Am I surprised by the Costume Institute’s choice? No. As I explained to Dana Thomas, when the author of Gods and Kings: The Rise and Fall of Alexander McQueen and John Galliano mentioned to me that she was writing a New York Times Opinion piece about the show, John Galliano was never truly cancelled after phone camera footage - which captured him severely inebriated delivering an abusive tirade to customers nearby his table at Café La Perle in Paris - surfaced in February 2011.

In the immediate aftermath, Galliano was fired by LVMH from his role as creative director of Christian Dior as well as his eponymous label, of which the luxury group owned a majority stake. In October 2014, fashion mogul Renzo Rosso appointed him to be creative director of Martin Margiela where Galliano worked for successfully for 10 years before announcing a two-year collaboration with Zara in March.

“Galliano’s fall happened swiftly,” reported Manohla Dargis, chief film critic of the New York Times. “The reception for his debut Margiela collection in 2015 was glowing; a number of reviews for his [January 2024 show] were delirious. ‘The John Galliano Show My Generation Has Been Waiting For,’ ran a headline in Vogue.com.”

Dargis reported this in her review of High & Low - John Galliano. Kevin Macdonald’s immersive 2023 documentary incisively contextualizes Galliano’s fall from grace, by delving into how his “triple addiction” - to alcohol, prescription drugs and work - was a root cause.

The Oscar-winning director flagged up in the film numerous warning signs that should have alerted Galliano’s friends, colleagues and employers to pull him back from the brink of disaster including the April 2007 fatal drug overdose of Steven Robinson, who for 19 years, tirelessly served as his studio director and “right hand man.”

Watching High & Low a few months ago I couldn’t help but think that Galliano did go some distance in his attempt to atone for his crime, unlike many canceled people. But I also wondered why he totally botched it when, post his rehabilitation treatment at The Meadows in Arizona, he ventured to a February 2013 Oscar de la Renta fashion show, displaying his own handiwork, clad in a “bizarre layered outfit – including a rounded large hat, short trousers and curled long sideburns,” noted Elizabeth Snead in The Hollywood Reporter. “The New York Post photographed him on his way to the show and ran a photo with the headline ‘Jew-bash Designer Galliano’s costume Mocks Faithful.’”

Galliano is not the first designer to be associated with shocking and offensive behavior related to Nazi Germany. Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren emblazoned a “Destroy” T-shirt with a Nazi swastika in 1977. With Rachel Aubrey, Leigh Bowery assembled a swastika-printed cropped smock-top. The late performance artist - from whom Galliano and Alexander McQueen derived inspiration - occasionally flaunted a swastika armband when he ruled the scene at London’s Taboo nightclub.

I’m wondering if Galliano’s period of disgrace will be explored in Horizons, given that Andrew Bolton - the Anna Wintour Costume Center’s head curator - made religion the focus of one of his finest exhibitions: 2018’s Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination. Albeit, this is completely different territory.

Will Zara - for whom Galliano is currently “re-authoring” the fast fashion brand’s archive - sponsor the Met Gala commemorating the show’s opening? Will Hollywood celebrities - who are always shy of any kind of controversy - demur from joining the Gala’s committee? Or will next year’s Met Gala be more low key than usual, which is what many fashion players have been calling for? Surely Fisher Stevens and Alexis Bloom will capture the unfolding drama for the Netflix documentary they are currently co-directing about Anna Wintour.

Since Horizons was announced six days ago, commentators have been highlighting how Galliano’s past substance abuse problems and notorious diva behavior are additional grounds for ruling out his exhibition. Those complaints are ridiculous given that the Met has devoted exhibitions to numerous designers who were plagued by addiction issues as well as uneven - if not nasty - temperaments from Sergei Diaghilev to Paul Poiret, Yves Saint Laurent and Charles James. I could go on. And on.

Another criticism aimed at Galliano this week was his habit of showing up late to interviews. This brought to my mind a meeting I once had with a BBC television commissioner. I was pitching a fashion project unrelated to Galliano. Nevertheless, the commissioner digressed to relate her fury at being kept waiting for a few hours when she appeared at Dior’s headquarters to discuss making a television documentary about him. As she complained, all I could think about was that as she whiled away the time in Paris, Galliano had his hands full reviving the world’s most powerful fashion brand, which he accomplished and then some.

In July 2004, John Galliano kept me waiting for 24 hours for an interview. It required extending my stay at a Paris hotel and rearranging my Eurostar departure, which was no small expense, given that it was Paris Couture Week and I was funding my trip from a book deal. But a day later, amid our hours long interview, which Galliano delivered from his Dior couture atelier, he announced: “Call the archive and tell them to give Bronwyn whatever she needs.”

There’s no excuse for his abusive behavior. Because I am not Jewish or Asian, writing this post makes me feel downright uneasy. But I can’t help but think that Andrew Bolton - who is an outstanding and unusually talented curator - has the chance to mastermind a show which might possibly prove profound.

With hindsight perhaps absorbing the tale of the notorious art fraudster, Inigo Philbrick, also ingrained within me a healthy dose of skepticism which ultimately prevented me from falling for a scam which has defrauded hundreds of authors hoping to achieve literary fame and fortune. Nevertheless, I was briefly duped and it all started when I got back from the beach.

After showering, changing and pouring myself some cold mineral water, I opened the email. The sender - a “Senior Editor” - wanted to “learn more about [my] current and forthcoming projects. “If you do have representation,” “she” added, “I’d be very happy to continue any conversation via your agent. If not, I’d be glad to outline how the process works at XXX should there be mutual interest.”

The Senior Editor’s fawning description of one of my books struck me as a tad lengthy, if not weird. Describing it as a “compelling and rigorous work of cultural history…” she commended my “ability to use clothing as a lens for examining power, identity, and societal transformation.”

I’ll take it, I thought before contemplating why a rival to the book’s original publisher would be interested in basing their outreach to me on an out-of-print work which had not achieved bestseller status even though it had received widespread critical acclaim. (Thank you to the late André Leon Talley who ignited that.)

Before crafting a reply, I dug around. The Senior Editor’s LinkedIn profile aligned with the introductory note she provided by email. Sizing up her bio photo, I also considered that maybe this seemingly thoughtful young editor genuinely liked my book and might be up for some brainstorming. After all, I have applied the knowledge I acquired devoting years to researching, and writing the book, to an array of rewarding professional projects, including one that’s going on now. Given our age difference, I was also interested in hearing what the Senior Editor was looking for. After all, quizzing my assistants keeps me on my toes.

The Senior Editor’s email address also struck me as legit, although I soon discovered that the glare from the setting sun on my laptop screen meant that I did not catch how it was deftly skewed.

Initially, taking the bait, I responded cordially, making a brief mention of a current book deal and a project I was considering next.

“Let’s plan to find time once you’re back,” came her measured response, a day later. “Are you currently working with a literary agent? It would be helpful to know so I understand how best to proceed on our end.” I responded: “I am not currently working with a literary agent.”

Welcoming me back after I returned from vacation, the Senior Editor refrained from setting up an in-person meeting. Instead - after a few long-winded paragraphs - she requested that I send “sample material” of my next project - a “manuscript [or] outline” - to take a proper look and get a real sense of where things stand.”

Real?

A few days later, over dinner with my friend, Eric, an author/screenwriter, I read aloud the emails between mouthfuls of yummy pasta. Swiftly there was a bad taste in my mouth as we concluded that the Senior Editor was catfishing. Or, “weaponizing A.I.” as the London Times recently reported in an article about how “scammers” are trawling through “titles and personal websites in seconds before generating bespoke solicitations designed to make authors feel like someone is genuinely engaging with their work.”

A recent FBI investigation uncovered a (U.S.) $44 million scheme defrauding hundreds of authors by “promising to adapt their novels into Hollywood blockbusters,” according to the Times. The newspaper described that the sort of email correspondence in which I was engaged as part of a “long game designed to build rapport.

“It often begins with flattery but eventually [the fraudster] might recommend a friend, a fake agent or publicist and suggest that the author get in touch. Only then might there be a request for payment.”

The Society of Authors reported receiving “half a dozen queries and reports of scamming attempts on average every week.” Ambre Morvan, the trade union’s senior policy and public affairs manager stated: “They all take various forms, but what is worrisome is that some are incredibly convincing with varying levels of sophistication.”

Digesting these findings made me feel humiliated, briefly. But then I reminded myself that my professional projects have often been sparked by cold calls. “I’m calling from Encyclopaedia Britannica,” an editor of the publication announced over the telephone to me. “I already own a set,” I responded. It was the early nineties and the editor based in Chicago reached me at The European newspaper in London. Our brief conversation led to me originating the annual fashion chapter for Britannica’s Book of the Year which I wrote for decades. A few years ago, after explaining some distinguishing aspects of one of my books - that had been published in 2012 - a Paris couture house cultural executive enlisted me to work on a fascinating archival project. Recently responding to an email from a museum I never knew existed, landed me with the task of writing a catalogue essay for a blockbuster fashion exhibition.

After dinner with Eric, I ventured to discover if the real Senior Editor was on Instagram. Discovering her vibrant feed, I found the following information on her bio: “Please note that if you receive a business email from me that is not from my XXXX email, it is a scam.”

For a moment, I felt sympathetic. When I worked at British Vogue, my identity had been misused to send an email to a public figure. Even though it was obvious that it was not from me, the situation was temporarily stressful. But then I wondered if the real Senior Editor’s Instagram message was adequate. According to the Times, Curtis Brown, the literary agency, issued public alerts after fraudsters posing as bonafide staff members solicited “joining fees from artists.”

What if I wasn’t gainfully employed and secure enough to raise an eyebrow when asked to freely share my ideas, I thought?

Today, at 9 A.M., as I composed this post and yet another message from the Senior Editor appeared in my inbox, I thought: “Why are you reaching out to me on a weekend in late July, when you had explained that ‘internal reviews’ and mounting ‘deadlines’ prohibited you from taking an in-person meeting with me?

“Just wanted to follow up,” she wrote. “Even a quick one-line update on what you’re currently focused on would be great, and we can go from there. Looking forward to hearing from you.”

At the Closing Ceremony, for instance, Isabelle Huppert made a dignified splash flaunting a sartorial homage to Barbra Streisand as she presented an honorary Palme d’Or to the legendary performer. The bow adorning the neckline of Huppert’s sequin floor-length Loewe dress - as well as its two-tone color scheme - referenced the Arnold Scaasi ensemble in which Streisand claimed the 41st Best Actress Academy Award for Funny Girl. Scaasi once told me that he based Streisand’s Oscar outfit on Le Smoking, the tuxedo Yves Saint Laurent introduced for women in 1966. Scaasi said: “On Oscar night [Barbra] could be her own person - youthful and current. So I said to her: ‘Let’s get you into the modern world.’”

Fun fact, sort of: The glare of the TV lights shining down upon Streisand - as she made her way to the Oscar podium in 1969 - rendered the backside of her Scaasi bellbottom trousers completely transparent. Luckily, as she accepted her Oscar, she was completely unaware of the wardrobe snafu. Graciously, accepting her Palme d’Or from Huppert - via video - Streisand looked great in an off-the-shoulder black top recalling the Donna Karan dressy clothes she favored in the nineties.

