I’ve actually never been to the Oscars ceremony in LA, but I’m pretty sure it’s not as fun as the Council of Fashion Designers of America Awards here in New York. (And if you don’t believe me, you can ask the lovely and amazing Jessica Chaistain, who said as much last night.) Yet, that’s what the CFDA’s are called: The East Coast Oscars. They’re the most prestigious award in the fashion industry, which drew the big wigs out last night: Jessica presented Riccardo Tisci of Givenchy with the International Award, Linda Evangelista gave my former Style.com buddy Tim Blanks the Media Award for excellence in journalism (and it was clear to see how wonderful a writer he is with his touching speech), Ethan Hawke gave costume designer Colleen Atwood the Board of Director’s Tribute and none other than Ralph Lauren presented Vera Wang with the Geoffrey Beene Lifetime Achievement Award. But truly, the highlight was seeing Hilary Clinton take the stage to present Oscar de la Renta the Founders Award. I’ve never considered myself a die hard Hilary Clinton fan, but my opinion was tipped last night. She was self effacing and composed. She made jokes about her penchant for pantsuits, even suggesting a reality show called ‘Project Pantsuit.’ And when Oscar took the stage to say that she would be our president in 2016, she stood there graciously and with such composure I thought to myself that, yeah, I’d probably vote for her too.
Those awards were given to people who knew they were getting them, but there were some competition awards too. I was beaming from ear to ear when Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez from Proenza Schouler, a couple of boys I’ve known for more than a decade now (scary! We’re old!), took home the top prize for womenswear. Thom Browne won the menswear prize, and accepted the award in a pair of tuxedo shorts, which is a look I was rocking with Louis Vuitton in Shanghai last summer. (Just sayin’, Thom! Haha!) Phillip Lim took home the award for accessories, and then the Swarovski newcomer awards went to Erin Beatty and Max Osterweis of Suno for womenswear, Dao-Yi Chow and Maxwell Osborne of Public School for menswear and Pamela Love for accessories.
I will say this about the CFDA Awards: They are a marathon and not a sprint. Actually, in my case, since I had just gotten off a plane from London, it was more of an Iron Man. You have to be dressed and pressed at 630pm, and this year there were three post events. First was Vera Wang, who was nice enough to give us some food, in the Pool Room of the Four Seasons restaurant on 52nd Street. It’s one of the most marvelous rooms in New York, which couldn’t have been more different from the vibe at the Westway, a former strip club turned sort-of-still-strip club on the Westside Highway, where Riccardo was having his after party. In between that was the obligatory cameo at the Boom Boom Room. Clearly. There were drinks and dancing and merriment. Because, as I said before, if there’s one thing that fashion people know how to do, it’s have fun. Jeez, you still don’t believe me? Check out some of this pictures:
Captions, from the top: Riccardo with Jessica, Marina Abramovic and Lauren Santo Domingo; Vera and Bee Schaffer; Jen Meyer and Nicole Richie; some handsome fellows, Dan Stevens, Andy Cohen and Douglas Booth (you can read my cover story on Douglas Booth from an issue of VMAN here); Michael Kors with his dates for the night, Karolina Kurkova and Cody Horn; Lauren, Lazaro and Jack; Tim and his partner Jeff; Hilary Clinton on stage with Oscar de la Renta; Adriana Lima not having it; Candice and Prabal; Lily and Alessandra; Erin Wasson and Alexander Wang; TeenVogue’s Amy Astley with J Crew’s Jenna Lyons; Cynthia Rowley with Lindsey Vohn; Tory Burch and Kristina O’Neill; Ladyfag and a bunch of boys outside Westway; Vogue’s cover girl Kate Upton and Riccardo; me and Jessica; the best posers of the past two decades: Linda Evangelista and Karlie Kloss.
“God saved my soul – you save the fucking rain forest.” Yes, I was listening to Kid Rock recently, which is where this lyric comes from. That line stuck with me, and I was thinking about it again yesterday when I came upon this video of the world’s largest ‘ice calving’ ever caught on tape. (And then I had to look up ‘ice calving,’ which I would have assumed had something to do with very cold baby cows. But it actually is the term applied to chunks of glaciers falling off and into the ocean.) The video is beautiful, a real spectacle of natural beauty: We see a chunk of ice the size of Lower Manhattan crack, splinter, shoot up more than 600 feet in the air, and then is carried away into a blustering, freezing abyss. Sick, right?
