“The Bookshop” Is So British It Politely Swallows Back Its Own Conflicts

My deepest pleasure when watching The Great British Baking Show is trying to spot the nearly imperceptible sneer, or the eye roll tamed at the last second, or any case of contestants fighting to hide their actual emotions. To an American like me, the essence of Britishness isn’t what’s said but rather what’s not. Because of those unspoken, zipped-lip rules, some of the stories that float over from the U.K. seem almost incomprehensible to Americans. Watching, we have to wonder: Why don’t these people just fight it out and get on with it?

Writer-director Isabel Coixet’s period drama The Bookshop, for instance, is so bloody British that the story’s central concern is that an aristocratic heiress is quietly making it difficult for a young widow to run a bookshop in a small fishing town. This is a story of stifling manners and oppressive codes of conduct, where the wealthy “villains” wear a strained smile and an icky sheen of privilege. Social mores dictate that all others must simply fall in line. Though nearly nothing happens in this movie besides a woman opening a shop and beginning a standoffish friendship with a reclusive man, I still found myself drawn in, just as I was drawn to Iain’s discreet disaster of a baked Alaska (please check it out if you haven’t seen this TGBBS episode); sometimes the quiet is enticing.

Emily Mortimer plays Florence Green, whose dream is to honor her dead husband with a bookshop that would memorialize the importance of reading in their relationship. But most people in her rural town aren’t readers. The local heiress, Violet Gamart (Patricia Clarkson), would rather the location Florence has selected become a small arts center. Honestly, Violet could choose a number of vacant storefronts, but because she’s rich, it seems, she essentially wants what she can’t have and orchestrates little inconveniences designed to push Florence elsewhere — as politely as possible. So politely, in fact, that I often forgot that was the actual plot line, until it snuck up on occasion.

This is the kind of film where a character (Florence) worries endlessly over the color of her dress and what that color conveys to the people who see it. Seriously, Florence is fitted for a red garment in the first act, and she’s still debating it with herself well into the third. It is as though anxiety is the oxygen these people breathe, and without it and their little tiffs and fantasy dramas, they would suffocate in boredom. There are some red herrings of conflict, like when Florence contemplates whether Lolita would be appropriate to display in the shop, which suggests the possibility of seeing a town uprising against a sensationalist piece of literature, i.e. some action. But everything resolves itself quite easily.

In American films, if a protagonist is racked with grief and financial pressures, they’re often depicted thrashing in a violent rage, desperate to feel something. Think Manchester by the Sea, and its protagonist’s penchant for picking bar fights. Neither the British nor American cinematic way is necessarily superior to the other, but it’s sometimes nice to be reminded of violence of the papercut variety, that some troubles can be worked through without an ass-kicking.

The Bookshop
Written and directed by Isabel Coixet  
Greenwich Entertainment
Opens August 24, Angelika Film Center and Landmark 57 West


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Gillian Flynn and HBO’s “Sharp Objects” Cuts to the American Bone

Just in time for pit-stain season, HBO has another limited series about the twisted lives of well-off white Americans, based on a novel and directed in its entirety by Jean-Marc Vallée. But Sharp Objects, which airs its first episode on July 8, isn’t the quasi-guilty pleasure that Big Little Lies — based on Liane Moriarty’s 2014 novel, and also directed by Vallée — seemed to be when it premiered in the winter of 2017. No, this series, adapted from Gone Girl author Gillian Flynn’s debut novel, is a more prickly entity.

Amy Adams stars as Camille Preaker, a journalist for the St. Louis Chronicle with a history of self-harm. When her avuncular boss (Miguel Sandoval) assigns her to cover the murder of a teenage girl in her hometown of Wind Gap, at the southern tip of Missouri, Camille reluctantly tosses a couple of bags in the trunk of her car; we hear the clinking of glass. In the driver’s seat, she transfers the contents of a miniature liquor bottle into a plastic water bottle and plugs her smashed smartphone into her car’s stereo system. Led Zeppelin’s “I Can’t Quit You Baby” blasts. This is not going to be a happy homecoming.

