Met Museum Costume Gala's Worst Dressed 2009

DAHLINGS -

To put it mildly, there was an abundance of riches to choose from at last night's Metropolitan Museum gala for "Model To Muse", a celebration of models in the recent decades of fashion. The worst faux pas did not come from the models, who, for the most part, wear what they're told. No, it was the celebrities who outdid themselves.

Number one, of course, is Madonna. What can one say about this Louis Vuitton Playboy bunny-meets-Dumpster-Diving outfit? Except ugh.

The fingerless gloves and ultra-tight face makes one wonder if she might have been spending too much time with Karl Lagerfeld. What a shame that Madge has reached the age where she has to dress eccentrically to be noticeable (or at least she thinks she does). After all, being number one on all the polls for worst-dressed is better than no press at all, isn't it?

Or is it? Poor deluded soul.

One would think that January Jones in a gold dress would spell red carpet success. However, they would be sadly mistaken.

Not only does it do nothing for her beautiful body, it also looks like something bought out of a catalog.

Molly Sims also bucked the neutral trend and wore gold, but this Dolce & Gabbana 80s-era flashback dress did nothing for her.

As for Rhianna, I will leave the reader to imagine what I would say about her relationship with Chris Brown having something to do with her choice of outfit:

At least she doesn't have to worry about looking too attractive for a change.

Poor Liz Goldwyn! Her new Rodarte gown got absolutely drenched in the heavy rain, and the dye ran all over the place. (You should see the seats of her limousine!)

The most horrible part of the evening was when Shalom Harlow got eaten by her dress, shortly after this photo was taken. It was rather like the hungry plant in "Little Shop of Horrors." By the end of the evening there was nothing left but a large pile of black satin and a fingernail. Shalom, we hardly knew ye.

But wait, there's more! Here is Leighton Meester in a dress that only a crazed designer could love (and the leggings, dear God, the leggings!).

Like Madonna, she is also in Louis Vuitton. What does that fashion house have against women?

Kerry Washington's dress simply baffled me, so it is at the bottom of my list. It's not good, it's not bad, it's just...all over the place.

And once again, the dress is by Louis Vuitton. Does one sense a pattern here?

Finally, not necessarily the worst dressed, but certainly the most frightening: Tyra Banks. She looked like Joan Crawford about to go on a rampage.

Too bad she didn't taken on the dress that ate Shalom Harlow. That would have been a battle to watch!

More later!

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

The Met Museum Costume Gala: "The Model As Muse" Part 1

DAHLINGS –

The Metropolitan Museum opened its latest costume exhibition, “The Model As Muse: Embodying Fashion,” last night with a gala co-chaired by Marc Jacobs, Kate Moss, Justin Timberlake and my idol, Anna Wintour, who was of course stunning in Chanel.



Kate Moss embodied an unusual sophistication (for her), wearing a silver dress and matching turban. Here she is with the grand poobah of the evening, Marc Jacobs:



Inadvertently, the evening revealed to this intrepid reporter how fashion modeling has slid downwards, from spectacular women wearing beautiful clothes, to anorexic teenagers who can, for the most part, hardly be told apart. I very much doubt that the model wearing this fantastic Fortuny gown would have inspired the designer back in the day:



Look at that cheap bracelet, the mussy hair, the vacant expression. One might call this, "The Model As Mess." Natalia might as well be in jeans and a t-shirt, for all of the poise she displays. Compare the gorgeous Cindy Crawford (in Versace) to Anja Rubik:



The model above is one of the best arguments for fat-grafting the thighs that I have ever seen. And note how, in the photo below, Agnyss Deyn and Twiggy seemed to have switched ages. Twiggy looks young and fresh, while her compatriot looks haggard.



There were two disturbing fashion trends seen on this evening (excluding Madonna). The first was high-low hems, which are reaching new extremes this spring.


Victoria Beckham, replete with a spray-on tan that would put Valentino to shame



Jessica Biel, who just cannot get the hang of this red carpet thing, also replete with spray-on tan.


Narcisco Rodriguez with some young unfortunate wearing his creation

The second was my personal bete-noir, pardon the pun, neutral tones. I am only showing a few out of the HUNDREDS of beige, pale pink and faintly tan gowns last night.


