Night falls on Manhattan. The potholes smoke. The models...smoke. A title from the cinematic canon of Andy Garcia is mentioned in print for the first time in nearly a decade. Outside of the loft that houses Tyra's Tykes (it's kind of like a Ronald McDonald House thing, but at this one, their security and food are removed rather than supplied), Jenascia sits (or maybe she stands...people, she's short and she wants you to know that she knows) smoking. We kick to a confessional in which she tells us, "Last week I was almost cut." Hey, hey, hey. Do me a favor and keep it to the "previously"s that I refuse to recap, if you know what's good for you. "I don't want to do that again," Jenascia adds. "It wasn't fun." That scene was really short. What it needs to do is learn to walk like it's taller.
A car makes its way down Broadway, montaging between Times Square and Penn Station for maximum, Mapquesting confusion. I'm guessing it's on its way to carry the girls to a calorie-shedding, detoxifying steam in the giant Cup of Noodles cup in the middle of 42nd Street. Sitting to Breastany and Lara Klingon Boyle, Camille sounds like she's in the middle of a public reading of her Artist's Way morning pages, rambling on without the pesky deterrent of implied verbal punctuation, "The model industry it's not it's not it's not easy trust me you're getting there early in the morning you're waiting all day into night even at Howard University when we do a fashion show and you're confined in like y'know the auditorium...see that right there I worked on that ad campaign see that that is my campaign right there!" Whoa! Who had a second slice of Pop Rocks Pie with dinner back at the loft? That's right! Nobody! Because dessert is a disease, and you can't spell "disease" without "dessert." Or something. What I mean is that at least eight of those eleven girls probably aren't real adept at spelling either of those words.
Breastany groans in response to the morning pages ("Worst artist's date ever," her eyes seem to say), and we cut to her confessional, in which she cackles out of sheer fury, "Camille...where do you start with this one? She's very high-maintenance and she says that she's not, but she is." Cut back to Camille pointing and gesturing at the window, showing the girls the countless fruits of her solo efforts in the Howard University advertising department. And while we never learn exactly which accounts Camille has vaunted to their midtown glory, I have a feeling that if she had as much control over the content of the ads as she said she did, there would be countless life-size advertisements splashed all over Times Square heralding the brilliant craftsmanship, fine sculpting, and durable handling...of Camille. And you can't spell "Camille" without "m" and "e." That's a spelling lesson, girls. You actually can't.
“ Yoanna twists a rosary around her fingers and lies, 'I'm gonna be quiet now, 'cause I'm gonna meditate for the evening.' When I run across someone conversationally savvy enough to use the dual scapegoats of god and yoga to get someone to shut up, I say more power to her any day. ”
Back in the car, Camille continues pointing out how not high-maintenance she is, indicating, "I could worry about me me me." They say that's the only way way way, but it doesn't mean she's selfish, according to...Camille: "I'm not a selfish person." And just by virtue of saying so, I guess that means it's automatically a reality. Do you believe her? How about I give one a try. Okay, here we go: you guys? I'm totally not typing right now.
Lara Klingon Boyle (her real name remains "Yoanna," for those of you playing in some Rotisserie Top Model League who need the facts as they come) kicks it to a confessional, where she tells us, "I don't know where Camille comes from, and I really don't like Camille." Back in the car, Yoanna twists a rosary around her fingers and lies, "I'm gonna be quiet now, 'cause I'm gonna meditate for the evening." When I run across someone conversationally savvy enough to use the dual scapegoats of god and yoga to get someone to shut up, I say more power to her any day. By the way, God and Yoga is totally going to be the name of my tell-all book about working for the Television Without Pity empire. It's just like Gods and Monsters, but with small scented pillows to put over your eyes instead of...well, monsters. Cam-me-me-mille -- not taking the hint of explicitly being told to cram it -- asks Yoanna if she can see her rosary. Shouldn't Yoanna be able to decline that incredibly personal request? In voice-over, Yoanna deems the experience of being with Cam-me-me-mille one of the most "exhausting" of her life, and adds a fantastic "uch," all of which is a pretty accurate depiction of any exchange which ends with someone overbearingly asking to borrow...y'know, the lord. Somewhere ethereal, meanwhile, a flowy-robed being with a long white beard throws Himself off His gilded throne and goes into a downward dog, repeating, "Breathe into the stretch. Don't let Camille get to you. Breathe into the stretch," over and over and over again.
It's the morning now, as establishing shots from Central Park South to the city skyline to Soho tell us in rapid succession. I guess when God forsakes models, the world doesn't have to go in order anymore. Inside of and upstairs at Chez Freak C'est Chic, Shandi (you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be) sits on a bed with SeeYouTomorrow (or...WILL WE?), Shandi admitting, "I don't want to do another photo shoot." And I mean, I sympathize to a certain extent. After all, there are certainly mornings when I stare at a blank computer monitor wondering what the hell is going to happen . But then again, I don't have the hunger of the young whippersnappers appearing on America's Top Recapper, so sometimes I get maybe 1% jaded. All I'm saying is that Shandi probably shouldn't eschew the excitement of taking part in the photo shoot that will increase her life's grand total of photo shoots to...well, two.