Camille’s mother, Adora (Patricia Clarkson), receives her coldly in her sprawling, dollhouse-like home; her milquetoast stepfather (Henry Czerny) retreats to his study with records and a pair of noise-canceling headphones. Camille barely knows her teenage stepsister, Amma (Eliza Scanlen), who plays the baby in front of her mother but changes into short skirts and tank tops when she’s out roller-skating with her friends through the small, dull town. Right away, Camille encounters a sexy detective, Richard, played by Chris Messina, and the two circle each other for several episodes. Elizabeth Perkins pops up as a swaggering, boozy Southern dame who drawls things like, “It’s hotter than a whore in church today.”

In the hands of another director, Sharp Objects might be one eye-rolling cliché after another. Flynn’s novel drops the sullen, scarred Camille in the middle of a Southern Gothic murder mystery, but Vallée seems intent on disrupting the rhythms of genre. The show does at times tread well-worn territory, particularly in an early episode in which an adult Camille, in a series of flashbacks, checks herself into a hospital after cutting herself and bunks with a teenage girl who shares her affliction. (“You’re lucky you can wear skirts,” Camille tells her. “I haven’t worn a skirt since college.”) But Sharp Objects is more than a murder mystery with a ripe female body at its center — in fact, it interrogates that very formula. The series treats female suffering — dead little girls — as a staple of American life; in a country ruled by men, it’s not a bug but a feature.

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The writers, who include Flynn as well as series creator Marti Noxon (Mad Men, UnREAL, Dietland), don’t exactly hit viewers over the head with the retrograde gender politics of small-town America, but those dynamics are firmly on display. When another girl is found dead and her brother is seen weeping all over town, he becomes a suspect, because a young man who cries in public must be a sociopath. When Camille gives Richard a tour of the town’s past crime scenes, all the victims of the incidents she describes are teenage girls. She’s casual in her recounting of the terrible things done to them, as if to suggest sexual violence is just a way of life, a ritual most girls encounter on their way to adulthood. Each year, Adora hosts Calhoun Day, a Southern pride festival for which the town’s high schoolers put on a play reenacting Wind Gap’s most celebrated event: the time the wife of a Confederate soldier was tied to a tree and raped by multiple men rather than betray her kin.

It’s the container for all this that makes Sharp Objects unique — mesmerizing, even. Some sequences have the unsettling tenor of a horror film, as Vallée’s camera stalks Camille while she winds through her mother’s maze of hallways, her long-suppressed memories and dreams clashing with scenes of the present. Vallée films and edits the way people think; scenes unfold according to the addled logic of the deepest subconscious, the images that pop into our heads before we can rationalize them or put them in logical order. It’s not always clear what’s real and what’s a manifestation of Camille’s inner mind, and Vallée lets the viewer sit with that confusion; some early shots only make sense in retrospect, but even then the director resists the urge to make the connection clear. That’s our job.

Few directors are as effective at fusing music to image as Vallée, but the use of music in Sharp Objects is more subtle than the crowd-pleasing classic-rock soundtrack to Big Little Lies. If a song is playing in the background of a scene, Vallée will leave the sound diegetic, faint but persistent. He’s not afraid to cut off the noise completely, and some scenes feature long stretches of silence, as if to force the viewer to really look rather than rely on familiar aural patterns. Camille’s childhood flashbacks are usually pin-drop silent, as if she’s underwater. Often, the soundtrack is simply the noise of roller skates scratching on pavement as Amma and her friends swoop down deserted streets, or the undeniably ominous sound of a boy banging a drum during a rehearsal for the Calhoun Day play.

The contours of the story become more recognizable as Camille and Richard close in on the mystery, but Vallée still does his darnedest to jolt viewers awake with his destabilizing approach. Camille, too, is not your typical Strong Female Character, and Adams plays her not like some angst-ridden, Girl, Interrupted cliché of a troubled girl gone wild. Her pain isn’t sexy; Adams is beautiful, but the costume designers dress her in ratty long-sleeved shirts and jeans, her long hair a little unkempt, her body a reflection of Camille’s diet of liquor and candy bars. Weariness is her dominant mode; she’s broken, wounded, although Adams lets some warmth shine through despite the character’s edge, a kind of exhaustion that manifests as Southern sweetness.

It’s a fitting approach to a character who turns her pain on herself, as so many girls learn to do from such a young age. It’s hard to miss the message that a suffering woman is a beautiful thing.

