The thing about wigs is, when they’re good they invite no discussion. None. You do not need to mention them. No matter the texture, they sit atop a head with a regal grace. Good wigs are merely…correct. They are perfectly at one with the wearer (heaven forfend a wig upstages a performer!), folding seamlessly and whisper-soft into the landscape of their universe. Good wigs are like air: all around us at all times.
But bad wigs? To extend the metaphor, bad wigs are the absence of air. They are the tangible equivalent of feeling body processes shutting down, one by one. A bad wig pulls focus like a starlet angling for the limelight. Bad wigs are the noxious fumes that crowd out everything else; they slowly fill the frame until that’s all you can focus on, that distinct lack of life-sustaining oxygen. You clutch at your throat, urging your airways to function, dammit. But there is no respite. All there is is the Bad Wig.
In 2018, we were “blessed” with a veritable motorcade of bad wigs onscreen. Down the pike they came: Henry Cavill’s gummed-on brassy silver mess, which (allegedly) transformed him into Geralt in the soon-to-arrive Netflix adaptation of The Witcher; Michelle Williams’ stiff honey-blonde horror in Venom; the scraggly gray monstrosity Melissa McBride was forced to wear after a six-year time jump on AMC’s The Walking Dead. The list goes on; we were replete with bad wigs this year.