At Friday’s Palm Dog Awards, I congratulated Brad Goreski on his feat of masterminding Demi Moore’s Cannes glamathon. The stylist/television personality was receiving the Palm DogManitarian Award for his dedicated support of “Adopt, Don’t Shop.” This is an international movement urging people to rescue animals from shelters, rather than acquire them from pet stores or breeders.

My pal Toby Rose - the Palm Dog’s founder - tasked me to be Goreski’s minder. Lucky me. Goreski is a sweetheart. “Important” is how I described the impressive line up of fashion-forward red carpet finery he and Moore dreamed up for her extensive list of jury engagements. It may seem frivolous to take fashion seriously right now, given the ongoing wars and economic uncertainty. But as the talk of A.I. threatening creative professions dominated festival panel discussions and one-on-one talks, all of the dialogue got me thinking about how even if a lot of fashion is algorithm generated today, styling is a free-form manual craft involving much dialogue, often with multiple decision makers who have to reach a consensus. Even if it’s The Devil Wears Prada behind the scenes (I’m referencing the original here), everything counts in our polarized world right now.

Two years ago on assignment for London’s Telegraph newspaper - covering Moore premiering The Substance at the 77th Cannes Film Festival - I researched her style trajectory, from a formative friendship she established with her onetime neighbor, Nastassja Kinski, to her work with Joel Schumacher on St. Elmo’s Fire and baring it all for a series of three Annie Leibovitz Vanity Fair covers. “We do it together,” Goreski said then, revealing how his red carpet preparation process with Moore is collaborative. “Demi thinks ‘outside of the box’ and she wears what excites her, not what’s on trend,” added Lou Eyrich. The costume designer/producer of Feud: Capote vs. The Swans masterminded the look of Moore’s character, Anne Woodward, in the Ryan Murphy limited series. Eric Buterbaugh - the Los Angeles floral designer and perfumer who is one of Moore’s besties - added: “Demi loves clothes and she studies them. She knows what works on her body. She’s completely into it.”

I have studied the Cannes Film Festival’s red carpet scene, from its postwar glamour, the rebellious chic defining the free-spirited sixties festivals as well as the anything goes eighties looks that prompted Italian and French fashion houses - Armani, Chanel, Dior, YSL etc. - to carefully dress today’s attendees.

Sharon Stone had her time as the festival’s fashion queen. She’s still looking marvelous. Sofia Coppola, Cate Blanchett and Charlotte Gainsbourg perfected their jury duty in relaxed chic. Greta Gerwig slightly overdid it serving as jury president in 2024. Moore’s vibrant elegance outclassed them all and made me smile every morning when I picked up the trades at the Palais des Festivals.

Cate Blanchett appeared at Cannes to promote her own A.I. venture. According to London’s Independent newspaper, RSL Media is a non-profit organization “aimed at helping artists and others prevent AI companies from using their work, voices and likeness without permission.” (More here.)

Blanchett’s red carpet moments referenced looks that helped her become a style icon. The lace ruff collar beautifying the black Louis Vuitton dress - in which she appeared at the premiere of James Gray’s crime drama, Paper Tiger - evoked the exquisite costumes Alexander Byrne crafted for her to wear as the title character in Elizabeth.

The floral Givenchy halterneck frock Blanchett donned for the premiere of Jeanne Henry’s drama Garance, drew attention to her back in a similar way to how her first ever Oscar frocks, by Dior’s John Galliano and Jean Paul Gaultier drew attention to her flipside way back when.

Go Fug Yourself complained about Moore’s opening night Jacquemus number - an elegant nude-hued sequin gown (below) - noting: “This could as easily have been custom Armani, or custom Gucci... no one is really leaving their mark on it.”

Let’s remember that beyond wowing the paparazzi on “le tapis rouge,” Moore - as one of nine jury members - has bigger considerations as she tackles the grueling task of assessing 22 Official Selection films vying for the festival’s top Palme d’Or prize, and other honors, which are announced on 23 May.

Reflecting on the duties he fulfilled as a 1987 jury member, Jeremy Thomas, the Oscar-winning producer, told The Hollywood Reporter: “You are spending four to five hours a day watching movies, plus the events protocol, the official dinners and jury deliberations.”

Add to that hair and makeup. This year it’s also freezing. I can’t recall colder May temperatures on the French Riviera and I’ve been coming to the festival - on and off - since 1993. Little wonder Moore’s fellow fashion-forward jury members - Chloe Zhao and Ruth Negga - are opting for outfits with sleeves. I’ve been wearing velvet.

The fashion scene at Cannes is special for so many reasons. Old and young - or, Joan Collins, Catherine Deneuve and Jane Fonda as well as Milena Smit and Amanda Fix - are all in it together. The fashion skews French. The diamonds are natural because Chopard - the Swiss watch and jewelry house - is an official sponsor. In its workshops the Palme d’Or trophies are manually crafted.

The premiere dress code - black tie, no flats, unless they’re Louboutins or Manolos - means that everyone’s putting their best foot forward.

Cannes also marks the start of the red carpet’s new year. It renews the cycle because the films premiering at the festival typically go on to receive Oscar nominations. With them go the stars.

As I write this post a line up of distributors - A24, Mubi and Netflix, among others - are reported to be embroiled in a “furious bidding war” to acquire Club Kid. Jordan Firstman’s directorial debut premiered on Friday. The actor/director/writer/ - best known for portraying I Love L.A.’s stylist character, Charlie Cohen - takes the lead as Peter, a “washed up” queer club promoter who is forced to change his life upon discovering he has a son. It’s a hot ticket. Cara Delevingne - who co-stars as Peter’s “right hand” Sophie - looked great in Haider Ackerman for Tom Ford at the film’s press call and premiere.

I have yet to see Club Kid. But at Vanity Fair’s party last night - at a rebooted take on the hotspot restaurant, Tetou - I spied Firstman reclining on a sofa. Meanwhile industry heavyweights were discussing how he is a force behind a new generation of actors and filmmakers including I Love L.A.’s creator and star, Rachel Sennott and cast member Odessa A’zion who was mingling with the Tetou crowd.

On day three of the festival, A’zion received the Trophée Chopard alongside the British actor, Connor Swindells. The honor is annually bestowed to a “next generation” rising star by Caroline Scheufele - Chopard’s artistic director and co-president.

If A’zion brought Annie Hall vibes to the proceedings - collecting her prize in tweedy Dior menswear (above) - Tamara Ralph-clad Demi Moore kicked the night off à la Marlene Dietrich, driving the paparazzi wild as she tossed aside a blush ostrich feather stole to flaunt her form-fitting silver crystal gown. Hooray for Hollywood!

A few hours later I was reclining in one of three remaining seats I nabbed for a 7 P.M. screening at AMC 19th Street East 6. The theater was packed almost exclusively with twentysomething women. Some were denim-clad, cloth bag toters. Others evoked Chloe Malle’s preppy fashionista vibe.

I put no thought into what I was wearing because I dashed from my desk to the theater and midway through the first act wondered why I had bothered. The film takes so long to get into how the promotion of Meryl Streep’s Runway editor Miranda Priestly is threatened when Tibor Feldman’s Irv Ravitz - chairman of Runway’s publisher Elias-Clarke - suddenly drops dead. Miranda is hankering for the sort of power Anna Wintour currently enjoys at Condé Nast.

After Irv’s heart attack, I got distracted by the switch for the integrated electrical heating element embedded within my seat cushion. As I struggled to pay attention to the movie, I was considering how the warmth targeting my lumbar was a low cost alternative to a Bliss Spa hot stone massage. I was also wondering why there wasn’t more heat on screen.

The Devil Wears Prada 2 charts Emily Charlton’s dalliance with an unappealing Silicon Valley tech bro - Justin Theroux’s Benji Barnes. Andy has a few dates with an architect. Sir Kenneth Branagh portrays Miranda Priestly’s new husband, Stuart. Yet the Oscar-winning actor - renowned for his Shakespearean film adaptations - has not much more to do than walk their dog. The film could have used a hint of hot sex or at least an enviable romance.

Remember how, in the original, Stanley Tucci’s Nigel ushers Andy Sachs into Runway’s fashion closet and restyles her? There’s a lukewarm attempt at reprising the transformation. Before Andy ventures off to spend the weekend at Miranda’s place in the Hamptons, Nigel helps her pack. By the time she arrived, I was wondering how much Bernard Arnault had invested in the production. Aside from Andy’s Hamptons garb - a Gabriella Hearst maxi dress and Chloé platforms - Nigel mentioning Toteme - and Schiaparelli embroidered on Miranda’s jacket sleeve, the fashion in the film seems almost exclusively sourced from LVMH. If a producer had thought about integrating some indie names to the wardrobe or dialogue - Erdem, Harris Reed, Meryll Rogge - I would have parked my criticism and given this boring movie five stars.

As for the music, when Madonna’s Vogue started playing I was rolling my eyes. I won’t deliver a spoiler alert and share the name of the artist who performs at the end of the film. The composer Daniel Pemberton - who early in his career produced London Fashion Week show soundtracks and most recently scored Project Hail Mary - could have had fun with this.

I didn’t fall asleep watching The Devil Wears Prada 2. The feisty banter between Emily Charlton and Andy Sachs saves the film from going south. I also perked up when Imran Amed’s Business of Fashion and Vanessa Friedman were name-checked. When Emily mentioned to Andy that her daughter’s name is Bronwyn, I smiled.

On the one hand, I love Vogue’s May cover simply because people are talking about it. I can’t remember so much buzz about a glossy magazine cover since Vanity Fair’s July 2015 “Call Me Caitlyn” cover which unveiled to the world Caitlyn Jenner’s identity as a transgender woman. All the hubbub the Vogue cover is generating about Wintour leaning into her Miranda Priestly persona makes me feel that magazines (an industry in which I toiled for over a decade) are relevant again.

Except I’m completely bored by Vogue. Not just American Vogue but every single edition. I rarely look at any of them except when I am in a French hair salon. I would rather read Town & Country than American Vogue. Not really. But anyway. And for me that’s huge because Vogue’s been central to my life in so many ways since I was a teenager. I discovered Richard Avedon and learned a lot about contemporary art by reading Grace Mirabella’s Vogue. I recently bought at auction a white leather Poltrona Frau sofa Grace Mirabella once owned. Over the last ten years I acquired two pieces of YSL vintage (one a bargain, the other pricey) simply because spotting them on Vogue’s pages in the eighties made such a lasting impression on me. Finally owning the clothes felt like a homecoming of sorts.

After my mother read The Devil Wears Prada, she asked me if working at British Vogue was anything like the professional environment which Lauren Weisberger described in her best-selling novel. I immediately responded: “It was worse!” That said, my editor at British Vogue, Alexandra Shulman - under whom I diligently worked - was a total pro. She taught me so much about too much to mention here.

Back to Vogue’s May cover. I was scratching my head about why Chloe Malle followed up Vogue’s Instagram post of the Wintour/Streep cover with a post of her own explaining that featuring her boss alongside the iconic movie star was her own idea (below). Given that Malle is Vogue’s Head of Editorial Content, doesn’t everyone already know that she’s charged with creating the covers? The post made me feel like we are still back in February when the New York Times posted Jessica Testa’s video interview with Malle and Wintour - seeming more like rivals than co-editors, or something - just before Fashion Month. (More here.) To take the heat off their seemingly awkward relationship, maybe it’s time for Condé Nast to generate some press about other Vogue editors, in the way that André Leon Talley, Grace Coddington and Hamish Bowles became recognized tastemakers in the early noughties.