Sharp Objects premieres July 8 on HBO.
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Sally Potter’s “The Party” Is a Dinner Farce for the Ages

When Sally Potter’s 1983 sophomore feature, Gold Diggers, finally came to the States in 1988, Janet Maslin, writing for the New York Times, called the experimental, Julie Christie–starring film “torture.” Maslin was especially turned off by the 15-minute play-within-a-film sequence featuring a tap-dancing mime. British critics hailed Gold Diggers as “visually entrancing” and, for some, including myself, it solidified Potter’s status as a wry, feminist satirist of the highest order, one whose adoration of theater and of classic silent cinema — and abhorrence of how women were treated in those films — had manifested in avant-garde riddles and one very jarring anti-musical.

Potter’s newest, The Party, could be the opposite of avant-garde. The film is a slim 75 minutes of dinner-party farce, like Buñuel meets Molière, grounded in Chekhov — there’s literally a gun introduced in the first act. Upon the occasion of Janet (Kristin Scott Thomas) ascending to the head of the British National Health Service, her small group of friends and colleagues join her for dinner. The guests are all embroiled in their own dramas, which all reach their own boiling points as the party implodes in rage, tears, and declarations that democracy is dead. Potter isn’t what you’d call subtle, but she also knows not to overstay her welcome, and this pithy comedy is a masterclass in all that a filmmaker can squeeze from the most basic theatrical concept: Put a bunch of characters with opposing motivations in a room and see what happens.

Janet’s husband, Bill (Timothy Spall), is the first act’s silent powder keg. While Janet is in the kitchen making her own victory dinner, Bill is sipping wine, staring out the sliding glass doors to his patio. He’s nearly entranced, and when the couple’s friends April (Patricia Clarkson) and Gottfried (Bruno Ganz) arrive, Bill is so distracted he can barely remember his own name and declares it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s cryptic in his dialogue, hinting he holds a secret. Actually, he’s got a few.

Spall may play the powder keg, but Clarkson’s April holds the honor of lighting the fire, with theatrical dialogue, decrying the inefficiency of parliamentary politics and accusing her own faith-healer boyfriend of being a secret fascist. When another friend, Jinny (Emily Mortimer), announces she’s “with children,” pregnant with triplets, April responds with a toast about overpopulation and the demise of our planet.

Potter seems to divide the cast into the “calm” and the “unhinged,” with Thomas’s Janet as the medium center, which tempers the nearly unmanageable frenetic energy in the room. If Jinny is yelling about her hormones, her wife, Martha (Cherry Jones), is musing poetically about the nature of love. Potter is leaning into her archetypes here. If Gottfried is going to be woo-woo, then, by God, Potter is going to make every single line of his dialogue pertain to his Eastern-medicine-and-meditation belief system, spelling it out every chance she gets. At first, this practice can be annoying; we’re trained to want subtle character sketches in contemporary cinema, not caricatures. But Potter’s whole point is to examine these classic structures that have been ingrained in theater and now film for centuries — and she often swaps the genders. She’s hitting us over the head with her tap shoes again with The Party, but it’s altogether dizzying fun.

The Party
Written and directed by Sally Potter
Roadside Attractions
Opens February 16, Landmark at 57 West and Angelika Film Center


Last Weekend Embroils Patricia Clarkson in a Battle of Politeness

The most striking moments in Last Weekend are not the expected ones. It’s not the way first-time directors Tom Dolby and Tom Williams shoot the palatial Lake Tahoe cabin previously featured in A Place in the Sun with the well-framed languor of architecture porn.

Nor is it in the vaguely Chekhovian overtones of Dolby’s script. Instead, it’s in the way members of a wealthy family respond to the gratitude and politeness of their weekend houseguests with an offhand thoughtlessness that makes the recipients wince.

That stems from the scattered and demanding matriarch, Celia Green (Patricia Clarkson), whose profound unease with money means she’ll create an extravagant dinner-table display and then announce that the salmon was on sale.

Her adult sons Theo (Zachary Booth) and Roger (Joseph Cross) respond with confrontation and appeasement, swinging between emotional extremes as they try to impress Celia and, to a lesser extent, their calm and assured father, Malcolm (Chris Mulkey). There’s talk of selling the historic property the entire family loves possessing, which should add some dramatic tension, but little is at stake on this Labor Day holiday for those who view labor as an abstraction. (Not so for the working class. Theo’s current boyfriend has a dangerous allergic reaction, and the Greens’s longtime caretaker is hospitalized. In both cases, their well-being is secondary to how it affects the family.)

