It’s week two, model behaviorists, although tragically it’s not makeover week. What the fart? Bring me makeovers, Tyra! I demand a montage of eyebrow waxings, of snipsnipsnips, of disastrous weaves. Instead, I guess I’ll settle for an episode about bullying. Hmph.
At the top of the episode, Anamarie bragged about how “f—ing awesome” she was, which is reality show foreshadowing for “this person is going to get sent home.” Top Model, I know you a little too well.
The ladies headed to Venice Beach, where we were treated to a montage of California b-roll: rollerblades! shirtlessness! This may as well be the bumper shots for the Beverly Hills Beach Club episodes. Squealing! So much squealing. The modeltestants were then serenaded by ”Venice Beach icon” Harry Perry. The could be a musical genius, but all I could think was that is the dirtiest visor in the world. Filth visor, you guys. I didn’t even hear his song. Anyway, home sweet home.
Chris tried to befriend Ann via boy-focused girl talk, but Ann accidentally (I think?) thwarted her attempts by professing that “hobos are kinda hot” and that she’s into “warlocks.” Chris sorta recoiled, and I sorta wondered if Ann… oh, I don’t know, did tech crew for the drama club in high school. That kind of affected dorkiness can be endearing, but it can also be off-putting.
Elsewhere, the ladies were talking about their weight, and Anamarie boasted about her “calorie-restricted diet.” That term is usually used to refer to the longevity-focused intense dieting rather than to just not eating very much, but it’s pretty clear that either way, Anamarie is extremely thin. Elsewhere-er, Kayla told some of the other women that she’s a lesbian and would love to be the first gay top model.
Tyra Mail! Mercifully, last season’s Papyrus-set notes have been replaced with a tasteful serif, so I can now take Tyra Mail much more seriously. (It’s still barely registering on the serious-o-meter, though. Don’t worry.) Then it was off to this week’s challenge: Walking in a Diane von Furstenberg fashion show! Er, on a weird clear platform that jutted out into the air, four storeys off the ground. Welcome to upskirt town, population: everyone’s panties. It was bad when Mr. Jay garbled “von Furstenberg” once, but twice? As Joan Harris would say, that’s egregious.
Then it was walkin’ time, and the ladies were all strapped into safety harnesses, so no one would die. (But they could still die of embarrassment if one of them, oh, got thwacked by a pendulum and then fell off the runway.) Ann was awkward (drink!), Lexie complained that the runway wobbled, Chelsey seemed good, but Chris seemed overly stomp-y. Anamarie confessionalized that the other models were ”nobody” to her, so of course the get-what’s-coming-to-you fairy paid her a visit, and she wiped out at the bottom of the stairs. Ha! It’s a big bad chaotic universe out there, and it’s hard not to feel like worthless IHOP speck sometimes, but then every so often, something perfectly righteous happens, and it’s like a little wink from the galaxy telling you to keep on keepin’ on. Anamarie’s stumble felt like vindication. (I am finding poetic truths in moments of Top Model. Please send help.)
NEXT: Was blind but now I see