“Vogue magazine is not a tea party!!” exclaimed Andre Leon Talley last night at a screening of the new documentary The September Issue. The doc looks into the production of the largest issue of Vogue, which hit stands in September 2007, and has, of course, drawn a great deal of attention since it's obstensibly about the publication’s legendary Editor-In-Chief, Anna Wintour.
Wintour’s control over her own image is so tight, it surprised many that she allowed a film crew into her offices for an entire year to document her staff’s every move. Some say it was to counterbalance the after effect of 2007’s The Devil Wears Prada.It didn’t take long for The Devil Wears Prada to come up during the Q&A with Talley and the documentary’s director, RJ Cutler.
“None of us can even remember what she looks like and she was there for two years!” shouted Talley, referring to author Lauren Weisberger. He was happy to correct a few of the movie’s inconsistencies: “Anna has never thrown a coat or a bag across a desk in her life! And people there do not scurry away from her like they are running from an electric storm!” And of course, the biggest tragedy of them all: “The Man who played me was the most awful miscasting in the world!!”
Talley, who serves as Vogue’s Editor-At-Large, was dressed in an all-black tunic-like ensemble with intergalactic silver detailed shoulders and a giant animal tooth necklace. He sat sultan-like behind Cutler, never acknowledging the audience's presence and rolling his eyes at the nearby camera flashes. Cutler’s depiction of Vogue and its staff is razor sharp, a production free of advertising and editorial content that chops out tens of thousands of dollars worth of work at the bat of an eye. His close-up shots of the notoriously exacting Wintour, her creative director Grace Coddington and a number of middle-aged editors is graphic, unairbrushed and shockingly free of cosmetics. A vast difference from the world they attempt to create in the pages of their magazine. One that Coddington refers to as “play and make believe.”
Under the threat of rain, I was among the first to gather outside the theater, along with a handful of gay guy/straight girl couples. Soon the sidewalk resembled an entire world of stylish young people and kooky character actors from cancelled television programs, with ladyboys in women’s coats and middle-aged women with animal-print accessories.
Before the film began, a flamboyant gaysian verbalized his need for an additional theater seat just to contain his shopping bags. Afterward, everyone stayed put during the credits as Talley’s giant shadow was escorted to the front of the stage while the lights were lowered. As Cutler spun out into a long ass-kissing rant regarding the amazingness of Wintour, Talley sat impatiently waiting for someone to address his presence. When it finally did happen, there was no stopping him, especially when the subject of one of his key scenes —a Louis Vuitton-swathed tennis lesson— came up.
“I have not been to a tennis court since!” Cutler’s film draws a line between Wintour and Coddington as the two main forces behind Vogue, but in Talley’s mind, he completes the trilogy, since his taste level allegedly matches that of Wintour. But don’t mistake him for something that he isn’t. “Behind this veneer of superficiality is a great deal of substance!”
While waiting to watch Hayao Miyazaki's latest cartoon picture, Ponyo, this weekend at the New York International Children’s Film Festival, I wondered if American kids were really excited about seeing this film or if it was just the prospect of diving over one another to catch the limited-edition plush toys that were being thrown into the audience. Miyazaki generally traffics in original concepts, so it's notable that Ponyo is a re-envisioning of Hans Christian Anderson’s classic, The Little Mermaid, that will be released by Disney in theaters Aug. 14.
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Hugh Jackman endured a year of hard-core weight training, high-protein whey shakes and fistfuls of chicken breast to prepare his body for X-Men Origins: Wolverine, which, to even the least casual observer, sounds like nothing more than diet hell. But now that it’s all said and done and the movie has hit the theaters, you have to ask yourself: “Was it worth it?” Does Hugh Jackman’s muscular, hirsute torso improve your theater-going experience?
Considering the movie is 108 minutes of action manliness, without a single strong female character in attendance (see Rebecca Romijn’ character in the previous X-Men films), this movie is a veritable superhuman sausage fest of guy’s guys. When not charging at each other in fits of savage anger they are glowering back and forth fondling their weaponry; stroking cold hard triggers, metallic blades and stubby claws in phalli-centric competition.
So, was Hugh Jackman fit? Yes, most certainly.
Was it any more noticeable than every other muscle-y actor in a Hollywood Action film? Not so much.
The amount of body makeup, grooming and color correction simply has Mr. Jackman, 40, looking a little more ‘vein-y’ than usual. Especially when you compare it to the youthful pectorals of his 32-year-old co-star, Ryan Reynolds. His other co-star, Liev Schreiber, 41, never removes a stitch of clothing – he most likely didn’t want to commit to the protein shakes.
When Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel created Superman during the fledgling world of newsstand comic books, it was heavily criticized for corrupting the minds of young people with its images of mayhem, murder, torture and abduction. Never fully recovering from losing the rights to their character in the 1950s, Shuster began illustrating a sex serial called “Nights of Horror,” which is the subject of Craig Yoe’s new book, “Secret Identity: The Fetish Art of Joe Shuster.”