Last Weekend is too enamored of this nouveau riche household to be satirical, instead offering unexpected moments of genuine warmth as a calling card for goodness.



When Lisa Cholodenko’s first feature film, High Art, came out in 1998, The Advocate said, “It just might be the film that wins the lesbian crossover success sweepstakes.” The gay mag got the film wrong, but the filmmaker right. More than a decade later, Cholodenko’s The Kids Are All Right scored a Best Picture Golden Globe and has just garnered an Oscar nomination. While it tells the story of a family feud in an otherwise fully functional lesbian home, High Art dove into the dysfunctional world of the early-’90s girl-on-girl junkie art scene. Ally Sheedy is captivating as Lucy Berliner, a former star photographer who takes a young photo editor under her wing and into bed; Patricia Clarkson plays Lucy’s lover, a washed-up German actress. The film screens tonight as part of the series “Before They Were Nominated.”

Thu., Feb. 3, 7:30 p.m., 2011


Legendary, Brought to You by WWE Films, With WWE Music, and a WWE Star

“Oklahoma—they call it the ‘Sooner State,’ ” Danny Glover, playing a fisherman/Magical Negro, narrates at the beginning of the latest project from WWE Films, immediately setting the tone for this slow drip of high-fructose corn syrup (with New Orleans doubling as Sallisaw, Oklahoma). Cal Chetley (Devon Graye), a 135-pound, four-eyed high schooler who excels in science and conversing with catfish, wants to join the wrestling team to forge a bond with his dead dad and estranged drunk older brother, Mike (WWE headliner John Cena), both one-time mat champions, to the horror of his mother, Sharon (Patricia Clarkson). Big bro puts down the bottle and the scrawny boy becomes a man, their training montages scored to the awful generic metal-lite of WWE Music. Though the redemption/coming-of-age narrative is highly predictable—with Glover appearing intermittently only to dispense bromides—Clarkson, at least, remains reliable. Her performance as a pink-collar single mom, bruised by loss but still vibrant, is powerful enough to make even stony Cena look good in the scenes they share. And how many other actresses could yell, “Cal, squeeze it! Squeeze it!” from the bleachers and not sound ridiculous?


Body Language Trumps Bad Dialogue in Culture Clash Romance Cairo Time

New York mag editor Juliette (Patricia Clarkson) travels alone to Cairo to meet her husband, who works for the United Nations in Gaza. When hubby gets stuck across the border indefinitely, Tareq (Alexander Siddig), his former bodyguard, steps in as Juliette’s chaperone. Fluent in English and supposedly highly literate, Tareq actually says things like, “They say once you have drunk the water of the Nile, you always come back,” to which Juliette purrs, “Here’s to coming back”—a not-so-subtle reference to her own groove. A seductive (yet chaste) exotic-man-reinvigorates-middle-aged-wife’s-libido fantasy, Cairo Time spends a lot of screen time putting Clarkson in contrived situations to hammer home the culture-shock theme. Would a real journalist be so naïve as to not understand that her body—identifiably Western and comparatively exposed—would draw unwelcome attention to itself on the streets of a Muslim country? Juliette’s Stupid Tourist episodes lead to loneliness, frustration, and humiliation, which in turn prompt her to seek out Tareq, who is seemingly always up for long walks and longer conversations—think Before Sunset, weighed down by awkward articulation of the central couple’s cultural differences. Happily, writer-director Ruba Nadda’s emphasis on body language ultimately trumps the clumsiness of her script. Intimate lensing turns tiny gestures—a hand on the small of a back, a friendly kiss that misses its target—into major landmarks, and the chemistry between the two leads sustains the movie’s jet-lagged, heat-dazed spell. When 50-year-old Clarkson nervously steps back to bask in Tareq’s adoration, she blushes like a teenage girl with her first crush.


Patricia Clarkson, I Need You!

I’ve been trying to invite you to an event I’m having, and it’s important because I worship you, and you’ve always been delightful about MY work too, unlike a lot of other Oscar nominees.

And your publicists don’t answer calls! Or emails!


Is that any way to treat someone recently lionized as a legend in the New York Times–and who won “Best Actor” as the Arab merchant in his Senior Sing?


