I did, I really did: I, unlike the rest of humankind, liked “Victoria Beckham: Coming to America.”
I liked that Ms. Posh is so very obviously comfortable being a silly, vapid tart. I liked that she’s a silly, vapid tart who can laugh at her own silly, vapid posturing. I liked that she made fun of the current run of Hollywood tartlets flouncing around town ‘without any knickers,’ and that she advised them to ‘keep the boobs in if the legs are out,’ without the slightest hint of irony.
I liked that she is transparently obsessive about her own looks, but that she could still come off as a reserved, albeit overtanned, naif in the company of drunk, botoxed Beverly Hills socialites (who, together, were the very personification of Cirque Du Trailer Park Acid Fantasy.) I liked that she got drunk and made fun of said socialites.
I liked that she made Perez Hilton nervous, and that she called Eddie Murphy Beverly HIlls C*ck.
I liked that she made a blow-up doll of herself and stuck it in her SUV-limo to fool paparazzi. I liked that the paparazzi were fooled.
I liked that she surprised me. I went into watching the show expecting to have all of my assumptions about Victoria Beckham – that she’s a silly fame-whore who very possibly shouldn’t have allowed to procreate – confirmed. I went into watching the show expecting to change the channel within minutes.
I didn’t change the channel.
So – anyone with me in campaigning NBC to bring Posh back to reality television? Then we can keep each other company during that long handbasket ride down to hell.
(photo credit: Hogan/Getty)