The stars came out for the Deathly Hallows world premiere here in London, and they played it sombre, writes Oswald T Whistle, Vacuous Period Piece Correspondent. In keeping with the mood of the new Harry Potter - reckoned the Darkest Yet - its illuminati were shrouded in fabrics befitting a Victorian funeral. Most wore poppies too, in a nod to Remembrance Day. And lest we forget - Deathly Hallows is the first part of the final instalment of the Harry Potter adventure. All the raven-black might almost have been in remembrance of Harry and friends.
Despite all this stygian gloom, sham Victorian gothic, and ersatz gravitas, it was all schoolgirl smiles for Elfin Fashionista Princess of Now Emma Watson, as she fragrantly graced the red carpet with her boyishly-tousledco-stars Rupert Grint and Daniel Radcliffe.
Gamine, gazelle-lithe Emma, achingly-sexy in skimpy black lace and feathers, revealed her gorgeous limbs in an outfit that would have been horribly tarty and ludicrously-reminiscent of a Twenties Flapper were it not adorning the Pixie-cropped elegantly hot bod of ever so tastefully erotic Emma. Her minimalist accessories, mere hint of slap and out of a bottle-tanned pins added a classical simplicity to the Goddess next door aura that had the paparazzi (and the rest of us) panting. Breathlessly alluring.
If we're being all Classical, it was one hell of a bathetic leap (or should that be swoop), to tear your eyes away from Emma's subtle sultry schoolgirl siren sexiness to look upon the drab haggard bagginess that was Bonnie Fright in a coal sack. Oh. Did I get that wrong? Don't I mean "in a soberly attractive black dress"? Er, nope. I was right first time about Bonnie Fright. Shapely as a nun, matronly as a district nurse or a salvation army volunteer, Bonnie was simply woeful, but more in an embarrassing fashion disaster kind of way than a tragically dramatic Edgar Allan Poe kind of vibe. Her bloody smear of gob-enlarging lippy only served to bring out the nondescript shapelessness of her baggy dress and the utter hideousness of her flaming frightful locks. Deathly harrowing.
And what of the leading men of Deadly Gallows? Sorry, Deathly Harrows. Whatever. What about its leading men? Well, basically, there aren't any. We did have red-haired pallid weasel Rupert Twerp, who was easily the party's smartest ginger plonker in a Wedding Suit. And Daniel Ratboy was grinning at us out of his choirboy moonface, looking for all the world like a surprised mongoose. DanRad did DanRad, dull as ditchwater, or was that dishwater? What a dish? No. The boy is now officially the drip that never dropped. Deadly shallows.
But soft! What is this with which we are now confronted? Who is this that is coming? Quis est iste qui venit? A phantasm? An extra from Little House on The Prairie? Nay, 'tis little Clementine Posey, carrying a yellow book, and encased in a puffy-sleeved ankle-length shroud like Whistler's Mother. No. I'm wrong. Make that Whistler's Grandmother. Clemmy's juvenile blandness is simply laughable, with her silly simperings: a little girl in Granny's Sunday Worst. Elderly Shadows.
And finally here was the Empress of Nothingness, A K A Borrowing, oh-so fittingly draped like she was Emma Watson's Mother. Which she is. She's spawned the lot, the entire brood of these pasty-faced, atrociously-rich Icons For Our Idiotic Era. The Ice Queen smirked her glacial smirk, cold as the Mona Lisa, as she surveyed her Empire, and her Inane Acolytes as they paraded before their salivating worshippers. Dreadfully Deadly Power of The Shallows.