Rating: NNNNN Dear Hilary Duff, I'm confused about what those on-set tutors.
Dear Hilary Duff, I’m confused about what those on-set tutors have been feeding you. Who taught you that “dignity” is a synonym for “self-righteous cattiness”? Or perhaps your Lizzie McGuire-era spelling tests suggested that one can achieve dignity through panicked self-transformation that eschews a wholesome, familiar bubble-gum-pop image for trashiness and lazy appropriation of leather sexpot-on-a-Eurosleaze-dance-floor clichés. Whatevs. I’m glad you’ve moved beyond Stuff by Hilary Duff style to the point where you can identify the Jimmy Choos sported by the bitch (coughNicoleRichiecough) you shit-talk in Dignity’s guilty-pleasure title track, but the album’s overall bad rip-off of early Britney/current Chantal Chamandy sound is a huge step backward. Cute looks good on you, even when it’s derivative (Dreamer’s Depeche Mode revamp is one of the few okay tracks here). In your case, sweet’s more dignified than sultry.