“ 'She's doing a Janice Dickinson, circa 1978,' Janice reports. Oh, is that what she's doing? Any supermodel's typical 'circa 1978' pose should have been less 'leaning on a cube' and more 'doing crank off of Mike Jagger's privates at Studio 54.' ”
"I hope you get eliminated so you can come home," says Shandi's boyfriend over the phone. I mean, I like Shandi and all, but it was hard for me, watching this for the first time, to imagine someone else besides the girl shaped like me in 1989 awkwardly walking in heels right out that door. Then again, after the week of recapping I'm having, I'm not sure I possess the emotional fortitude to watch her get eliminated right now. It's going to be like that scene in Waiting for Guffman where Parker Posey goes back to working at the DQ.
Tyra welcomes the ladies back to the elimination room and reintroduces our panel: Janice Dickinson, who is wearing a necklace that makes her look like she went swimming under the Titanic and is still plucking the barnacles and sea bits out from her weighted chest. If she has any trouble getting up later, it's because one of the beads of that necklace may well still be attached to a hull. But, as we are soon to learn, Janice has absolutely no problem standing up or doing any other calisthenic exercise expected of her. More on that later. Also present is that guy from Jane, but I'm cooling on him because I gave him a week and even The Rules or his magazine's own damn advice columns say he's waited long enough to call me by now. Hi, Nigel Barker. You're last week's news. And then there's J. Alexander, special guest panelist. Wow. Way to think outside the box there, ANTM. Maybe the secret special guest week will be...America's Top Model host and executive producer, Tyra Banks! Anyway, J. is wearing a newsboy hat and generally looks exactly like Britney in the "Drive Me Crazy" days, except that J. is, in fact, much, much girlier. The man literally never stops preening.
But first, the girls are going to be given a slip dress and a pair of high heels for one final walk down the runway. Breastany takes the first stroll down, and Janice notes that it looks like she "hasn't practiced at all," even though Janice has never seen Breastany walk before. We then see the results of what Tyra calls their "self-made photo shoot," explaining further that the photo producers of the shoot took the best shots and made ads from them. Oh, that oughta be interesting. In Bethany's case, we find out, she chose her best picture, which is a tits-free version of Bethany, leaning over with her arms on a block and her right foot up. "She's doing a Janice Dickinson, circa 1978," Janice reports. Oh, is that what she's doing? Isn't that just a classic narcissist's response, where you can see yourself in everything? Not to mention that any supermodel's typical "circa 1978" pose should have been less "leaning on a cube" and more "doing crank off of Mike Jagger's privates at Studio 54." C'mon, Janice. We're trying to like you, here. Janice helps us like her now. Nigel notes that Breastany is doing a classic pose, but that she's just not doing it quite enough. Tyra notes that she needs to "push the booty out," at which both J. and Janice leap onto the table and lunge into the most contorted freak-show poses their bodies were not supposed to have achieved. I have some difficulty hearing the rest of this evaluation on the basis that Janice's aged bones at this point begin creaking so arthritically that she's trapped on the table until The Jaws Of Life comes to pry her back off and she's offered exclusive modeling rights to the "Centrum Silver account" for as long as she shall live. Well, at least her phone's ringing again, right?
“ Shandon't is down the walk, and J. correctly categorizes the experience as akin to My Left Foot. Except if that were true, then at least she'd be talented enough to paint! ”
Meanwhile, nice job, aforementioned "photo producers of the shoot," whose big job in "creating ads" meant "adding numerous background shadows of each of the girls' limbs in a mock-up for the third sequel of Charlie's Angels we all hope they never quiiiiiite get around to making."
Shandon't is down the walk, and J. correctly categorizes the experience as akin to My Left Foot. Except if that were true, then at least she'd be talented enough to paint! "I like everything other than the face," Nigel tells Shandi about the photo she was so excited to design for herself. And she does look really bad. They choose another photo for her in profile that really works for her. It certainly doesn't bode well with the "it's all about the face" problem she's going to be battling.
April. Who? Exactly. "The posey-wosey at the end of the runway really repulsed me," Janice snarks. Her photo works really well, but she's not showing her face at all, which Tyra thinks is a problem. See all lines from last week about how its going to help sell contact lenses.
Heather leads with her chin, and her picture is still too Catie 2.0 for her really to set herself apart.
Sara is such a throwback to the Pzaz-ish, Bedazzled '80s it's not even funny. Which is why it's awesome that she ended up in tacky white Steve Madden boots and tight-as-hell jeans that make you want to scream, "Ah, Antonovich!" It looks awesome.
Merecedes gets an "absolutely fabulous" for her walk, but her photo is really bad. She has a tiny, tiny head.
Jenascia is reminded that she's short. "Are you kidding me with that walk?" Janice asks. "If you think tall, you will be tall." She also picked the wrong photo.
Whoa, Xiomara. Whoa! "You walk like you on crack," J. offers. Nigel calls her "possessed." And the eyes really were bugging. There's simply no question about it. ["Quoth Glark: 'Who let Grace Jones in here?'" -- Wing Chun] But her photo shoot, in which my fear of her morphed into a certain kind of "nice shoes" freakitude, had to be good for something. And she is eleven feet tall. Which is a full nine feet taller than Jenascia. And a full ten feet and ten inches taller than the delightful sylph Lulu The Fashion Elf. Long may his lavish affairs fail to take up any significant screen time.