Zac Posen with a model wearing his dress that spells VOGUE across the front. As first I thought it spelled MCGOO but a friendly journalist pointed out my mistake.





Ashley Olson arrived to announce that she is soon to be taking the cloth, and was appropriately garbed as a novice nun:



And somehow I believe Amy Winehouse staggered in:


Debbie Harry showed up, whimsical as ever, in her pajamas.


And then there was Carmen, one of the most ageless models of them all, splendid in leopard.



One of the surprises, to moi, was how well most of the designers themselves looked. Donna Karan, usually a fashion disaster, wore this tasteful, flattering gown:



Diane Von Furstenberg always looks lovely, but this was especially chic:



Standing nearby is Eva Longoria Parker and the underside of her breast. Ironically, television and movie stars are far more often gracing the pages and advertising of fashion magazines than models, and so, many came out for the extravaganza. My dear, dear friend Donatella Versace stepped out in a dress of her own creation.



While I adore this gown, I must confess it seems that Donatella's face might be sliding off. Lay off the anti-aging treatments, Donatella!



And what fashion event would be worth its salt without my other dear, dear friend, Andre Leon Talley? I don't know who designed his outfit, but doesn't he look like an English barrister without the white wig?



More later, dahlings!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Film Review: "Valentino, The Last Emperor"

DAHLINGS -

Matt Tyrnauer's insightful, gossipy documentary about the twilight of one of the last great couturiers, Valentino Garavini, "Valentino: The Last Emperor", could be the flip side of "Eleven Minutes," the story of Jay McCarroll's first attempt at New York Fashion Week. Where McCarroll has to scrounge, scrape and beg for the money to put together his collection, Valentino is so unimaginably wealthy that at times it seems almost obscene. (And this from a woman who herself owns more than a few Valentino originals.)



Valentino owns a 17th century chateau outside of Paris, a villa in Rome, a ski retreat in Switzerland, a town house in London and an apartment in Manhattan. Not to mention a private jet and a yacht, all of which he shares with six adorable pug dogs and his lifelong companion (and business partner) Giancarlo Giametti. It is entirely possible that Valentino would not be Valentino without Giametti, a practical businessman who seems not to mind being in the background. (Giametti also prefers a more natural looking skin color than the designer, who resembles an oiled coffee bean for much of the film.)

Tyrnauer, a writer for Vanity Fair, and his cinematographer, Tom Hurwitz, were granted access from 2005 through 2007 to every aspect of the designer's life and to those around him. It is a pivotal moment, not only for the designer but for the fashion industry. As multimillion dollar corporations swallow up Valentino's company, they also make his amazing skills oddly obsolete.

We not only see Valentino working through his creative process (where every dress is hand-stitched by a team of perpetually exhausted seamstresses) but also the luxurious side of his life, throwing parties attended by the likes of Michael Caine, Gwyneth Paltrow, Elton John, Elizabeth Hurley, Anne Hathaway and others.

We also see the literally hundreds of people it takes to keep the Valentino machine running, whether it be his major domo in London or the set designer and workers who help put together the spectacular, excessive 45th anniversary celebration of Valentino's career that provides the climax for the film.

(Karl Lagerfeld, looking like a cross between an extra from Night of the Living Dead and a strange 1960s porno film, quietly tells Valentino: "There's only us. All of the others just make rags.")

Valentino seems strangely removed from those around him; he only once touches one of his pug dogs. His relationship with Giametti seems equally distant, at least on Valentino's side. My dear, dear friend Andre Leon Talley livens up every scene he appears in.

To moi, the gowns, the lavish, beautiful gowns, eventually begin to seem almost much of a muchness. I even found myself nursing the traitorous thought that perhaps Valentino had run out of creative steam. It seems that I was not the only one.

Valentino has dressed Jackie Kennedy, Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, Princess Margaret, and apparently every famous woman of the last four-plus decades. At the end of the film, we are informed at Valentino has retired. Despite a faint feeling of sadness, one feels that the time has come.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog (who gets cuddled on a very regular basis!)