When the arctic action finishes, some academic type comes on the video to say how this particular slide has been dangerously, frighteningly accelerated. “It’s a miracle and horror,” he says. In the past 10 years it retreated more than it had in the previous century, apparently. That stuck with me too. Look, I’m one of the last people to talk about environmental issues. I’m a lazy conservationist. I was born on April 22nd, which is Earth Day, so I’ve always felt an obligation to Mother Nature and do my best to recycle and reuse. But I’ve been naughty. I print more things off than I need to and waste paper. I’m always bound to leave a TV on or the lights on when I leave. When I’m home i Missouri, I go on joy rides with friends and waste gas. Let’s just say I feel my Earth Day guilt often, like when I use my aerosol hairspray.
These habits are hard to break. (One of the things I miss most about living in New York is car culture.) But Kid Rock and this video have stuck with me, and I hope they stick with you too. I know the video is long; at nearly 5 minutes it might as well be an internet eternity. But it’s a work of beauty, and a work of greater conscious. And if we all start being just a little more considerate about our waste and the world’s depleting resources, I’ll feel like this ice didn’t calve for nothing. And for the record, even Kid Rock started recycling.
“Cannes you handle it?” Oh yes, there are many puns that one can associate with the Cannes Film Festival, the two weeks of glitz and glamour that take place every May. But handle it, we did. My favorite part of this year’s festival was the prevalence of fashion people, of good friends. And though it felt like fashion week with a packed schedule of cocktail parties and dinners, friends like Karlie, Joan, Rosie, Cara and Lily didn’t have a slew of fittings and shows. So, essentially, we could kill it in Cannes. Milla Jovovich, a seasoned pro at the festival, showed us the ropes (meet at the Martinez) and when to leave (which, unfortunately, we didn’t listen to).
The festivities were bookended by The Great Gatsby’s opening night party, a swell affair which would have been swell-er had it not rained, and the amFAR benefit, which was unique because the full spectrum of style was represented, from couture to Eurotrash. Apart from chauvinistic chubby old men trying to outbid each other (but it all goes to charity, so it’s OK), the highlight of the amFAR gala was the fashion show that Carine Roitfeld put together. The theme was gold, so there she was along the runway, cheering on not just the supermodels that had flown in for her, but also fashion favorites like her daughter Julia, Giovanna Battaglia and Anna Dello Russo. I witnessed an minute with Harvey Weinstein backstage, seeing a sweeter side of the notoriously not sweet man when he seemed genuinely committed to getting people to auction off those lots. And well done to amFAR, which raised more than 25million Euros (as in not dollars) at this year’s festivities.
Oh yeah, there were movies too. The highlights of my schedule were The Great Gatsby, The Bling Ring and, a personal favorite, Behind the Candelabra, the Liberace film starring Michael Douglas in opera drag and Matt Damon as his surgically altered, drug addicted lover. I’ve already given my two cents about the Gatsby with a review on this blog a few weeks ago, but to see it again was to get back on the Baz Luhrman Express for yet another colorful, saturated, optically exhausting trip. A personal highlight of this Cannes trip was sitting next to Elizabeth Dubicki at a dinner the night before the premiere, and discovering that the Aussie is just as sweet as she is sophisticated. Cate Blanchet: watch yo back!
The Bling Ring was a harder pill to swallow, merely because Sofia Coppola’s pace is so much slower and Cannes is permeated with a sense of frenzy. Seeing it the night after Gatsby was like going to a piano recital after spending the entire previous evening rolling your face off at a rave. But I adore Sofia’s brand of filmmaking, and this film had a few elements that she omitted from her previous cinematic effort, Somewhere. Notably, there was suspense and action and, to which I hope rich absentee parents around the world will take note of, a moral lesson. Much kudos too to Emma Watson, who did a truly marvelous performance playing a spoiled, delusional, self-promotional brat. As a friend described her performance, it was a convincing bit of American drag. And, may I just say, she looked marvelous in her mini skirts and temporary (at least they had better been temporary!) tattoos.