In its most recent “What’s up and down” weekly post, the Business of Fashion noted that the Streep/Wintour cover “cements the power of brand Anna.” I disagree. Ultimately, the cover symbolizes that Anna Wintour is synonymous with American Vogue. Or, “brand Anna” and the Vogue brand are interchangeable. I would understand the meaning of “brand Anna” if she released something personally branded like a perfume. I’m not sure if that would fly. But French Vogue’s former editor, Carine Roitfeld accomplished the feat of asserting her independent identity by launching a scent. I love her. Joan Juliet Buck - who preceded Roitfeld as French Vogue’s editor - published a critically acclaimed memoir, The Price of Illusion (Atria) - after she left Condé Nast. I always say the two greatest writers Vogue produced are Joan Juliet Buck and Joan Didion. JJB is now a friend of Michael Rider’s Céline.

I would love to read Anna Wintour’s memoir. Wouldn’t it be great to find out if she really did tag along with Bob Marley on tour? If she was going to launch her personal brand, maybe she could collaborate with Roger Federer on some tennis togs?

I also deeply respect Anna Wintour and so very much admire her personal style. I am currently puzzled as to why she’s always wearing long flowing satin dresses and seems permanently clad in ankle-length coats. But I’ll give her a free pass. Just watch The September Issue. Those flesh colored Manolo Blahnik sandals? Perfection. The fur? Love it. I’m Canadian. The custom pieces Prada and Chanel’s Karl Lagerfeld made for her? Fashion heaven. Occasionally when I’m preparing for a dressy occasion, I stop and think: “Would Anna Wintour wear this?” She was so chic in her heyday.

But meanwhile, where are all of the other magazine editors? Can we please make some noise about Willa Bennett? Willa’s an influencer who knows how to power legacy media with social media, and vice versa. Back in 2024, she was tapped by Hearst to lead Cosmopolitan and Seventeen - as the first ever Queer person to do so - because her social media skills won her National Magazine Awards and Webbys for legitimizing Highsnobiety - a former sneaker blog - into a media brand.

I’m loving Mark Guiducci’s Vanity Fair. So much so that I have subscribed. True, the articles are nowhere near as meaty as the likes of Graydon Carter’s Vanity Fair features. But there’s pizzazz in Guiducci’s pages and I’m into it. I also read every issue of Tatler, because diving into the British monthly makes me feel like I’m at a Home Counties house party hosted by aristos who would actually never invite me along. Tatler’s whacky yet well written and often dishy.

I thought about not opening the door. It was getting late. It was raining outside. I was at home alone. When the knock came again, I considered walking downstairs in my dress and shoes. But the heels were way too high. So off it all went, on went my black Uniqlo exercise clothes and downstairs I traveled. Opening the door, I discovered Calvin Klein - and a handsome younger gentleman - on our stoop.

I had seen Klein up close before, backstage at his New York Fashion Week shows in the nineties, circa Carolyn Bessette’s tenure. Once, when I was having dinner at Bar Pitti in Greenwich Village, Klein breezed in. By that point he had retired and Francisco Costa was doing a fantastic job as creative director of Calvin Klein Collection. As Klein sat down at a Bar Pitti table near mine, I marveled about how at peace he seemed to be when so many great designers who had recently retired were openly displeased about the new direction of their fashion houses.

Staring into Klein’s suntanned face while he was on my doorstep, I was thinking: “Damn it! I should have kept the Dries dress on!”

He broke the ice and said: “I am so sorry!” His apology was genuine. He was smiling as he realized he was at the wrong address. His friend and I glanced at each other. We were grinning. Holding it together, I played down the thrill factor of discovering a fashion legend on one’s doorstep and said: “You NEVER need to apologize!” We all laughed. Calvin and his friend headed back out into the night.

For as long as I’ve loved fashion - which is forever - Calvin Klein has been one of my favorite designers. Probably because he was the most European of all of the New York greats. Before “he was Calvin” he worked for Dan Millstein. The Seventh Avenue garment manufacturer who was one of few to go to the Paris couture shows after World War II where Christian Dior’s first ever fashion shows made an impression. By 1964, when Klein was toiling for Millstein - who was a founder of the Palm Beach Country Club - he met his “mentor.”

By then Baron Nicolas de Gunzburg had transformed the loss of his family fortune into a successful career as a fashion editor. According to fashion industry lore “Niki” was the first-ever male fashion editor. When Klein became friendly with de Gunzburg, the Franco-Russian aristocrat was 30 years into his working relationship with Diana Vreeland.

De Gunzburg and Vreeland (below) had originally met in 1941, when Carmel Snow - then editor–in-chief of Harper’s Bazar - hired the “baron” when he arrived in New York from Paris (via a stint in Los Angeles). As Niki groomed Vreeland for greatness, he also masterminded the décor of Dior’s first ever U.S. boutique on New York’s Fifth Avenue and discovered Lauren Bacall. Briefly, he was the editor-in-chief of Hearst’s Town & Country. From the fifties on, when he was at Condé Nast, his work concentrated on transforming Seventh Avenue ladies’ merchandise that would feature in Vogue’s advertising pages into Vogue-worthy clobber. When Calvin Klein came out from behind Millstein and launched his namesake brand in 1968, he eventually enlisted de Gunzburg as his image consultant.

In a comprehensive Vanity Fair profile of de Gunzburg, Amy Fine Collins chronicled how he advised an up-and-coming Klein in “every possible capacity, from fabrics to real estate to perfume.” Admitted Klein to Fine Collins: “He had great influence. There was nothing I would do without consulting him first. If he felt something wasn’t working, he always found a way to make sure that I got back on track.”

De Gunzburg passed away in 1981. So he was long gone by the time Carolyn Bessette settled into Klein’s 205 West 39th Street headquarters in the early nineties. Who knows if the white orchids and black paper clips - and Klein’s other quirks which factored into Love Story - were Niki’s ideas. I have a few vintage Klein pieces which testify to his European patina including a Chanelian collarless silk blouse. It’s light as air yet structured. One of my wardrobe treasures is black velvet YSL-style safari jacket by Klein which I discovered in pristine condition at New York’s City Opera Thrift. Maybe Klein was then copying Paris ready-to-wear but he was doing it right. Because of Love Story so much has been made about CBK’s influence over Klein. Honestly I feel it is greatly overblown. Klein had it going on all through his career.

My favorite Calvin era is the late seventies when Lisa Taylor and Patti Hansen were his top models and he was luring Bianca Jagger from Halston, as chronicled by Steven Gaines in his dishy biography Obsession: The Lives and Times of Calvin Klein. It’s a great read.

When I was teaching fashion culture at Parsons, I discovered that it was possible to visit Calvin Klein’s archive at the Long Island City headquarters of PVH Corp, which acquired Calvin Klein in 2002. I took my class and we surveyed the clothes which were pristinely arranged on rails, from the prairie chic that Klein created when Grace Coddington briefly worked on his fashion team to the Oscar dresses Francisco Costa crafted when he served as creative director of Calvin Klein Collection for 13 years from 2003.

Costa’s Calvin Klein work (above) was top notch - very much the equal of anything concieved in Europe. Raf Simons at Calvin Klein? I never understood why that happened. After attending Veronica Leoni’s Calvin Klein Collection show in February, I wondered why her silhouette is so bulky and challenging when Calvin Klein’s ready-to-wear is best when it’s streamlined and sexy.

There we were on Sunday afternoon, stuck in an epic traffic jam on the way to the 98th Academy Awards. Typically, the car journey from West Hollywood to the Dolby Theater takes about an hour, due to limousine gridlock. As our car trip neared 65 minutes - and we were still nowhere near the red carpet - the driver of a matte black Mercedes Sprinter Limo attempted to cut in ahead of us in the single turning lane. Erica, our driver, wasn’t having it. The Limo driver motioned her to open the passenger seat window of our SUV. Erica complied. Suddenly, there was Jacob Elordi peeping his gorgeous head out of the Limo window. Frankenstein’s Best Supporting Actor nominee pleaded with us: “Please let us in! This is the first time I’ve been nominated for an Oscar and I don’t want to be late!”

Neither did we. About 10 minutes later - as we entered an official security zone - I noticed a golf cart was idling by the roadside. It had some empty seats. I opened my window and asked the driver: “Can you please take us to the ceremony?” He said: “Get in! And we were off.

By the time we pulled up, showtime was close to 40 minutes away. Because the really big stars always make a fashionably late entrance, the excitement was palpable. Looking good in Prada, Blue Moon’s Best Actor nominee Ethan Hawke was charming one and all. The fans camped out in the bleachers went crazy for Timothée Chalamet as Marty Supreme’s Best Actor nom strode across the carpet flanked by minders and publicists, yet without Kylie Jenner. I was probably the only person rooting for Timothée. I don’t care if he is dating a member of the Kar-Jenner clan or wearing orange. “Best of luck - I loved your movie,” I said. “Thank you so much,” he replied.

In her black veiled Gabriela Hearst, Hamnet’s director Chloé Zhao - who received two Oscar nominations - evoked Morticia Addams from The Addams Family as she strode past me. I loved her audacity. Kate Hudson - movie star beautiful in shimmering jade green Armani Privé and with Veronica Lake hair - smiled as she waved to ABC TV’s cameras.

Going to the Oscars never gets old. And even if Awards Season 2026 got off to an awkward start (remember Jessie Buckley’s Golden Globes Dior?), the big night was a glamathon. The LVMH houses - along with Armani, Chanel and Thom Browne - pulled out all the stops. There were custom-made dresses, sumptuous embellished finery plus lots of directional gold courtesy of EJAE, Audrey Nuna and Rei Ami of KPop Demon Hunters.

Amid the post-pandemic luxury slowdown, Oscar fashion had been a little muted. A week ago, I was wondering if the party would be over, given the Iran war. It’s more like its getting re-booted as Matthieu Blazy settles into Chanel, Jonathan Anderson comes to grips with Dior’s extraordinary couture atelier and Sarah Burton reacquaints Givenchy with the red carpet, which its namesake founder, Hubert de Givenchy dominated for decades thanks to Audrey Hepburn.

Zendaya’s mocha Louis Vuitton was my favorite Oscar dress. She just looked so elegant co-presenting the Best Directing Oscar to Paul Thomas Anderson. I’m so glad Amy Madigan wore a pantsuit because, at the Oscars, anything goes as long as the look is polished enough to suggest the wearer is truly honored to be there.

Rebecca and I had been having fun filming a BBC One Breakfast news Oscar week special in and around the Standard Hotel on Sunset Boulevard. One day - when we were shooting at Cameron Silver’s vintage emporium Decades - Jennifer Lopez sauntered in with her entourage. Exiting a fitting room - in some age-old finery - I encountered the gorgeous movie star. “I think it’s a little tight,” I said to her about my dress. “What do you think?” Flashing a grin she purred: “Tight is good…”

Back at Harry Winston, as Rebecca listened to the voice on the other end of her cellphone, she grew still. Her serious expression translated: “The party is OVER.”

Signing off from the call, she sighed: “Okay - we are shutting down. The U.S. has just invaded Iraq.”

Given the major combat operations that briskly ensued, the Academy of Motion Picture, Arts and Sciences decided to dispense entirely with red carpet arrivals at the 75th Academy Awards. Most of the female contenders - including Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress winners, Nicole Kidman and Catherine Zeta-Jones - appeared in black dresses.

