CATE BLANCHETT vs. OLGA KURLYENKO
CATE: I know on principle, I’m supposed to hate you, because we’re battling or whatever. But I’d be willing to concede this race if you let me borrow those shoes.
OLGA: Never. They’re too perfect; they are mine FOREVER.
CATE: Fine. I offered you an out, but if you’re going to be like that, I’ll fucking CRUSH YOU in this competition.
OLGA: You’re an Oscar winner. I’m a Bond girl. For my relative placement to you on the spectrum of fame and thus access to high fashion, you have to admit, I’ve got some good fucking style.
CATE: I suppose your style is above average. Sadly, that’s much less than the amount of fabulosity you’ll need to compete with me.
OLGA: I guess I’m not stuffy and obnoxious enough to be on your level, but somehow, I’m okay with that.
CATE: If by “stuffy and obnoxious,” you mean “poised and elegant,” then yes, you’re quite right.
OLGA: No, what I was saying was that you have a stick up your ass as big as your ego.
CATE: Don’t bother trying to sass an A-lister, darling. We’re impervious to criticism from anyone less famous than we are.
OLGA: Tell me, it is uncomfortable for you to have your head so far up your own ass?
CATE: How can you even see that? You must have to crane your neck terribly to be able to look up at me, from all the way down there on the C-List.
OLGA: Psh. Like I’d even be glancing in your direction if I weren’t required to be here by the laws of March Fabness.
CATE: Whatever. Next time you manage to sneak your way into the Oscars, remember how an Academy Award winner looks, because you’re certainly never going to see one up close again until then.
OLGA: Suck it, Blanchett. I’m outta here.
EMILIA CLARKE vs. ELIZABETH BANKS
EMILIA: I have to say, I’m surprised you left your pink wig at home. And where’s your brightly colored McQueen-looking dress made entirely out of flowers, or whatever the hell it is you wear?
ELIZABETH: Well, I thought it wouldn’t be a fair fight if you brought them. I mean, that’s why you didn’t bring the dragons, right?
EMILIA: What? Oh, yes. Of course. I definitely didn’t bring the dragons. They’re definitely not hiding out right behind this backdrop, waiting to burn your ass to the ground.
ELIZABETH: Right! Because that wouldn’t be proper.
EMILIA: Wow. I guess you really are as dumb as you look.
ELIZABETH: Um, I look like a brilliant and beautiful Muppet drag queen, and you can fucking deal with it.
EMILIA: Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
ELIZABETH: Don’t “sweetheart” me, missy. What, an invite to the SAG Awards and you’re suddenly Queen of the Andals and the First Men?
EMILIA: No, I’m actually Queen by birthright, not by SAG Award invitation. Now make some room on the damn Met Gala red carpet – I almost tripped over your fringe-y shoes.
ELIZABETH: Careful, or I’ll rip that cross right out of your ear.
EMILIA: Oh, darling, I beg you to take one fucking step towards me. See if you can do it without catching fire.
ELIZABETH: But I’m all about Catching Fire!
EMILIA: No, I’m referring to the fact that my dragons are about to actually set you on fire.
ELIZABETH: Oh. Well. Never mind, then.