There are some celebrities I just can't bring myself to criticize.
It's a small group, only two or three deep, and to be honest, there's no consistent reason behind any of their immunities.
Maybe it's rooted in my sad little fantasy that one day I'll cross Scarlett's - or Cate's or Liv's or Rachel McAdams' or Dick Cheney's - path, and after becoming fast BFF, she'll ask me if I have a blog, to which I'll say "yes," and when she looks at it and sees I've written nothing but positive things, she'll say, "Oh, you were so nice to me!" and then our friendship can play out as any famous/non-famous one does with the former taking the latter to Clive Owen movie premieres and Louis Vuitton fashion shows during Paris Fashion Week.
Or something like that.
That's why, when you see me post pictures of Scarlett looking like this, I'm not going to comment on the fact that her hair, handbag and shoes all look like they've been fashioned out of cream cheese frosting. Or that in her mini dress, she strikes a cross between what I always imagined Gretel would look like before she was incinerated Sylvia Plath style and a slightly-more educated St. Pauli's beer wench.
No, instead, I think I'll focus on my favorite 34D's, I mean actress's valiant effort to match her Proenza Pink lipstick to her balconet bra.