Let’s Regard Those Ladies of Luncheon–I Mean London
Some Deep–albeit, Scattered–Thoughts regarding the Ladies of Luncheon:
As previously observed and stated, that expat Julie Lady who pratfalls on air bubbles, really does resemble Gena Rowlands in “A Woman Under the Influence” and let’s hope that it’s just a mere resemblance coincidence and not more ’cause have you SEEN the film?
The fashions are refreshingly more original, quirky, cool, whimsical and sophisticatedly edgy and let’s hope that they remain that way without teetering into cruel and unusual mockery of those ethereal things–nor that they devolve into lame’ bandaid dresses, nor lace Valentino hot pants that are a tad more likely to be found on our side of the pond–namely in the Hills of Beverly and on chicks named Dana-Pam.
That new Baroness Caroline: FTW?! Is she a hoot or a holler?!. That is the question. Might she have been adopted from restaurant gypsy stock? Clearly she has successfully removed the broom stick that was up Martha Stewart’s bum all these years and wants to wear the crown of a looser etiquette with Martha’s own blessings, I can only guess. And is she also holding Emily Post bound and gagged in her tenebrously dank basement from which neither light nor sound can escape? Personally, I like that loosey goosey approach to home entertaining with duck a l’orange sauce to go with, but there should have been banjo music playing, live, in her kitchen, me thinks.
About the break-out star, the Other or Only Real Caroline, one can only wonder if she farts rainbows in bubble baths–and if that isn’t a tad mind splintering and redundant. So, what’s not to like?
As for Marissa and Juliet, what can I say but nyet, nyet, nyet! with all the kerfuffling for power. Just leave the turkey and the weird celebration of the Native American genocide alone, already, and stop trying to export it out of US soil where it belongs. Just like the turkey, it ain’t gonna fly.
I must have missed the brunette Lady with the title who shoots guns and falls off horses, and was around the iconic and infinitely depressed Alexander McQueen before he committed suicide, not so much in that order, but you get the jest ’cause you also can’t remember her, so why don’t I just stop right here, after I tell you that I still want to see Patsy and Edina stumbling onto her grandmother’s estate, randomly appearing at the edge of a screen shot, clutching Stollies and falling into topiaries. Sigh squared. A girl in a cruel world without Joan Rivers, should still dream, yet can only hope.