Wearing dark hues and semi-formal attire to the Oscars during times of war has been the thing to do since the Academy issued the first ever dress code memo amid World War II. “White tie, tuxedos and décolletage - very definitely out,” stated the 1942 memo.

Back then the Academy urged everyone to wear low-key outfits and recommended that women leave their jewels in the vault. Joan Fontaine - who, for her masterly work on Alfred Hitchcock’s Suspicion, triumphed over her sister, Olivia de Havilland at the 14th Oscars - complied, adorning her chic black skirt suit with a triple strand of pearls and a floral headdress. She looked great.

Now, as the Iran war is going full throttle - and the Russo-Ukrainian War rages on - will nominees tamp down the splendor and opt to wear black at the 98th Academy Awards on Sunday?

There is zero chatter about this on social media or elsewhere. I was taken aback by a recent Vogue.com story written in response to the dress code SAG-AFTRA - co-host of the Actors Awards - had issued, suggesting that attendees “reimagine Hollywood Glamour from the twenties and thirties.” Rather than consider the edict in the context of current events, the author commented on how the dress code put “a burden on the actors, stylists, and brands.”

Ali Khamenei, Iran’s Supreme Leader, had been killed the day or so before Vogue posted the article.

“Where they could play in the black-tie sandbox before, a specific dress code is something of an albatross,” the Vogue journalist noted. “An actor’s brand deal far outweighs their obligation to the dress code—and some brands won’t play ball with a ’20s and ’30s glamour brief. And for those who don’t have brands banging down their doors to dress them, it’s just another hurdle to finding a suitable look for the night.”

If this was a conflict-free moment I would argue that the Actors Awards dress code might have lent a welcome dose of creativity to Awards Season 2026. It has been a complete yawn so far, with the exception of the fabulous Givenchy floral-embroidered nude tulle dress and light pink satin bomber which Jennifer Lawrence wore to the Golden Globes. Glamazon!

A dress code also gave rise to one of the finest ever Oscar looks. Nolan Miller issued the sartorial guidelines, requesting that “everybody should be elegant” at the 58th Academy Awards in 1986. Cher and Bob Mackie ran away with his suggestion, devising radical elegance, or protest chic.

Miller was then serving as the Oscars’ fashion consultant. His day job - as the costume designer of splashy Aaron Spelling ABC TV shows, including Dynasty, Hotel and The Love Boat - had made him known as the “Balenciaga of bugle beads” and the “rajah of rhinestones.” Miller loved big, bold glamour.

When I was writing Made For Each Other, Fashion and the Academy Awards (Bloomsbury) he received me at his West Hollywood design headquarters. His office was not exactly sprawling but it was somehow baronial. Think Downton Abbey sort of grand, even if it was around the corner from Bristol Farms.

Miller told me that he conceived the dress code because he was tired of seeing actresses turn up at the ceremony in messy clothes like the pantsuit Faye Dunaway borrowed from Geoffrey Beene to collect her Best Actress Oscar for Network and the Armani men’s jacket Diane Keaton wore accepting hers for Annie Hall. In between fielding a call from his muse, Joan Collins, Miller elaborated on the letter. “The whole world watches the Oscars. So everybody should look like a movie star,” he remembered writing.

“That ridiculous letter,” Cher said to me, thinking back on how Miller’s note inspired her and Mackie to dream up the infamous black multi-piece ensemble - including a towering two-foot headdress made from 800 black-dyed rooster plumes - in which she appeared presenting the Best Supporting Actor trophy to Don Ameche at the 58th ceremony.

Cher yearned for an Oscar. She wore the outfit to draw attention to the fact that the Academy had overlooked her lead performance in Mask, even though she received the Palme d’Or at the 1985 Cannes Film Festival for her work on the Peter Bogdanovich biographical drama. Punk rock factored into the getup’s inspirational sources, Cher said. She looked so beautiful.

In years past, I have gone on record stating that wearing black to the Oscars is a “copout” for actress nominees - given that the Oscars are Awards Season’s grand finale. Getting nominated is a massive achievement. So it seems like the time to go all out.

On the other hand, going the distance, all the way to the big night - through the grueling round of awards shows and campaign events which the public never sees - is an exhausting marathon. That’s why female nominees who really don’t have a shot at stepping up to the podium often put on a black dress, go to the ceremony and go home. Or change into something funky for the Vanity Fair Oscar Party. Let’s see what happens on Sunday night.

News that a second person had been killed by federal agents in Minneapolis, Minnesota had reached Park City. The Gallerist - an art world comedy thriller which Portman headlines - and The Invite - Wilde’s English-language remake of the Spanish sex comedy, The People Upstairs - had premiered.

Critics raved. Portman posed with her super cute fashion-forward co-stars - Mugler-clad Jenna Ortega and Charlie XCX rocking a kooky Simon Carle combo. Wilde received a standing ovation. WWD went on and on about the filmmaker’s new-look blonde hair. A24 ultimately nabbed The Invite after one of those “all night bidding wars” among distributors evoking the glory days of Sundance, which next year will move to Boulder, Colorado.

Joining members of The Invite’s cast on the red carpet before the premiere, Wilde contextualized her ICE OUT accessory, stating to Variety: “People are being murdered. And I don’t want to normalize seeing people being murdered on the internet. On film. It’s hideous. And so if we can do anything out here to support the movement to cast ICE out, to delegitimize this unbelievably criminal organization, then that’s what we should be doing.”

Portman went further: “What the federal government - Trump’s government - Kristi Noem, ICE – what they’re doing is really the worst of the worst of humanity.”

A group of Los Angeles activists - including Jess Morales Rocketto and Nelini Stamp - recently ideated the ICE OUT buttons - as well as those with the “Be Good” slogan commemorating the passing of Renée Nicole Good, the 37-year-old mother of three who was shot and killed by ICE agents on 7 January. With help from Ai-jen Poo, Morales Rocketto and Stamp distributed the pins to celebrities just prior to 11 January’s Golden Globe Awards ceremony, where Natasha Lyonne, Mark Ruffalo, Jean Smart and Wanda Sykes wore them.

Of the activists’ logic to promote political messaging on the red carpet, NPR reported: “High-profile cultural moments can introduce millions of viewers to social issues.”

Stamp has cited as inspirational to her work Marlon Brando enlisting the actress, Maria Cruz, to refuse his Best Actor trophy for The Godfather while posing as Apache “Sacheen Littlefeather” on stage at the Academy Awards in 1973. Brando’s attempt to increase civil liberties for Native Americans - by drawing attention to the media’s stereotypical treatment of them - backfired in the moment but obviously lives on in a positive way.

Jane Fonda actually pioneered protest chic by utilizing the Oscars red carpet as a platform for her activism. Coming into her own as a critically-acclaimed actress, Fonda discovered her political consciousness shuttling between Paris and Los Angeles as Mrs. Roger Vadim in the sixties. At the Oscars in 1965, the one-time Ford model walked the carpet in couture crafted for her by Vadim’s friend, Coco Chanel.

But instead of waving to adoring fans camped out in the bleachers, Fonda thrust her clenched fist into the air, displaying the Black Panther’s “power to the people” allegiance sign. This Hollywood Royal was by no means posturing. After meeting Huey P. Newton following his 1970 prison release, Fonda granted the Black Panther’s “defense minister” access to her VISA card.

Fonda was not at Sundance - or she’s not yet there. But her spirit loomed large on Park City’s Main Street, where on Saturday evening at sundown, Natasha Lyonne and Elijah Wood joined a crowd of 100 people paying tribute to Alex Pretti and Renée Good. The gathering - “Sundancers Melt ICE” - recalled 2018’s Woman’s Respect Rally, which Fonda fronted at the festival (below) to promote Time’s Up’s mission to combat workplace sexual harassment.

“Love melts Ice!” the crowd on Main Street chanted. “Love melts Ice!”

Here’s hoping.

After that, I never ranked with Valentino’s camp the way I did with some other Italian fashion tribes. For example, Gianni Versace hugged me at his Paris boutique opening. Donatella Versace allowed me to hang around backstage. The Missoni family dressed me for years. Giorgio Armani invited me to dinner at his Nobu in Milan. When I was writing Made For Each Other: Fashion and the Academy Awards (Bloomsbury), Stefano Gabbana conducted our interview (without a publicist) in one of his awe-inspiring drawing rooms where he held forth before a large-scale Julian Schnabel Plate Painting.

Showing up to one of Valentino’s post-show lunches, I was so freaked out by the hauteur, I made tracks for Café de Flore.

My lack of Valentino connections proved challenging when I was working on my Oscars book. I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me about how Valentino gowned Julia Roberts for the 73rd Academy Awards - where she ultimately claimed the Best Actress trophy for Erin Brockovich.

Just as I was on the verge of turning in my manuscript - with research on Roberts primarily sourced from WWD - I struck gold at London’s Serpentine Summer Party. I got talking to Mario Testino and his partner, Jan Olesen. Oscar fashion was a big deal and not rigidly controlled by non-disclosure agreements. Jan told me that he and Mario were good friends with Cristina Viera, who had masterminded Julia Roberts’ Valentino.

Viera and her sister, the socialite Andrea Dellal, had taken the fashion scene by storm when they moved from Rio De Janeiro to London in the seventies and became top models. Aside from her statuesque beauty, Viera was known for working the best international runways with a walk which, according to British Vogue, had a “real swing.”

A day after the Serpentine bash, Cristina and I were on the phone and she was explaining how, after moving to Los Angeles with her husband - a record label boss - she put her Valentino modeling experience - as well as her infamous strut - to work for Valentino. She was a “point person” who, working from the couturier’s Rodeo Drive boutique, helped him dress celebrities.

“Come on - go out and get Julia Roberts!” Viera said to me, quoting the pep talk Valentino delivered to her over the telephone from Rome when 2001’s Awards Season commenced.

Back then, Valentino had watched as Armani, Christian Dior’s John Galliano, Ralph Lauren and Versace had all conquered Hollywood’s red carpet as it transforming to be the “world’s most powerful runway.”

Valentino hadn’t dressed an Oscar winner since 1991, when Sofia Loren accepted her Honorary Award in one of his bead-embellished originals. Jessica Lang wore a shimmering cocktail dress from Valentino’s ready-to-wear line, accepting the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Tootsie in 1983. I think she actually bought it.

A beige beaded Valentino Oscar dress which Sharon Stone described as “very Marilyn Monroe, very Marlene Dietrich,” never made it to the 68th Academy Awards in 1996 because Casino’s Best Actress nominee decided to wear black at the 11th hour.

The costume designer Ellen Mirojnick - who met Stone when she designed the wardrobe for Basic Instinct - helped her assemble the dark ensemble which included a Valentino “trumpet skirt.” It was concealed by an Armani velvet dress which Stone wore as a coat. Both pieces were overpowered by a black sleeveless Gap turtleneck which Stone decided to wear once she struck a deal with Mickey Drexler. The Gap’s then CEO confirmed that, in exchange for Stone promoting the apparel company on the red carpet, the Gap would donate funds to a homeless charity she founded with her sister.

Because so much time has passed it’s easy to forget that by harnessing the power of fashion to transform her image from Basic Instinct starlet to an Oscar nominee, Sharon Stone changed Awards Season from a humdrum series of cocktail mixers and gala dinners to a full blown fashion show.

Valentino helped her do all of that, operating behind the scenes and surely hoping for the big Oscar payday that went to the Gap, of all brands.

