Hollywood wear that again... or will she?

Ah me, it's a time-old honour for those in the biz; a golden nod for a 'job well done', to be lauded and acknowledged by acting's elite. Yes siree, it could only mean one thing: 'Award Season' is upon us again.

For many, many years, the revered red carpet, in all its guises, has served as a stepping-stone to achieve off-screen fashion immortality. And yet for those less fortunate in stature and stylist, this stretch of pampered, preened and perfect rouge rug can see a star or starlet fall far from the fashion heavens in a flashbulb, landing back to earth with a resounding red-faced thud, both online and in the special-issue, first-thing-Monday glossies.

Even today, with a heavily armed 'expert' team behind nearly every actress worth her $15 admission ticket, things can go dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. And, thank God! It only proves to us mere mortals that money, truly, can't buy everything, and that the ubiquitous 'mermaid' dress should be put out to watery pasture. Pronto. Indeed, this quest - this inane hunger the world seems to gorge on to see who's wearing what at awards time - is akin to a couture car crash: we know it's wrong, but we can't stop looking. Conversely, the sheer pressure of it all has had the numbing effect of end-of-film credits as, one by one, the young, the nubile and the revered raise a botoxed armpit to wave to the cheering crowds, give great sound bite to marauding journalists and pass by in gowns that, as exquisite as they might be, look near-identical, such is the length/colour/frilled nature of them all.

So let's give it up for those who have, in the past, defied convention and relied on their own skewed vision to go where no-one had gone before, or indeed, ever will again. These are the fearless, the fun-loving, the fantasy-turned-nightmare looks of several very lost leading ladies. In no particular order, may I present: Cher (designer Bob Mackie on crackie), Bjork (sartorial swansong), Demi Moore (bike shorts meets billowing skirt), Lara Flynn Boyle (tutu too-too much), Rita Wilson (doing time in chandelier-inspired crime) and Celine Dion (Dior gone roiD in major back-to-front meltdown).

What perverse joy these head-scratching ensembles brought to a weary worldwide audience. Here, at last, we were witness to such heavily misguided missiles of individualism that you could almost hear the collective gasp and giggle as each and every sartorial bomb went off. But now, such is the sheer control that the uncontrived barely gets a look in. Dark days indeed.

So, is there light at the end of the interminable red-carpet tunnel? I just don't know. And yet, perhaps if the reality 'cast' of MTV's Jersey Shore were to ever be nominated for 'best abdominal crunch' or 'perma tan', we could once again be privy to a cavalcade of delicious downfalls from Mike 'The Situation', l'il 'Snookie', et al.

But for the time being, my guess is that, sadly, it's more than just a l'il stretch of the heavily constrained red-carpet imagination.