What is there left to say about Behind the Candelabra? My first though in seeing that film is that Matt Damon may be the most underrated actor of this generation. He was fantastic, playing both a hopeful, starry-eyed 17-year-old (which, for a man in his 40’s, is impressive enough) and a cracked out, bitter ex-boyfriend. He wore face prosthetics. And a thong. Acting! Michael Douglas was sensational too, playing a bedazzled, blinged out Liberace. And soon after the film starts and we see their affair take off, you forget that these are married men. You believe them. More acting! I will never understand how this film, with those two big stars and two of their best performances, landed in the hands of HBO. (Was the subject matter too gay? Perhaps, in a world where gays cannot still get married.) But then, this may be a good thing because those who would be afraid to go up to a movie theater and ask for two tickets to quite possibly the gayest film ever made can now see it in the comfort of their homes. Or closets, more precisely.
Captions, from top: Which one is not like the others? Milla, Joan, me, Lily and Rosie; Jessica Chastain, the queen of Cannes, with me and Karlie; Joan on the red carpet at the Behind the Candelabra premiere; my new crush, Elizabeth Dubicki; Cara and her new Leo the Lion tattoo; Harvey, the King of Cannes, and Rosie; Natalia in an Ulyana Sergeenko couture dress; Wendi Murdoch and Brian Grazer at the Gatsby afterparty; Isla Fischer, Jen Meyer and Dasha; Florence Welch onstage at the Gatsby party, and she was phenomenal; the wondrous Dita von Teese; Giovanna at the amFAR afterparty, with a friend; Olympia and Pucci’s Peter Dundas; Joan Smalls with Bubble, our mascot in Cannes; Rosie gives good frame; a surprise appearance from Mark Ronson; lapping it up with Carine and Rosie; Jess Hart in Alaia; Adrian Brody being THAT guy on a motorcycle; Karlie coming down to Gianluca Passi’s level; Stacy Keibler gives good body; Milla, learning how to do an over the shoulder from Chris Brenner; Carine Roitfeld cheering on her daughter Julia on the amFAR runway; Zach Quinto and I book ending the beauties Toni Garrn, Karlie and Joan; me having an intimate moment with my friends Rosie and Joan; Christian Louboutin on the lawn, playing photographer; the image of me, Karlie and Dasha that he caught.
You may not know his name, but you’ve probably seen the work of the illustrator Risko. If you’ve ever read an issue of Vanity Fair, for example, you’re familiar with his work because it’s on the last page of the magazine. He does the celebrity portraits which accompany the Proust Questionnaire. So when V magazine sought out the most important illustrators for its May issue, Risko was an obvious inspiration. I met Risko in New York, and we dished on how he got started (Warhol, of course) and what makes an easily illustrated face. Read my interview and see four of his works inspired by four of the most important faces of fashion — Giorgio Armani, Donatella Versace, Ralph Lauren and Karl Lagerfeld Lagerfeld — below. But first, Risko’s portrait of me, which hangs proudly in the loo of my New York City apartment. (I wanted to hang it somewhere I was sure everyone would see it.)
Many artists have idolized Andy Warhol, but few have had the guts to walk up to him at a signing and ask for a job. Such was the all-or-nothing approach of illustrator and artist Robert Risko, then 22, now known only by his last name. “I was pretty ballsy back then,” says the world’s most celebrated caricaturist, 56, who like the King of Pop Art grew up in Western Pennsylvania. “Of course Warhol was the hero of Pittsburgh. He was my role model. I mean, my God! When I saw his Marilyn Monroe, I thought…I get it.”
Risko’s talent for composition emerged when he was five years old in profiles he drew of his sister and again a few years later in sketches of his teacher, Sister Monica, at his Catholic middle school. At Kent College in Ohio, he thought he’d be a fine art painter and was influenced by Van Gogh and the Cubists. Yet friends always asked for his caricatures, and he found himself earning pocket money by drawing funny faces for passersby on the boardwalks of the Jersey Shore and Provincetown, Rhode Island. “But I wasn’t happy drawing caricatures for people on the street for $5 when I knew I had talent as a painter. So when I moved to New York, in 1976, I said, I’m going to fuse these things together. I’m going to take my love for Cubism and combine it with the ability to do likenesses and raise the level of taste of the average man.” The result was a style influenced by Picasso, the Bauhaus movement, and 1930s Vanity Fair caricaturists Miguel Covarrubias and Paolo Garretto.