In the early nineties - when Oscar nominees and presenters flaunted understated Armani - Stone elevated the feminine dress code by “wearing gowns,” she explained. “I just wanted to do my version of what it would be like to go to the Oscars. Like out of a Carole Lombard movie, where everyone was dressed in ball gowns,” she said.

Stone resurrected the Old Hollywood practice of wearing diamonds, reasoning: “If you’re gonna go to the Oscars, you might as well go to the Oscars.”

On her way up, Stone reveled in the privilege of being Valentino’s muse. The perks were sensational. While she was making the forgettable Sliver in San Francisco, for instance, Valentino sent his head seamstress from Rome along with 50 couture dresses to the set. (His gift was later valued at approximately one million dollars.) After Stone landed her Casino Oscar nomination, she “clogged” the fax machine at Hôtel Ritz Paris by sending the couturier’s team specific instructions on how best to alter 24 pieces she received from Valentino’s Spring/Summer 1996 collection. By alternating Valentino couture with dresses by her pal Vera Wang, Stone probably drove “V” - as she affectionately referred to the designer - crazy.

Back to Julia Roberts & Cristina Viera.

Debi Mason, who was styling Roberts, had assembled a short list of thirty dresses for her client to consider as Oscar Week began in March 2001. The Valentino - which she ultimately wore - was not yet among them.

Seven white satin stripes accentuated the sumptuous flowing black velvet dress which was finished with a fish tail hem. “Very sophisticated, very forties movie star,” Valentino described the dress which had a big life before Roberts tried it on. After Helena Christensen debuted it at Valentino’s Autumn/Winter 1992 couture show, Christy Turlington modeled the dress in the October 1992 issue of Harper’s Bazaar.

Once Viera spotted the number - with a group of archive pieces the couturier had shipped to Beverly Hills for Awards Season - she called Mason, who was an old pal from London. She didn’t get an immediate call back but remained confident. “The drums were beating,” Viera told me. “Every designer had made Julia Roberts an Oscar dress. But it was in the air - none of them worked. Nothing made her feel special.”

Viera also went the extra mile. “I tried it on and walked around in it,” she admitted. “I went up and down the stairs wearing that dress. Before I sent anything out on behalf of Valentino, I always put it on. You have to make sure an actress can move in an Oscar dress. I had to be intelligent about it. I had to make sure that the dress would work.”

After Viera finally met with Mason and Roberts at L’Ermitage, the Oscar nominee declared: “I think this is the dress!”

The dress needed tailoring. At 10 PM - the night before the Oscars - Viera received a call from Marcy Engelman. “She needs a wrap,” Roberts’ publicist explained.

Because the Rodeo Drive boutique was closed, Viera extricated a Valentino shawl from her own wardrobe and sent it over to L’Ermitage. “I had one that was made for me to wear to the Vanity Fair party,” she remembered. “I didn’t have a choice. It didn’t matter if I felt cold on Oscar night.”

In fact, she felt quite the opposite on the big day. So did Valentino.

“Congratulations,” said Engelman over the phone to Viera on the morning of the Oscars. “Julia loves the dress. She’s wearing Valentino to the Oscars.”

The big night marked the Awards Season debut of Pierpaolo Piccioli for Balenciaga and Matthieu Blazy’s Chanel. Balenciaga’s lineup was mostly disappointing with Icelandic songstress Laufey in clinging orange crêpe plus a train and nominee Tessa Thompson in beaded chartreuse. The white gloves Leslie Mann wore with her Balenciaga dress had appeared in the Spring/Summer 2026 show but failed to cross over from the runway to the red carpet.

At one time in Hollywood a dress - or anything else - which had debuted as a part of a designer’s collection was unfit for an important awards show like the Globes or the Oscars. It was stale or “dead,” I was told when visiting Giorgio Armani on Rodeo Drive. Custom made was required.

Matthieu Blazy went the extra mile, producing Chanel originals for Selena Gomez and Rose Byrne. The dress flaunted by the Only Murders In The Building nominee looked old fashioned. Even if “323 hours” went into the making of its feathered bustier, I just couldn’t get Phyllis Diller out of my mind.

Rose Byrne is so beautiful she can wear anything. But why did Blazy make a bright green satin dress for the Globes winner? The only time that shade has ever worked on the red carpet was when Anjelica Huston wore green to honor her father, John Huston’s Irish citizenship, when she claimed the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Prizzi’s Honor in 1986.

Ayo Edebiri’s chic off-the-shoulder gown first hit the ground at Bowery subway station where in December Blazy’s staged the Métier d’Art show celebrating Chanel’s enduring “love story” with New York.

The Globes marked the third outing for Look 14 from the dramatic Spring/Summer 2026 ready-to-wear show which introduced Blazy’s Chanel. Before Maya Rudolf wore the shimmering long-sleeve sweater dress on Sunday - accompanying her husband, Paul Thomas Anderson - who triumphed winning Best Director, Best Motion Picture and Best Screenplay for One Battle After Another - Sofia Coppola and Gisele Bündchen had already sported the style at red carpet events in New York and Doha. Rudolf pulled it off, even with the tricky hanky-point hem. But I wondered why she wasn’t wearing something unseen?

For decades now VIP Relations fashion teams have been at work behind-the-scenes in Los Angeles. Watching E! Live From The Red Carpet I was scratching my head about why so many looks needed more oversight, were too prom queen or just ordinary.

“Finally some fashion….” I wrote in a text to my dear friend, Nicholas Mellamphy, as I watched Jennifer Lawrence strutting along the red carpet in her custom Sarah Burton for Givenchy ensemble. Composed of a “satin shawl-collar bomber” a “slashed” tulle dress with sequin embroidery, a matching clutch and “powder pink” satin sandals, this magnificent fantasia was the night’s big winner for me. I also applaud Lawrence for breaking the monotony of basic black that’s governed awards shows for a few years now.

I’m all for sobriety in our times of strife. Burton could have gone there because Hubert de Givenchy gave Hollywood the little black dress. But the former Alexander McQueen Artistic Director has a big job to do reviving the ailing Paris couture house. I’m guessing she’s going the distance with Lawrence, whose time as a Dior brand ambassador might be over. Jonathan Anderson’s loss is Burton’s gain. I’m excited to see what the Die My Love Globes nominee - who lost out to Jessie Buckley - wears next.

The strapless satin Dior dress modeled by Buckley - a Globes winner for Hamnett - wasn’t flattering. It needed better shoes.

As Business of Fashion has observed, a red carpet presence builds awareness and credibility” for any designer. Yet unlike the behemoths, independent names are without the budgets to gift gowns to celebrities or contract them to secure their loyalty. That’s why I am always impressed when a star uses their time in the spotlight to promote an up-and-coming indie. At the Globes, Jenna Ortega lost to Hacks star Jean Smart but she gets top marks from me for wearing Dilara Findikoglu’s fringe-embellished satin turtleneck dress. The Turkish designer - who worked at Martin Margiela under John Galliano - is also a Kylie Jenner favorite.

Hours before Kylie’s boyfriend, Marty Supreme’s Timothée Chalamet got a Globe, the reality star/beauty mogul stayed true to her KarJenner roots, usurping the moment to promote Cosmic Intense, her new fragrance, on Instagram. A member of Kylie’s glam squad could have held her back from spraying the scent all over the crystal baguette straps of the sequined column Saudi couturier Mohammed Ashi crafted for her. Perfume’s chemical ingredients - including alcohol - can damage beadwork.

The Smashing Machine is a box office disaster, although Emily Blunt made the most of her Globes nomination for her supporting role in the film by teaming up her stylist, Jessica Paster with Louis Vuitton’s Nicolas Ghesquière. Subtle flourishes enhanced the elegance of Ghesquière’s minimalist Vuitton stunner, from the high neckline (which eradicated the need for a necklace) to the one-shoulder “cape overlay.” The immaculate cut brought to my mind the sculpted Balenciaga red Oscar dress Ghesquière made for Nicole Kidman in 2007. Blunt’s ensemble will surely prove inspirational to real women - say, a bride-to-be or someone in search of special occasion finery.

Teyana Taylor triumphed at the Globes - winning Best Performance by a Female Actor in a Supporting Role in Any Motion Picture - for her fiery portrayal as Perfidia, a militant activist in One Battle After Another. In the draped black satin asymmetrical Schiaparelli bustier gown the feisty performer looked perfect from every angle. I’ll even give the silver-rhinestone “bijou thong” embellishing the backside a thumbs up because this Globes winner is going all the way.

Best dressed lists commending the style of celebrities and other notables are all over social media and newspapers right now as 2025 draws to a close. I’m all for the cultural equivalents of these annual roundups because promoting the year’s finest books, movies and music supports the arts and also prompts me to acquire work that exercises my mind.

But roll calls ranking the sartorial achievements of the rich, famous and theatrically gifted are just a complete bore and totally irrelevant simply because the majority of the individuals making the cut are dressed by stylists who are rarely, if ever, credited for their handiwork.

Enough complaining!

The festive season has inspired me to honor something more natural - namely, the trees which designers have inventively dressed for Christmas. These yuletide beauties showcase the craft and process of fashion. Those erected in public spaces are cultivating gatherings of curious onlookers which nurture the sense of community that pushes the industry positively forward.

Braving the biggest crowds I’ve ever experienced in London’s West End, I recently set out to view some of the trees up close, including a fabulous creation exhibited on Selfridges’ ground floor which the fashion production designer Emily Pugh made from tiers of red and pink ombré-effect tulle. Pugh’s imaginative spin on the imitation tree (below) lends a chic-factor to the department store’s current Christmas collaboration with Disney and all the while captures the floaty femininity of Simone Rocha and Cecilie Bahnsen’s coveted clothes.

Thistles are woven into the branches of the “lobby tree” - which Burberry’s creative director Daniel Lee thoughtfully conceived for Claridge’s. Working with Scotland’s national flower was Lee’s way of paying tribute to the unseen hands producing the brand’s sought-after winter scarves in Elgin and Ayr. The eye-catching textural quality the purple plant’s prickly leaves lend to Lee’s towering achievement brought back a painful memory of losing my footing and accidentally falling into a thistle patch while touring remote rural England with my late father. I tumbled over for the same reason Lily Collins’ Emily Cooper slips on a muddy slope while truffle hunting in Season 5’s opener of Emily in Paris - inappropriate footwear.

Bows, which symbolized unity in the Victorian era (when Burberry was founded), also cover Lee’s tree. To emphasize the pertinent theme, Lee had the bows crafted from bold contrasting shades of luxe surplus fabric.

His natural wonder is the 17th in an annual series of trees which have been erected during the holiday season at Claridge’s. Paula Fitzherbert launched the initiative by inviting John Galliano to conceive trees for the art deco landmark hotel over two consecutive Christmas seasons from 2009. Paula is the charismatic global head of communications for Claridge’s owner, the Maybourne Group. Alber Elbaz, Dolce e Gabbana and a trio including Marc Newson, Sir Johnny Ive and Michael Howells, the late production designer, have all masterminded their own trees and yuletide installations upon Paula’s request. Although the Ritz Paris can take the credit for exhibiting the first “high fashion Christmas tree” in 1963.