After two New York youths—Jack Kaslow and Melvin Mittman—began emulating “Nights of Horror” with a group of murderous neo-Nazis called The Brooklyn Thrill Killers, the books became the center of a Supreme Court trial on indecency. Shuster’s images of sado-masochism, BDSM fetishization and Satanism inspired the boys to horse whip women and set the homeless ablaze. According to Yoe, all the players were leading double lives; Shuster, Kaslow and Mittman—even Clark, Lois and Lex—who appeared in the lurid tales as darker, sexually obscene versions of themselves.
The book collects images from all 12 of the “Nights of Horror” stories, complete with narratives: "Ann, her dress still up, faced the unexpected intruder." and "’Harder’, she murmured, shivering with excitement." Images of almost-bare buttocks, light bondage scenarios and voyeuristic peepholers seem relatively charming when compared to his more famous fetish illustrator contemporaries (Tom of Finland, Eric Stanton and Alberto Vargas). Overall, there's not enough whip-wielding negroes and ass-obsessed matrons to classify Shuster as a full fledged fetishist, but rather an artist trying to make a little extra dough during lean times, but it’s still an entertaining read.
The two highlights of the book are the recounting of Shuster and Siegel’s follow-up to Superman, a ridiculous superhero clown named “Funnyman” and a single story featuring a surefire hit character, Annette, Secret Agent Z-4, whose fuck-me boots and ample cleavage prove essential on a rescue mission in Red China.
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I always find it amusing when fashion shows have subtitles, take the Monarchy fall/winter collection last night: Monarchy Presents: Smoke and Mirrors. When I read this I immediately began to envision models dressed as couture magicians disappearing through trap doors at the ends of the runway and pulling an endless stream of colored handkerchiefs from their sleeves. Fashion slight of hand. Deception chic. But instead we got Scotland. Are the Scottish known for their magic? I wondered.
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The Thuy a/w collection was one of those shows you couldn’t get out of fast enough—and not just because it started 40 minutes late. The first half of the 30-plus looks were black; black coats, black skirts, black shirtdresses, black vests. Black. If this is meant to be style commentary on our recent economic downturn, then I guess the occasional application of sparkly beads and oversized pleating is meant to signify "hope?"
The second half of the collection did offer a much-needed burst of color, but the use of purple, navy and mustard simply upgraded it from depressing to melancholy. The models all stomped around with messy up-dos; the signature hair style for "getting down to business"—sort of the female equivalent of "rolling up your shirtsleeves." They showed off a variety of masculine coats, jersey blouses and pencil skirts with the occasional tuck pleating, cross seams and embellished layers, it was essentially a collection for careerist ball breakers, cold trophy girlfriends and slender girls with jiggly A-cups.
I craned my neck for a celebrity, but could find none, so I asked the sweet-faced usher whose mousey voice was not quite enough to keep the fire exits clear. She pointed toward a woman on the front row, “That’s Miss Universe.” So… no celebrities.
Outside the show, while waiting in line, I watched people streaming into DVF; Vogue’s Sally Singer caught up with an old friend. Scott Schuman buzzed around looking for a photograph opportunity, sleazester Terry Richardson recommended a good health food store to get vitamins (Sixth and 10th, BTW). And inside, the tent offered glimpses of Diana Ross, Heidi Klum and Diane Sawyer.
A group of anonymous attendees stood outside the line clutching their open bar beverages and throwing shade at the DVF PR Company, KCD Worldwide. “KCD is the FUCKING worst, they put EVERYONE in standing!” Except for these four, apparently, who weren’t even allowed into the standing line, “They even gave Tim Gunn shit; I mean, c’mon, are you that stupid!!” Yeah maybe so, but I bet you that their show didn’t make you want to kill yourself.
My first evidence of the New York Comic Con was on 34th Street en route to the Javits Center. Two tweenage girls, dressed as characters from Sailor Moon were walking arm-in-arm, carefully trying not to slip on their slush covered platform heels. They hadn’t even reached the convention and their costumes had already gone limp, their wigs askew, coats wrapped around their shoulders to fight the chill. They resembled a pair of middle-aged hookers who had been up since dusk. The closer I got, the more costumed adventurers began coming out of the woodwork; chubby Batman, chubby Princess Leia , chubby Skeletor, etc.
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The beginning of my Fashion Week was spent mostly at the Bryant Park tents, but as my confidence grew, I began to work my way onto some of the offsite shows. Adam Lippes was supposed to show in the outdoor garden of the Theological Seminary, but under the threat of rain, it was moved into the building’s refectory, where the lack of air-conditioning duplicated the humidity outdoors. Lippes’ use of white vicose tiered dresses, crocheted jumpsuits and raffia tweed wrap skirts were super casual. Like 30 pieces of incredibly high-end weekend wear, perfect for the girl who chooses to spend $300 on something that can only be worn to brunch.
Can somebody please tell me how a baby got a seat assignment at the Perry Ellis show last Friday, and why the Fashion Week gods decided to pair it up with mine? Is that why we have to put up with so much crap to get into the spring/summer shows; because people are using up the available space for their toddlers? As the parents cluelessly chatted away in Spanish, ignoring the fact their little treaure couldn’t keep her hands off my gift bag, I slowly exhaled and repeated to myself, “At least I’m not in standing. At least I’m not in standing…”
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