Natalie Bassingthwaighte is an embarrassment to soap-star-turned-electro-pop-front-women-come-reality-TV hosts everywhere. She might be the worst host full stop since David Letterman's 1995 Oscars travesty.
Not that I don't like the girl. By all accounts she's a real sweetheart, and as much as I'd rather fingerbang a rhino than listen to a Rogue Traders album, I think she's pretty damn good at what she does in the musical arena. Charismatic, sexy, the vocal skill to carry it off live. Leader of the pack, if that's what you're into. And as far as her turn as Izzy on Neighbours, she was cheeky, sultry and compulsively watchable. For a while there Natalie was the reason Channel 10 at 6.30 was many people's dirty little secret.
But something happens to the poor girl when she isn't playing make-believe. There's more wood in her face than on a year 9 school camp. Maybe she's upped her botox intake. Maybe she's still genuinely stunned by the vastly inane contributions of the so-called judges. Or maybe the poor poppet is just plain out of her depth. My money's on the latter. All the evidence is there. She doesn't blink. She speaks v e r y s l o w l y. If there's a cliche within arm's reach, she'll find it.
I feel for her, and feel embarassed for her, and ache for her to find some animation and pray she finds her groove. But then the less sentimental part of me reaches for the remote and blessedly changes the channel. And writes a strongly worded letter to the powers that be, begging them to leave Nat to the world of fiction.
Not that I don't like the girl. By all accounts she's a real sweetheart, and as much as I'd rather fingerbang a rhino than listen to a Rogue Traders album, I think she's pretty damn good at what she does in the musical arena. Charismatic, sexy, the vocal skill to carry it off live. Leader of the pack, if that's what you're into. And as far as her turn as Izzy on Neighbours, she was cheeky, sultry and compulsively watchable. For a while there Natalie was the reason Channel 10 at 6.30 was many people's dirty little secret.
But something happens to the poor girl when she isn't playing make-believe. There's more wood in her face than on a year 9 school camp. Maybe she's upped her botox intake. Maybe she's still genuinely stunned by the vastly inane contributions of the so-called judges. Or maybe the poor poppet is just plain out of her depth. My money's on the latter. All the evidence is there. She doesn't blink. She speaks v e r y s l o w l y. If there's a cliche within arm's reach, she'll find it.
I feel for her, and feel embarassed for her, and ache for her to find some animation and pray she finds her groove. But then the less sentimental part of me reaches for the remote and blessedly changes the channel. And writes a strongly worded letter to the powers that be, begging them to leave Nat to the world of fiction.
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