
But the reigning trilogy of terror, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and Britney Spears, spent most of '08 relatively pulled together and well-behaved, to my grave disappointment. Britney won a slew of VMAs and gave the same acceptance speech for each one (but at least she didn't lip-synch it). Paris was friendless, but turned even that into a career move. And Lindsay found love with the butch Samantha Ronson, their unapologetic bonding seeming to threaten no one except dad Michael Lohan. (He shrieked, "User!" at Samantha, furious that she had clearly usurped his role.)
Lindsay also drummed up some gratuitous career action with a semi-nude pictorial homage to Marilyn Monroe in New York magazine, so I responded by taking it all off for a Voice spread of me as Lindsay as Marilyn, putting the "meta" back in Metamucil. My mother is not alone in feeling that it was the cover of the year, and in fact, I'm still fielding reader comments from "You looked better than Lindsay" to "I lost my lunch!"
More predictable were the dozens of desperate magazine stories trying to sell us ideas about how to live cheaper as the economy continued to free-fall. Sadly, the public responded with: "We know how to live cheaper—by not buying any more magazines!"
When a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death in a stampede for a sale there, we knew the year had found its most tragically apt image. Shockingly, it was topped by that of a Wal-Mart shoplifter dying after being tackled by the store's suddenly vigilant security. Goodbye, 2008. You had me at "Hello, your stock portfolio has gone down 97 percent."