Skip to main content

Britney Spears on SNL

This past weekend, we were all given a treat, which was not one but two classic Chloe Fineman bits. Fineman is the young genius on SNL who made waves months ago with her Laura Dern impression.

Fineman, an NYU grad, once dreaded life as a "serious actress," before realizing the thing she loved most in the world was impersonating actual crazy people who live in the actual world. She began with skits about her loony acting teacher; soon enough, she was also Drew Barrymore, Ivanka Trump, and Meryl Streep. And the list grows and grows.

This past Saturday night, SNL spoofed the "Master Class" series; you know, that thing that advertises itself to you whenever you use YouTube. You can pay money and see James Patterson self-seriously murmuring: "Some advice for you....Feel free to SUCK in your first draft...."

Chloe Fineman became Phoebe Waller-Bridge on Saturday, and she was pitching a Master Class in "journaling." Several areas became targets for satire: PWB's habit of winning multiple Emmy Awards just for breathing, the weird disconnect between PWB's fancy accent and her smuttiness ("It was a cheesy, drippy, slutty tart of a pizza...."), PWB's strange, almost alien cheeriness ("My twatty neighbor hates me!")....Delightful....

But the highlight of the evening was Fineman as Britney Spears, a signature Fineman creation. I'm not even sure you need to know who Britney Spears is to appreciate this bit. Fineman gives us a mesmerizing child-woman, locked within a compound ("I've been quarantined for five years...."), posing, painting, and blithely recalling (via impromptu song) the day she "burned down her gym." As always, I'm so happy that Chloe Fineman exists. The Britney drama has a sense of urgency; it just had to be released into the world. I can't think of any other star who could invent this material, and SNL is lucky to have Fineman, for however long the agreement lasts.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...