After Coco Chanel “complained about [the] dreary old trees” which were displayed at the fabled luxury outpost in the early sixties, Charles C. Ritz - its then owner - enlisted Fromentin to create a tree to please his crankiest resident. Fromentin was a parurier renowned for handcrafting silk flowers for the great Paris couturiers. Working secretly from the Ritz Paris’s basement, Fromentin’s team stripped the needles from a statuesque dried fur, swathing its naked branches with white ostrich plumes before trimming it with silver tinsel and gilded baubles. The creation “delighted” Chanel.

Four years later, as one of 22 cultural figures partaking in a Christmas charity fundraising exhibition at New York’s Hallmark Gallery, Chanel art directed her own blue spruce, festooning it with iridescent glass prisms (below). Rock crystal came to be recognized as a “Chanelian” decorative signature although she picked it up from José Maria Sert. The eccentric Catalan muralist was Chanel’s artistic mentor as well as the longtime husband of her best friend, Misia Sert. Famously, the Serts decorated the magnificent Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré apartment where Chanel lived and hosted parties for the Ballets Russes in the early thirties.

Exploring the props department at London’s Royal Opera House, Sir Paul Smith - who conceived Claridge’s 2024 lobby tree - dreamed up a fun “peek behind the curtain” decorative theme for the 18-foot tree now lording over Sir Paul Hamlyn Hall, the Covent Garden theatre’s sweeping atrium and public space.

Until last year, Marie-Christiane Marek masterminded a splashy annual exhibit and charity auction of fashion Christmas trees - albeit conceptual spins on the genuine specimen. The fashion capital’s heavyweights - Elie Saab, Jean Paul Gaultier (below), Jean-Charles de Castlebejac, among others participated in the proceedings organized by the beloved host of the popular French cable TV show “Paris Modes.” Unfortunately, according to the “Designers Christmas Tree” Facebook page, the auction is not taking place this year.

Donatella Versace posted her Christmas message on Instagram this week standing with her brown Labrador, Kayla, before a shimmering tree beautified with green and gold globe ornaments. “At a time of such instability and hate, my thoughts are with the children of the world who are suffering through no fault of their own,” she writes. “This year, I am supporting those charities that care for children in need. I urge you all to do the same if you can.”

Thank you, Donatella & Kayla!

Thanks to all of you for your supporting my Substack.

Happy holidays! I’ll be back next year.

The first time I saw Breathless proved life-changing. I was studying film at the University of Western Ontario, in London, Ontario, Canada. The winter afternoon on which my class gathered to watch it was cold, snowy and dark. I had already seen color-saturated fairytale Paris movies starring Audrey Hepburn including Funny Face, Paris When It Sizzles and Sabrina. But I was deeply moved by how Godard portrayed his actors making mischief in the French capital and the countryside in a realistic, sensual manner. A scene in Nouvelle Vague relates how the auteur director innovated a technique to help achieve this, by asking his DoP, Raoul Coutard (Matthieu Penchinat) to utilize Ilford filmstock, which was normally used for still photography, yet served to enhance the “reportage” look of Breathless.

While Godard’s radical technique entranced me, Seberg’s genuine insouciance also proved inspirational. Three years after I watched Jean-Paul Belmondo’s Michel Poiccard accompany Seberg’s Patricia strolling down the Champs-Élysées - as she hollered: “New York Herald Tribune…” I was working as a fashion reporter in Paris, flaunting Agnès b. and enjoying the occasional dalliance with completely inappropriate French men.

Before I landed in Paris - I also had the chance to portray Patricia in a short film my university class produced as a Breathless homage. The opportunity proved to be one of my life moments where I just completely went for broke and stopped at nothing to get the part.

Today - a full thirty-six years (gulp) after my film professor held forth from his lectern casting the production, I can’t recall why I missed raising my hand when he was assigning Patricia. I sat at the back of the class. In any case, when I discovered that a beautiful and diligent student - who sat up front - landed the role, I just wasn’t having it. I swiftly raised my hand, interjected - stating something along the lines of: “We have to back up!” I moved to a desk closer to the front and stated: “I am playing Patricia.” That was that.

Decades later, there I was on the Paris Métro making my way to my Nouvelle Vague wardrobe fitting. The scene in which I was set to appear was a party celebrating the birthday of Godard and Seberg’s mutual friend. Richard Linklater was shooting the festivities at Maison Prunier. The fabled Paris seafood restaurant is an Art Deco landmark famed for its shimmering turquoise mosaic exterior and luxe interiors, including gilded black marble walls. Pascaline Chavanne - the film’s costume designer - was working with Chanel on the wardrobe for Nouvelle Vague’s female leads, including Deutch as well as Alix Bénézech, who was cast as Juliette Gréco. My look - a cream colored skirt suit, handbag and shoes - had seen better days. Understandably. The production’s budget was modest. Yet its neutral hue and classic silhouette felt like 1960 to me and was perfect for blending into the background.

The fitting lasted about five minutes. I was keen to talk to Pascaline because, prior to Nouvelle Vague, the three-time César Award winner had costumed Becoming Karl Lagerfeld (Hulu) and was gearing up to dress Angelina Jolie for Alice Winocour’s Paris Fashion Week drama, Couture.

Showing me around the costume shop, she removed from storage one of her César-winning wardrobes - of which she seemed most proud - namely, the period finery she produced for Roman Polanski’s 2019 Dreyfus affair drama, J’Accuse.

A week later, the suit was on and I was crossing busy Arc de Triomphe. Before reaching Prunier, I had to stop nearby for hair and makeup. The building where it was all being done was packed with crew members, the cast and extras. Paolo Luka Noé - who immortalized Seberg’s husband/manager, François Moreuil - was studying his lines. Once my makeup was done and after someone introduced me to the key hairstylist, Franck-Pascal Alquinet, I was directed to one of his team members. Then everything went wrong.

The hairstylist shaped my chin-length mane into a matronly up-do. Think: mother of the bride rather than 16th arrondissement retro chic. When it comes to relying on a professional whose services involve manual craftsmanship - be it a housekeeper, a nail technician or a hairstylist - I’ve always had the best results when I “leave-it-to-the-professional.” It’s one of my mantras. That’s probably why I didn’t stop the stylist and suggest that she apply a tiny little edge when sweeping back and parting my hair.

I’m not a particularly vain person but the strong feelings I have about my hair stem from the experience I gleaned early on in my journalism career when I veered off the fashion reporting path and worked as a beauty editor for British Cosmopolitan and Frank, a short-lived magazine Nick Logan’s publishing company, Wagadon, conceived in the nineties as a rival to Bazaar and Vogue.

Aside from all the amazing free skincare I amassed - as well as an impressive perfume collection - the best thing about the job was having some of the world’s finest hairstylists and colorists care for my tresses. The experience taught me that fantastic hair - and changing it up every so often - means that as one advances in age, there’s no need for Botox, filler or plastic surgery. In addition, I also discovered that the great hairstylists are the beauty industry’s sculptors, whom I treat with reverence and gratitude.

For over a decade my hair was cut and colored at John Frieda’s Mayfair salon. It remains one of the greats and at one point Ivana Trump, Bianca Jagger and I frequented the same stylist, Luca Collina. He had suggested that I might consider styling my hair in a similar way to Inès de la Fressange. After I arrived in Paris, I found her stylist, Delphine Courteille and became a client at her salon, which is situated in a courtyard behind Hotel Costes. As I made my way to Maison Prunier for my on-camera moment, I was wondering to myself why I hadn’t visited Delphine that morning.

After gathering with the extras (below), Richard Linklater positioned me directly behind the birthday girl who opened the scene by standing before a large, candle-laden cake as the crowd around her sang “Joyeux anniversaire” in unison. I blew an early take, bursting into song before all the others.

“Coupé!” bellowed the First AD.

He marched forward and politely advised me about exactly when to sing. There I was all over again, at the back of my university class not paying attention. This time, I moved on silently, lipsyncing my way through the remaining takes. Between them when I adjusted my position - moving evermore into the background - I noticed that one of the male extras briskly sidled in to fill my former position, which was completely fine with me.

Because I hadn’t actually done any homework - figuring that turning up and standing around was what was required to animate a film scene’s background - meant that I was a terrible extra. Those with whom I was surrounded were seasoned professionals who were accustomed to working long hours for the likes of Netflix France. They were extremely gifted at moving their lips, guffawing silently and exchanging knowing glances in the subtlest of ways. They also knew how to do it all over and over and over again, effortlessly.

I’m grateful for the experience and I love Nouvelle Vague. But as I walked home, long past midnight in freezing cold Paris, all I could think about was my mantra: “Leave it to the professionals.”

Typically, I don’t pay that much attention to social media brouhahas. But this time, it’s different. Last night, amid our annual Halloween party, my former assistant, Sona Saldahna, mentioned that she was dressing up as Jacqueline Kennedy. I handed over my well-worn model of Gucci’s 1961 G1244 handbag which she once favored. Sona was basing her costume on what we both agreed was Jackie’s best era - namely, her time as the free-spending, yacht-tripping haute couture devotee, Mrs. Ari Onassis.

Moments later, as Sona and I joined others on our stoop, there was talk of Jack Schlossberg. Mrs. Kennedy’s dishy grandson - who is a political commentator and writer - lives in a nearby apartment block. This morning, after I noticed a People magazine post about Schlossberg slamming Fox for her tasteless, tone-deaf and desperately attention-seeking party trick, an ad for my favorite NPR show - Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me - announced that “fashion icon Julia Fox” was today’s special guest. As I composed this, Wait Wait’s host, Peter Sagal was gushing all over Fox.

Yuck! NPR, cancel the episode’s repeat!

On X last night, Schlossberg posted: “Julia Fox glorifying political violence is disgusting, desperate and dangerous.”

Agreed. What’s more, Julia Fox is not a fashion icon. Or at least she isn’t one now.

Genuine fashion professionals - and that includes celebrities - do their homework. They are aware that clothing which symbolizes deep human suffering is best left untouched. A litany of gross sartorial errors seen at nineties runway shows made this clear.

Back then, for example, Rei Kawakubo faced a massive backlash and was banned from show venues across Paris after her turn-of-the-century, British-themed menswear presentation - where loungewear inspired by “gentlemen” in “dressing gowns and pajamas…” - in fact resembled “uniforms worn by inmates of Nazi concentration camps.”

The PJs were striped. The models flaunted “close-cropped hair.” The show’s date, 27 January 1995, coincided with the 50th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.

Had someone in Fox’s camp dug around, they would discover that exceptional boundaries protect the “Blood Suit,” as it is known at Washington’s JFK Presidential Library and Museum.

A deed associated with its donation to Washington’s National Archives, by Caroline Kennedy, prohibits it from public display or access for research purposes. This is to prevent dishonoring President Kennedy and Mrs. Kennedy’s memory as well as to safeguard “members of their family…from grief or suffering.”

Because of the protections around the Blood Suit, details related to it are often subject to error. For example, it was not a genuine Chanel creation which Mrs. Kennedy wore when her husband was fatally shot but rather a joint production by Coco Chanel’s Paris house and Chez Ninon, the First Lady’s preferred Park Avenue, New York dressmaker. The collaborative production process shielded the fashion-forward U.S. President’s wife from criticism for wearing foreign-made finery while serving her country. “The suit was cut in Paris, made with Chanel buttons…[trimmed with] Chanel grosgrain ribbon, [made from] Chanel tweed but it needed to be sewn for Mrs. Kennedy in America,” wrote Justine Picardie in Coco Chanel: The Legend And the Life.