Blind Date Suffers from Restrictions of an Ode

In honor of Dutch provocateur Theo van Gogh—who was murdered in 2004 by an Islamic extremist, angered by one of his films—Van Gogh’s producers initiated an English-language trilogy of remakes based on his early two-handers. Steve Buscemi’s Interview was canned and limp. Next at bat is director and star Stanley Tucci’s Blind Date, which similarly suffers from the restrictions of the project (it’s overly faithful to the original and to Van Gogh’s preferred three-camera setup). Tucci and Patricia Clarkson share a bruised chemistry as an estranged couple bound by grief and anger over the death of their young daughter. In a bizarre ritual more torturous than cathartic (insert Antichrist joke here), the two meet regularly at Tucci’s dingy cabaret and role-play blind dates, their improvised characters admitting painful truths in the margins of conversation each night. Co-adapted by Tucci and Interview‘s David Schechter, the dialogue isn’t nearly as slippery as the stop-on-a-dime spins between melancholy, misanthropy, and disarming humor in Clarkson and Tucci’s deliveries—but the actors chase the text like a chew toy anyway. Stagey pacing and unnecessary magic-realist voiceover aside, the film’s ultimate failure as moving melodrama is that we experience these two acting as a dance partner, a reporter—even a blind man—but we never get who they really are, beyond grieving parents.


I Am Legend Star: I Am Straight!

Wynonna Judd had an 80-minute therapy session the other night, and since she billed it as a concert, I totally managed to be there to watch. At Foxwoods casino in the wilds of Connecticut, the backwoods powerhouse tossed off Christmas chestnuts in between occasionally rocking out on belty ballads like “I Wanna Know What Love Is.” But primarily she talked a blue streak, while simultaneously revealing her obsessions, serving affirmations, and praising “family, fellowship, and food.”

Entering in what looked like a red velour tent with a tiara, the bodacious bumpkin trotted out classics like “White Christmas” and “Winter Wonderland,” which is a little like a construction worker attempting ballet in a china shop, but far less damaging. More paradoxically, Wynonna explained that she had released a yuletide CD “to get away from the commerciality of Christmas”—but before you could pick that offbeat sentiment apart, on came the memories like moonshine spilling out of a broken keg. “I lived on a mountaintop in Kentucky, with Ma on welfare,” said Wynonna, welling up, “which meant we were too.”

“I never fit in with the other kids,” she went on, poignantly adjusting her tiara. “I was high-spirited. Ma said it was ADHD. But I was just creative!” She was apparently extra creative in giving half-sister Ashley—a major obsession—an even harder time than the imaginary creatures in Bug. “Why do you think she became an actress?” said Wynonna, grinning. “She’s just reacting to all that holding her down till she peed in her pants!”

And the tough love is obviously still there on the mountain, I mean in the mansion. According to Wynonna, “Ashley’s a Democrat and Ma’s a Republican, and I say, ‘Leave me out of this! I’m voting for Jesus to come back!’ ” (That was a tiny bit disingenuous. While waiting for the Messiah’s return, Wynonna did once perform at a Republican convention.)

By now she’d gone and come back, having changed into a purple velour tent while keeping the same tiara poised on her “Miss America hair.” Dripping with earnestness, she told us, “We’ve got to get back to The Little House on the Prairie!” Imploring us to hang on to our serenity prayers in between meals, Wynonna demanded, “Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it. Let it go! I used to show up with my Williams Sonoma pitchfork, but now I say, ‘It’s my mother’s house. Let her do it her way!’ ”

There was no mention of Wy’s own drunk-driving incident or her estranged husband’s bad luck in pawing a minor. I guess she’s let it go.

Earlier that evening, I stuck my pitchfork into a giant boar chop in Foxwoods’s Grand Pequot Towers, which made my big-girl panties fit that much cozier. Also appetizing was a preview tour of the adjacent MGM Grand casino, which will be mammoth enough to house all the Judds and their obsessions (and exes). The powers that be wanted Bono to open the place, but he’s unavailable, so I’m voting for Jesus to come back, with Amy Winehouse as an opener.