Which brings us to Warhol. “I met him while I was out for the day on Fire Island and he was signing copies of Interview with Halston,” Risko says. He waited in line with his copy, and when it was his turn to get Warhol’s signature, he showed him his portrait of Diana Ross. “And he said, ‘It looks exactly like her. That’s great.’ And I said, ‘Well, I think I should work for your magazine.’ That was that.” It was 1978 and he started doing caricatures for Interview, including an infamous cover of Dolly Parton. In the early 1980s, Risko was working part-time as a retoucher at Vanity Fair when the magazine poached him from Warhol’s Interview, much like they poached Annie Leibovitz from Rolling Stone. In the past four decades at VF, he has drawn politicians, actors, artists, divas, and anyone else of note; since 2002 his work has appeared on the back page of the magazine, with its Proust Questionnaire. His work has also appeared in The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, Playboy, and Esquire. Next up is a series of specially commissioned pieces for the Macy’s flagship in New York, which is currently undergoing a $40 million refurbishment. His portraits of Macy’s pioneers, like Madonna and her daughter, Lourdes, Florence Henderson, Al Roker, and Martha Stewart, will be hung in the top tier eatery, Stella 34 Trattoria.
What makes someone easy to draw? Clearly defined and contrasting facial features. Risko says he looks at the architecture of the face, which goes beyond decoration and makeup. “I think that’s what makes my work stand out, it’s anatomically focused,” he says, adding that sometimes subjects don’t recognize themselves at first. “Without all of the superficial icing, some people don’t know who they are.” Certain blondes, like Goldie Hawn and Jennifer Aniston, can be tough, because their public images rely so much on makeup (can you imagine Goldie without her false lashes?) or they have very soft features. But, he says, someone like Bill Cosby or Meryl Streep is fun to do.
One perk of being drawn by Risko is that his medium naturally flatters. “I’m the best skin doctor a person could ever have,” he laughs, likening his work to Egyptian hieroglyphs. “I’m convinced that Queen Nefertiti was a squat, four-foot-tall, short-necked woman who told whoever was drawing her picture, ‘Give me a longer neck. Longer!’ Sometimes I think I’m in the same business.”
In the second installment of my Mr Blasberg’s Questionnaire column, which is an exclusive feature to the Valentino Garavani Museum, I meet one of modern fashion’s most outspoken icons: Italian Vogue’s editor in chief Franca Sozzani. Her presence is familiar at fashion shows, her calm demeanor and long blonde hair folded into the front row wearing whatever Alaia garment her friend had made for her. But beneath the calm of the sea is a torrent of ideas, opinions and convictions. Here, she gave us a peek into some of them.
Who do you think is the most stylish woman in the world? Tilda Swinton.
And the most stylish man? Sean Penn.
Do you have a biggest fashion regret? To have been at too many fashion shows.
Was or is there a trend that you’ve never understood or never followed? Sorry, but I usually anticipate them.
How long does it take for you to get dressed? Hours.
When a friend is dressed terribly and asks how they look, do you tell the truth? I say, “You look awful!”
Is there a fashion era that you wish would comeback? Renaissance.
Do you have a favorite Mr. Valentino moment? His life.
Have you taken a tour of the Valentino Virtual Museum? What did you think? I presented it in NY when it opened and I love it.
What is your favorite ensemble in the museum? (And why?) The animal prints. Valentino did it 30 years before any other designer.
To tan or not to tan: That is the question? I love white.
Heels or flats? Flats.
What is your favorite color? Dark Blue.
Do you have a favorite fashion memory, perhaps a fashion show or a shoot? Steven Meisel’s “Make Over Madness” story in Italian Vogue. It was about plastic surgery.
What is the greatest piece of fashion advice that you’ve ever received, and from whom did you receive it? “A white shirt is forever” is what my father would say.
In the debate over whether fashion can be art, where do you stand? Fashion is fashion.
If you were not doing what you are doing professionally now, what do you think you would be doing? I never thought about doing anything else.
What do you love to do? Read.
What do you hate to do? Meetings.
What would you say is your most marked characteristic? Curious.
What would those who know you well say is your most marked characteristic? “Open.”
Where are you most inspired? Everywhere.
If you could go back in time and speak to your teenage self, what would you tell him or her? Never get married.
How much importance do you place on the personal style of a significant other? I care only about my personal opinion.
It has been said that when we die we can’t take anything with us; but if you could take just one thing, what would it be? My dog’s ashes.