Julia Fox and whoever helped her dream up her costume - as well as her fans now defending the choice on social media - might want to dip into Picardie’s excellent biography in which an entire chapter is devoted to the Blood Suit.

ends

Eugénie’s husband, Louis Napoléon was like his uncle, Napoléon Bonaparte, a dictator. Because his government collapsed in the wake of the disastrous Franco-Prussian War, she is a forgotten cultural figure. Ultimately, she retired to the French Riviera where she cruised aboard her yacht and befriended Jean Cocteau. While she admired the up-and-coming poet’s multidisciplinary artistry, he appreciated her once phenomenal style influence.

The advent of photography coincided with Eugénie’s rise to the French throne after her marriage in 1853. And so, as her image appeared on collectable cards costing pennies, she proved the first female sovereign whose physical likeness could be examined from every angle and this made her a global sensation.

The First Lady of the United States, Mary Todd Lincoln, for example, instructed her dressmaker to whip up “elaborately trimmed,” “hoop-skirted” gowns according to Eugénie’s preferred fit-and-flare mode. That is, “low enough to show to advantage her rounded shoulders, bosom and arms,” noted one of Mrs. Lincoln’s biographers.

Franz Xaver Winterhalter’s monumental 1855 group portrait, The Empress Eugenie Surrounded by Her Ladies-in-Waiting (above) popularized the seductive look which scandalized Louis Napoléon’s old-school courtiers.

Winterhalter’s postcard-perfect scene captured a fête champêtre at one of the seasonal parties their Majesties hosted at the trio of historic palaces nearby Paris which served as their bolt-holes. Eugénie’s chiffon frock seductively unfurled like a delicious meringue from her infamous, alabaster pale shoulders, highlighting her “slightly aquiline features,” and “her graceful, yet somewhat languid repose of manner,” as Laura Redding Searing of the New York Times once described her attributes.

“Crème fouettée,” sniffed Émile Zola of Eugenie’s billowing crinoline gown.

Eugénie was obliged to change her clothes four times a day, in keeping with the imperial custom to “advertise” French luxury goods at court. She “loathed standing for hours,” at state functions and, after she discovered the technical virtuosity of Charles Frederick Worth, the British dressmaker became her official “costumier.”

Because a Worth gown “needed only one fitting instead of the usual half a dozen,” required by other Paris dressmakers, Eugénie “demanded” a new one “every day,” wrote her biographer, Desmond Seward.

She always “paid cash,” for her finery. Because of her largesse, Worth (below) built the world’s leading fine dressmaking operation and went down in history as the “father of haute couture.”

To ease her elaborate preparations for state functions, architect Hector Lefuel installed elevators within the ancient Tuileries Palace, where Eugénie lived. Down one shaft, from an oak-lined wardrobe chamber, where all of her “clothing [was] arranged in perfect order,” to her vast dressing room below, came wicker mannequins which, made to match her slight measurements were styled from top-to-toe by “Pepa.”

So the Empress nicknamed Madame Pollet, a small Spanish woman “with black piercing eyes,” who, as the keeper of her gowns, furs and jewels, officiously issued orders to the dressing room’s top floor via a speaking tube to ensure that her Majesty’s finery went on and off without a hitch.

After disrobing, the exhausted Empress was known for tossing the French crown jewels “pel-mel” to her lady in waiting, Amélie-Césarée Carette, who caught the “precious stones - many of them represented a fortune...” with the skirt of her long dress, which she held out in front of her.

The fabulous trove included Marie Antoinette’s magnificent pear-shaped diamond earrings, sumptuous tiaras, including one that got away and others displaying currant leaves and corn ears, rendered in diamonds, plus an elongated corsage by the French Crown jeweller, Alexandre-Gabriel Lemonnier. It showcased ‘La Regente Pearl,’ the world’s largest natural-shaped pearl (below) which was described as the “size of a pigeon’s egg.”

As for the Crown Diamond, this dazzling yellow stone was as “big as a walnut.” A surgeon once unearthed it from the stomach of an insurgent who had “swallowed it,” and then “died in great pain confessing his larceny,” amidst an invasion of the Tuileries Palace in 1848. Eventually, Eugénie had it mounted on a hair comb.

Thanks to his wife, Louis Napoléon’s dinner parties were the best dressed. A gilded Oriental robe flaunted by a wine server in Paolo Varonese’s great work, The Wedding at Cana (the largest painting at the Louvre, it is exhibited across from the Mona Lisa), motivated the gold embroidered kaftan she had made for Scander, her Nubian footman, to distinguish him from the rest of the Tuileries lackeys. They were all clad in green, scarlet and gilt-trimmed liveries.

The surtout de table (or, ornamental table centre piece), represented the apogee of Charles Christofle’s career. The Paris jeweler produced 100 objects for Napoléon III’s heaving table adornment - including a winged victory figure, representing France, and an eagle perched atop a crowned letter “N.”

The pieces - which are today exhibited at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris - were conceived according to Christofle’s pioneering ‘Galvanoplastie,’ electrolysis process of silver-plating bronze.

The ancienne noblesse de France, who looked down upon the Emperor and Empress as parvenus, ridiculed the innovation, believing the sovereign’s table adornments should be made from sterling silver.

Louis Napoléon begged to differ, believing that precious metal would be a target for looters which he knew would plunder the Tuileries eventually. “The silver services belonging to sovereigns too often find their way into the melting pot,” he reasoned upon appointing Christolfe in 1855.

Hopefully, the melting pot will not be where Eugénie’s stolen jewels land. The thieves are still at large.

Leo’s Bob is as complex as PTA’s film is layered. Bob’s a lover, a fighter (or, an explosives expert) and a doting single dad to Willa, Chase Infiniti’s freedom fighter-in-the-making. Continuous takes of the French 75 robbing banks, and liberating a migrant detention center, conjure documentary verité. Car chases are redolent of The French Connection.

One Battle After Another has an old school vibe. The French 75 bring to mind the Symbionese Liberation Army, Patty Hearst’s kidnappers, and take their name from the cocktail Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine ordered in 1942’s Casablanca. Even though Bob is a bit of a loser, Leo lights up the screen with a potent charisma evoking Clarke Gable and Gary Cooper.

In the final act, as the film evolves into a father-daughter caper, I thought about how DiCaprio has often starred alongside emerging actresses in sweeping epics from The Revenant’s Grace Dove to Lily Gladstone in Killers Flower Moon. That intangible spirit of generosity enhances his work. You guessed it. I am a fan girl.

I caught Friday night’s New York Film Festival opening premiere of After The Hunt. Luca Guadagnino’s psychological thriller revolves around Yale University’s philosophy department. Ayo Edibiri’s gifted student, Maggie Price wreaks havoc after she accuses Andrew Garfield’s professor, Henrik Gibson of rape. Portraying professor Alma Olsson, Julia Roberts gets caught in the middle and she’s mesmerizing.

Although Guadagnino’s films are renowned for their style, his world building in this one is distracting. When Alma was pouring her heart out to her psychiatrist husband, Frederik Mendelssohn (Michal Stuhlbarg), I was staring at their sofa as well as wondering about their wall sconces and entryway benches.

Guadagnino’s longtime costume designer, Giulia Piersanti built Alma’s stylish wardrobe around fantastic blazers and jeans. It’s a walking casual-chic fashion show, a sort of midway point between Arket and Louise Trotter, Bottega Veneta’s new designer. Alma’s large gold jewelry by Ilaria Icardi - Victoria Beckham and Phoebe Philo’s former design director - is covetable and would funk up Tiffany & Co. But it is way too opulent for academia.

Midweek, between the movies, I watched the Metropolitan Opera’s revival of Franco Zeffirelli’s landmark 1987 production of Turandot. The Met Opera’s opening night is all about black tie, ballgowns and high jewelry. It’s sort of the opposite of the Met Gala because the mega-rich and almost ordinary folk go all out dressing themselves to be photographed before the Romanesque arches fronting Wallace K. Harrison’s opera house and beneath its Swarovski crystal Sputnik chandeliers.

I don’t believe in best and worst dressed lists, but doesn’t Gina Gershon (above) look great in Peter Copping for Lanvin at the Met Opera’s opening night?

Finery does not have to be designer to be beautiful and interesting. But as a woman in tennis togs breezed past me and my friend, James Chau, as we made our way to the gift shop during intermission, we both wondered if the time had come for the Met Opera to issue some sort of dress code so sporty casual doesn’t cramp the style of this fabled institution. Waiting in line at the champagne bar, I was taken aback by the plethora of Hoka and On Running shoes padding around the ruby red carpet. Men were flaunting shorts with T-shirts. I spied one in a baseball cap. WTF?

Turandot, Giacomo Puccini’s love story centers around the formidable Princess Turandot. The third act aria, Nessun dorma, became a global phenomenon after BBC TV used Luciano Pavarotti’s soaring 1972 performance as the theme for the 1990 FIFA World Cup in Italy. It reached number 2 on the UK Singles Chart.

Michael Fabiano’s rendition was one of countless showstoppers in the Met’s Turandot revival which originally was among a lineup of opulent Zefferelli productions which transformed opera from elitist musical theater to must-see entertainment in the eighties.

By curtain call, I was crying. If you can’t see Turandot live, find it on Youtube.

Rather than watching movies, I met new people, caught up with old friends and got caught in the rain. My life was not transformed but the change proved inspiring and was prompted by a lecture society in Rutland inviting me to deliver a talk about Coco Chanel.

The opportunity came my way because of Coco Chanel’s Roaring Twenties. To this beautiful book - which has just been published to accompany an exhibition at the New National Museum of Monaco about Chanel’s life on the French Riviera - I contributed a chapter about La Pausa. This is the spectacular villa Chanel built for herself on a cliff overlooking Roquebrune-Cap-Martin.

Before the earthly paradise was mega-gentrified at the turn of the new millennium, I vacationed there, sunbathing on the rustic beaches where Chanel bronzed her limbs and I hiked along the coastal pathways where the couturier power-walked in espadrilles. Because so much has been written about La Pausa, I did my best to unearth information for the book which Chanel’s biographers have bypassed.

For instance, it’s long been thought that Chanel was devastated by her breakup with Hugh Grovesnor, 2nd Duke of Westminster, which occurred just as La Pausa was completed. Westminster helped Chanel plan and complete the villa, furnishing it with antiques from his grand homes in Scotland and Cheshire, England. According to Jean Cocteau, Chanel took their breakup in stride. “Deep down, she despises W,” he noted in a 1926 diary entry. Cocteau also wrote that Chanel “couldn't stand Scotland and preferred the sun.”

The lecture took place amid a Tube strike which severely disrupted London. I got through it by walking everywhere and sharing a taxi, after I was lucky enough to flag one down on my way back to London from Rutland. My first co-passengers were friendly Spanish bankers. They were racing against time to catch their flight home to Madrid. After I dropped them at Paddington Station’s Heathrow Express, an exhausted teacher became my next passenger. After she tried to hail my taxi, we discovered we were both bound for Kensington. When the traffic got really heavy at Notting Hill, we hopped out and walked together through the leafy streets, talking about love and relationships along the way.

Earlier that day, the London Times broke the news that Cefinn - a womenswear label launched by Samantha Cameron - had ceased trading. Samantha is the wife of David Cameron. He’s the former British Prime Minister who resigned in 2016 after presiding over the “Brexit” referendum supporting the UK leaving the European Union.