Tim Burton comes back with Sweeney Todd, the most Halloweeny Christmas movie ever made, with seething revenge and nostril-flaring holding you down till you pee in your pants. I call it Bloodbath and Beyond. As the main pitchfork holder, Johnny Depp broods charismatically and sounds like middle-period Bowie (I guess he’s not invoking Keith Richards this time), and while Helena Bonham Carter‘s reedy voice will hardly erase memories of Angela Lansbury or Patti LuPone, she does some fun deadpan acting with the role, and her audition was undoubtedly no less rigorous than Tori Spelling‘s for Beverly Hills, 90210. A few of the songs don’t soar as expected (“A Little Priest”), but “By the Sea” is beautifully realized and the art direction is tops throughout, like a Hammer film with extra money and vision. Of course, from the second everyone starts crooning, Depp’s Pirates fan base will probably be so horrified you’re going to witness some real bloodletting, honey.

After seeing the pumped-up I Am Legend, I could honestly star in I Am Deaf, but before the premiere screening, I was able to hear
Will Smith
‘s speech apologizing for having tied up the streets of New York with the filming. “Some of you gave me very distinct American signals of displeasure as you were riding by,” he said, jiggily. But has Will given Scientology a big thumbs-up? Well, the lithe star admits to the press that he favors a higher power, “but that relationship is between me and the higher power.” Would that godlike being be Jesus on the comeback trail—or perhaps L. Ron Hubbard? If this is a hint, Jada‘s man recently boomed out at a press junket, “I love women!”

So does Jodie Foster, who recently acknowledged her longtime lover, Cydney Bernard, when accepting an award. The British press have credited this to Jodie having promised her best friend and supposed sperminator, Randy Stone, on his deathbed that she’d come out. (Randy was once married to Barbra Streisand‘s half-sister Ashley Judd, I mean Roslyn Kind, and went on to co-produce the Oscar-winning yay-gay short Trevor.) But we know the real reason Jodie’s being more honest—my Out cover story using her as an example of a “glass closet” person who needs to do some shattering!

The always superb Patricia Clarkson is known for making strong statements, like the Internet video she and Amy Ryan did in favor of the writers’ strike in which they sardonically read from the appliance section of a phone book. (“Low, low, low prices!”) “All my best friends are writers,” moaned Clarkson to me at a Lars and the Real Girl lunch at the Four Seasons. “The producers have to concede and give up a few shekels!” All written and filmed, the upcoming Oxlee’s Road has the Oscar nominee appearing with the suddenly hot Hal Holbrook. “He was amazing in Into the Wild,” Clarkson noted. “Yeah, he’s totally sizzling!” I shrieked, embarrassingly. “I said, ‘Please give me a romantic scene with Hal,’ ” Clarkson cracked. “But they wouldn’t!” Damn those writers—but they still deserve to get better than low, low prices.

Juno was written by an ex-stripper, which probably explains why
Howard Stern
was at the big screening last week. And though it turns out to be the year’s third comedy—spoiler alert—about an unwanted pregnancy that isn’t aborted, I liked it anyway. “It’s Fox-friendly,” beamed an employee of that channel. “They don’t kill the baby.” But it’s bracingly zippy and well acted by Ellen Page as the 16-year-old “fertile Myrtle” whose encounter with a guy’s “pork sword” leads to so much serious swelling she ultimately declares, “I’m a planet.” At the after-dinner—where I became Uranus thanks to more fellowship and food—Page told me that her screen test with two of the other actors will appear on the DVD. But see the film now and try to decide if Juno should have kept the baby herself. No way, said Page, “ Jennifer Garner should be the mom.” “So Ben Affleck is the father?” I cracked. “They’re good people!” she exclaimed, seriously.

Icky people fill Pinter‘s newly revived The Homecoming, the third play in a row with reuniting siblings and the second in which reuniting siblings and a hateful parent drag one another into a pile of mud. Try it, Judds! Then go see The Savages! But back to fellowship: DJ/writer Anita Sarko, Fab Five Freddie, and Robyn Hitchock drop by as themselves in Jonathan Demme‘s just-wrapped comedy Dancing With Shiva, written by Jenny Lumet . . . Meanwhile, what socialite’s mama was just being herself when she tried to return a fur to Bergdorf’s a year and a half after its purchase? And can you believe they accepted it? . . . In other debit-card news, Celine Dion seems to have bodyguards when she shops uptown, but not when she shops downtown. I do that process in reverse . . . And finally, I hear downtown type and Warhol star Ultra Violet is a Mormon who’s rooting for Mitt Romney. Me too. Only he could get brothers Jesus and Satan on the same bill at Foxwoods.