In fact, Camp K is closed tighter than Laura Bush's bedroom door. For the record, Kidman's reppers have always been most gracious on the communication front. They may potty-mouth you to death once they speak to you, but they always, always call back. Not now. They are simply not communicating.
Perhaps it's because they know Nic-babe's in deep PR doo-doo thanks to her protector (since T.C. days), companion and longtime friend, the one who threw the hurtful punches. Prolly. Or not. Do tell us if you disagree, babes. You too, Nic-hon!
Proximity P.S.: And what's with this goon-guard getting so damn huffy in the first place? It's not like they were stalking him. What's the hugely overblown reaction about? Why so threatened there? Is it because you're just on hyperalert to the press, knowing where all of TomNic's bones are buried 'n' all? Or is it something more intimate?
"I don't know any information about supplemental properties he may or may not own. People seemed to be asking about his home, which I checked out to be false."
Got that? PR translation: The poor dude killed himself at an abode not graced with His Apocalypto's presence just quite yet. Was still being built. Repper also claims not to know anything about this: Have been told there's a fam member close to Gibson whom the recovering boozer's trying to help as well...not just Britney Spears, you see. Guy lives with the mucho-large Gibson clan. Has no family himself. Mel seems to think the unmarried man needs a little guidance.
Just like you, Mr. G?
—American Idol higher-up, regarding Simon Cowell's excessive eye movement to his fellow Idol worker bees
Has Paula Abdul been passing around the crazy juice in her Coca-Cola container? Her lad to the left has never delivered praise with the same pizzazz as he does when giving out grievances—who doesn't love doling out their best Cowell-inspired "It was awwwful" impresh? But Simon is generally the sanest voice at the judge's table, as well as the most accurate. (Randy Jackson, we'll start listening to you when you exit your beloved dawg pound and head directly to a Borders to thumb through a thesaurus.)
Usually when the crowd starts booing S.C.'s valid criticism, no matter how horrible the preceding performance actually was, I'm first in line to back up Cowell's spot-on complaints. But Si's unfounded floundering of the contestants this week was the first time in a while that I totally disagreed with the brittle Brit. Well, the second time. How many times do I have to shout for a cease and desist on his sweaters?
Emo Jimmy Fallon look-alike David Cook ripped through a rocking versh of "Daytripper," continuing his streak of unique. Boy was pitch-perfect, styled to make all the tween girls swoon and owned that stage with complete confidence. Endless kudos from Randy and Paula, but Mr. Frowny Face? Vague complaints.
Then there was Carly Smithson's beautiful "Blackbird," which rose R and P from their seats. But what did this pop-music producer think of the Irish rose? "I thought it was self-indulgent. I didn't like the song at all." Not a word on Carly-hon's above-and-beyond voice? Nope. All he focused on was the missed metaphor of a bird flappin' around at night.
'Course, everyone's entitled to their opinion...but everyone ain't on TV holdin' a hefty paycheck for giving some good advice instead of indistinguishable moaning for no discernible reason. We call B.S. on Simon, who's usually a whole lot smarter than this es flying out of his face. Could he be giving false feedback to make it a more entertaining show, or is he insistent on making this an Archuleta-only race? Certainly wouldn't be the first not-as-you-see scandal going down on that supersplashy set.
Or perhaps we simply have a new Paula?
So there are these buds. They hang. Mostly with a crowd that includes Nick Zano (7th Heaven, Final Destination 4). You know, that good-looking strutter type. Well he's got a prob, these fellow buds tell me. According to them (and you know men gossip far more than women, don't you? Known fact!), Nick's havin' trouble with the gals he dates. They complain a lot. So goes the buzz...
About Nick's very big...well, can't really say. Just know it's not his ego. But I will tell y'all this: Nick is so proud of the trouble he creates. Loves to go on about it.
Just like Ashton Kutcher used to.
Read on from Ms. B:
Anthony Minghella was no overexposed, demanding diva director, nor was he incessantly fawned over like Scorsese or Spielberg. Besides his doomed romance, The English Patient, which is loved by many (me, the Academy) and hated by several (Ted, Elaine on Seinfeld), the rest of his work slipped under the pop-culture radar of overused quotes and Saturday Night Live spoofs.
But EP was a formative experience in defining my refined taste in film...Not to mention it was partly responsible for pushing along puberty—I was only 13 when I watched the exhilarating onscreen coupling between Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas that was so riveting it felt like a ménage à trois between Ralph, Kristin and me. Kind of awkward that I saw it with my mom.
The Talented Mr. Ripley, one of my deserted-island movies, is everything its main character is described as in the opening credits—beautiful, sad, intelligent, tender, haunted and, mostly, passionate. Missing from that list of adjectives is extremely good-looking, I admit, since the flick solidified a post-Good Will Hunting Matt Damon as a leading man and launched Jude Law's career (which eventually would spawn Sienna Miller's career...whoops?).
As a B-day present one year, I was gifted an autographed copy of the screenplay of Cold Mountain, penned by Minghella, who was blessed to be as gifted with words as he was with actors and visuals. Some people are fortunate to be so multitalented, and some other people are Rumer Willis. Fate has absolutely no taste.