A year after that happened, “Sam” - as the former First Lady is familiarly known - launched Cefinn, deriving the name from the first initials of her surname and her children’s names. Explaining Cefinn’s demise, the Times quoted Graeme Moran of Drapers magazine who observed that the pandemic had “all but killed the need for this ‘conference call to cocktails uniform.’”

To me, Cefinn’s problems were much deeper than the pandemic. While “Sam Cam” was manufacturing her stylish dawn til dusk workwear, the London designers who she had once favored were grappling with the extreme economic complexities brought on by Brexit including tricky custom procedures, costly tariffs, trade barriers and the demise of tax free shopping for visitors to the UK.

If ever there was a Marie Antoinete moment in British fashion, Cefinn was it. London Fashion Week - which starts on Thursday - is on life support because of Brexit.

Amid New York Fashion Week, Edward Enninful launched the quarterly magazine, 72. I wasn’t out looking for a copy. But as I breezed past the newsagent across from Liberty’s department store, Craig McDean’s cover - starring Julia Roberts - really popped.

Leafing through 72 felt much more satisfying than scrolling on Instagram. The glossy pages showcase a mix of work by big name fashion professionals as well as up-and-comers. The highlights of the first issue for me are Excess All Areas and The Modern Face. The former is a sumptuous high jewelry story by photographer Gabriel Moses and the stylist Julia Sarr-Jamois. The latter is Phil Engelhardt’s 14-page makeup story (below) masterminded by the magazine’s beauty director Sarah Brown.

Buying a copy, I noticed that Terry Jones, MBE, was standing next to me smiling. The legendary publisher of i-D launched Enninful’s career by appointing him at age 18 to be i-D’s fashion director. Terry and I had never met. As we exchanged pleasantries, I discussed how Mayfair was quieter now that Condé Nast had vacated Vogue House in Hanover Square.

My opinion changed a day later when I joined a crowd visiting Sotheby’s on Bond Street to view Pauline Karpidas: The London Collection. The sweeping exhibition was staged across a series of display rooms to conjure the flamboyantly elegant Bayswater apartment in which the Manchester-born collector lived with a trove of Surrealist art she acquired with guidance from the renowned dealer, Alexander Iolas. Tomorrow under the gavel go the paintings, sculptures plus the contemporary furniture a trio of interior designers - David Gill, Jacques Grange and Francis Sultana - commissioned to set off Pauline’s art collection.

Thanks to Richard Bucht - the art books specialist at Hatchards - I was lucky enough to snag one of the last exhibition catalogues. Reading it brought back memories. Gill and Sultana became my mentors after I joined a festive weekend which Karpidas hosted to celebrate a John Currin exhibition which Sadie Coles curated at her gallery on Hydra. While the sale is set to break price records, I have a hunch that the show will prove influential. Just look at that carpet!

It was October 1978. Travolta’s Douglas DC3 aircraft had just touched down at Linate airport. The show conveniently coincided with a costume fitting Armani was conducting with the actor to portray the lead in American Gigolo.

Dressing the star of Saturday Night Fever and Grease was a huge get that pushed Armani - Nino Cerruti’s former right hand - out from behind Walter Albini to be the leader of a group of designers who established Milan to be Italy’s fashion capital. The “magnificent nine” had originally united around Albini - the “Mediterranean Great Gatsby” - in the early seventies to shift the country’s fashion show season to the nation’s banking capital from Florence and Rome.

Along with Armani and Albini, the group included Anna Fendi, Krizia’s Mariuccia Mandelli, Aldo Ferrante, Rosita and Tai Missoni, Gianni Versace and Muriel Grateau, who was then designing for Mario Valentino. “Between Florence and Paris, there was an international city, Milan and there was no need to establish a commercial market since it already existed: anyone setting up a stand on a Milanese piazza would be sure to sell everything,” Tai Missoni told American Vogue.

Milan’s path to greatness was no walk in the park. The city rose to be a world class fashion capital as the Prima Linea and Red Brigades terrorist networks - which formed in the aftermath of May 1968 unrest in France - “menaced the country [with] authoritarian challenges,” reported the New York Times. “Corruption [went] unchecked. Pollution [was] unparalleled and crime unbounded.”

Despite Milan’s “sky high prices at hotels and restaurants…” buyers, press and models flocked to the city amid the mayhem because “this is where the ideas start,” a Neiman Marcus executive told WWD.

As we all know Richard Gere ultimately took over from Travolta on American Gigolo. The protracted task of costuming Paul Schrader’s 1980 crime thriller - along with its sleeper hit box office status - burnished Armani’s name and inspired him to work in Los Angeles, where he created Hollywood power dressing, instigated the red carpet fashion phenomenon and costumed a number of Martin Scorsese movies.

All of this action centered around Armani’s Rodeo Drive mega-boutique, which was designed by Michael Chow. After outfitting the waiters at Chow’s signature restaurants in tuxedos, the Italian fashion kingpin launched his own global restaurant empire.

Backing Nobu Matsuhisa’s Milan restaurant, Armani created fashion’s foodie scene by showing other designers that it was possible to partner with superstar chefs. Long ago, this committed vegetarian also integrated plant-derived fabrics to his design repertoire.

R.I.P. to one of the absolute greats.

The intimate tone of Paradise Now crosses over to Karl right from the beginning. After an establishing shot presents Lagerfeld’s Left Bank Paris home, the designer’s voiceover leads viewers inside. “I’ve spent so long playing a role that it’s impossible for anyone to know who I am,” Lagerfeld confesses. “And even for those who I care about the most, I want it to be impossible.”

Late into his career, Lagerfeld was taken to task for embellishing details related to his heritage and upbringing in Hamburg during World War II. The film refrains from getting into that - or wading deep into his family background - probably because the controversy fizzled. And in any case, what’s most interesting about Lagerfeld is his work.

Hooker impresses the point by breaking down Lagerfeld’s accomplishments with the help of insiders - including the designer’s collaborators, friends, celebrity ambassadors plus the communication directors who put out fires when their boss candidly aired his views to the press.

There are a lot of talking heads in Karl, although maybe because Lagerfeld’s been gone for a while - he passed away on 19 February 2019 - his associates were comfortable opening up to Hooker about the designer’s trade secrets and complex personality.

The dishy dialogue enlivens a rich tapestry of dazzling footage from archival to observational and Rohan MacDonald’s stylish animation, which illuminates Lagerfeld’s fascination with 18th-century Versailles. With Lagerfeld weighing in every step of the way - his rapid-fire-pace voiceover alternates between English, French and German - it all adds up to an authoritative, immersive and highly entertaining journey spanning the period of fashion which gave rise to the designer-driven system.

The secret to Lagerfeld’s success, Hooker implies, were the masterly skills he gleaned from the beginning of his Paris fashion career. Archival footage places viewers back in 1954, when it all began for Lagerfeld as he applied his childhood passion for drawing to master the manual craft of fashion illustration. Creative directors running megabrands today rarely produce sketches which have traditionally served as blue prints for finely-made garments.

Lagerfeld trained his hand assisting Pierre Balmain. He was the Paris couturier who was mentored by Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas before he went on to clothe the likes of Marlene Dietrich, the Duchess of Windsor and Sikrit, Queen of Thailand. In Balmain’s autobiography, My Years and Seasons, he alluded to the exacting standards to which he himself was subjected as a newbie, noting how the early illustrations he produced - toiling alongside Christian Dior for Lucien Lelong during the dark days of World War II - were routinely rejected by his imperious boss with “no more than a quick glance.”

As for Lagerfeld’s time working under Balmain, he confesses on screen: “I wanted to commit suicide but I was there to learn.”

Jean Patou was long gone by the time Lagerfeld took over as artistic director of the house established by the refined Parisian in 1912. Yet - as Lagerfeld tells it onscreen - guiding Patou, for five years, from 1958, imbued within him another skill which distinguished his professionalism - namely, understanding how to get the best out of “petite mains” seamstresses whose time-honored skills bring Paris couture to life.

Patou was Coco Chanel’s greatest rival. Often their work was distinctly similar. So doing time in Patou’s atelier surely helped set up Lagerfeld to achieve his greatest triumph - transforming Chanel from a dormant house - which derived much of its revenue from perfume sales - to its current mega-brand status.

In the midst of a dazzling sequence examining Lagerfeld’s transformation of Chanel, Marie-Louise de Clermont-Tonnerre - the label’s longtime communications director - reveals she had suggested him for the top job a decade before he got it in 1983. Of Lagerfeld’s assured takeover, Tom Ford opines to Hooker: “The concept of taking a younger designer and putting them at an old house and have them reinvigorate it was absolutely new.”

Not exactly. When Lagerfeld got started at Chanel he was already six years into his astonishing 55-year tenure working alongside the five Fendi sisters who enlisted him to help create a fashion identity for the Roman leather goods house their parents established in 1925.

Late into the documentary, Lagerfeld encounters challenges. John Galliano and Alexander McQueen - the creative directors of Dior and Givenchy, respectively - are lending rock star energy to fashion in the late nineties. Lagerfeld is caught off guard. He fights back by recruiting Galliano’s muse, Lady Amanda Harlech, to serve as an inspirational source for Chanel.

“Amanda came to Karl because all of a sudden, when Galliano's career took off, Amanda was not included, and she had been very instrumental in helping John establish his look,” says Ford. “And so I think that was a perfect moment, and very smart of Karl to say, ‘Okay, fine, Amanda, come to me.’”

Comparing Galliano and Lagerfeld, Harlech (below) offers: “The greatest difference between working with John was the pure speed with which Karl worked. He didn't obsess over a piece of fabric. He saw things grand-scale - immediately.”

Amid Paris’s Cool Britannia period, Lagerfeld stumbles. “In October of 1998 Karl had developed a handbag that was truly hideous, and then his ready-to-wear collection just seemed off the mark,” states Sarah Raper Larenaudie, a former WWD Paris bureau chief.

Weathering the storm - “rumors that things were falling apart, that [Chanel was] going to need to bring somebody in…” - Lagerfeld embarks on the notorious strict diet which helped him shed 92 pounds in 13 months and prompted him to jettison his trademark Yohji Yamamoto suits in favor of Hedi Slimane’s slimline tailoring. Reflecting on his personal transformation, Lagerfeld says: “Vanity is the healthiest thing in life, because you cannot let go of yourself. You have to be careful. You know, if you wake up and the pants are too tight, it's a bad moment for a superficial person like me.”

Me, too.

Of his decision to set in motion H&M’s series of designer collaborations - which, for better or worse, instigated fast fashion mania - Caroline Le Bar, Lagerfeld’s head of image and communications, recalls: “I get a call from Karl. He's telling me about a proposal he has coming from H&M. And I have to be honest, my first reaction was like, ‘Never do this!”

The mayhem erupting as Lagerfeld’s mass-produced garments go on sale is played for laughs. “I saw one guy biting a woman for a coat, really, in 10 minutes, nothing [was] left in the store,” adds Le Bar, still shocked by the commotion which erupted at an H&M in Paris. “It was a mess. The mannequins were nude.”

Ultimately as we all know, Karl Lagerfeld outlasted his rivals. He propelled Chanel through the social media age by staging blockbuster shows at the Grand Palais which were all over Instagram. As Hooker presents highlights of the best, it’s clear his subject transcended fashion by elevating his métier to be performance art.

Karl screens at the Toronto International Film Festival (4- 14 September).