Photo: Franca with Giancarlo Giammetti and Valentino on Valentine’s Day of this year
Who remembers ASmallWorld? I remember joining the social networking site sometime after Friendster, which I was an early adapter to, and before Facebook, which I’ve only been on for about a year. Most of my posh, toffy English friends were on it, and I wanted to fit in. The website sort of fell through the cracks in recent years with the onslaught of so many other social networking sites and apps (can someone please explain to me what the hell Snapchat is, and what the point is of sending a picture you can’t keep is?), but it’s making a comeback. The site has a new chairman, Patrick Liotard-Vogt, who is teaming up with its CEO Sabine Heller to remind people that ASmallWorld is a fun world. And they’re not messing around: This weekend, they brought a slew of fun, fabulous folks to Marrekech to celebrate the site’s relaunch. Why Marrakech? Because, I was told, it’s the chicest travel destination and still authentic. Sure, I’ll take it.
I missed the first night because of a few obligations in New York, which was a shame because that’s when the snake charmers came out. But I more than made up for it in the following days, which had me riding camels (they stink and they spit, but aren’t they adorable?), drinking mint tea that was so sugary I think I have diabetes and at least a few cavaties, and stalking the local souks for some tangines that I will bring home but never cook out of. It was a good casting too. Olivia Wilde was beautiful, charming and non-annoyingly passionate about sex trafficking activism; Dianna Agron is sweet and a wonderful swing dancing companion; and there were even a few unexpected rocker chick moments, courtesy of Alison MOsshart and the legendary Marianne Faithful. (You could hear the latter’s raspy growl all through the pool of the Taj Palace Hotel, not that anyone was complaining.) Another important moment: The return of DJ Duo Harley Viera Netwon and Cassie Coane. Cassie came out of her two year retirement for this gig. It had been a long time since I harassed them about playing my requests (who doesn’t have Ricky Martin on their playlist!?) from the floors of such sophisticated hunts in New York as Lit and Avenue. So it seemed the paradise of Northern Africa was a good place for a nostalgic reunion.
Captions, from top: The view from my room at the Taj Palace; Olivia Wilde and Kick Kennedy kicking it at dinner; Alison and Dianna at cocktail hour; the girls at the pool, from left: Natalie, Laura, Laure, Josephine, Valentine and Harley; Natasha Lyonne and I getting our humps on; Catherine Baba and the great Marianne Faithful; Waris and Meredith; Alison at a restaurant that taught her how to work a candelabra hat; Atlanta in repose; The Baba in her poolside look; Andrew and Natasha; The lovely Love’s, Nathalie and Laura; Sabine and friend; mint tea for the ladies Mary Charteris and reunited DJ duo Harley and Cassie; Valentine and Josephine on the dancefloor; Waris and another friend; Henry Holland at sunset; Henry, David, Poppy, James and I in the hotel’s top secret (and empty) disco; Laure and Lily; Ben and Chelsea; a disgruntled nut seller in the market; Cassie’s party trick is poorly balancing a drink on her head; Ashley Avignone’s flower toss on the dance floor; me and the most beautiful Dianna
Last weekend was a doozy. In fact, I’m still recovering. (Apologies for the delayed nature of this post, but I couldn’t get myself together any sooner.) I am fatigued from the fashions. In merely 72 hours of each other, I had my own birthday party and the Met ball. I can’t say they were equally glamorous — Anna Wintour, you beat me again! — but both involved costumes, dancing, high drama and the imbibing of spirits.
I love a good theme, and so does Giovanna Battaglia, the stylist who threw my birthday party at home with her boyfriend, Vladimir Roitfeld. We had been trying to think of a good theme party for months now, and my birthday seemed like a good enough excuse. (But even if I wasn’t born a Taurus, I think Gio would have still thrown this party.) It was her idea to do a 60’s theme, so we settled on Peter Sellers’ seminal 1968 film The Party as the inspiration. I was happy because I’m always looking for an excuse to wear a turban with a jewel on it. And lucky for a few of my girlfriends – Karlie Kloss, Lauren Santo Domingo, Jacqui Getty, Anne Hathaway, Kristina O’Neill and Giovanna among them – Marc Jacobs turned to the 1960’s for his spring collections of both Marc Jacobs and Louis Vuitton, so they’re costumes were sorted. The focal point of the evening was an eight foot tall pink elephant made of carnations, a present from my friend Fabiola Beracasa. And the whole thing came together under the watchful eye of my Southern sister Rebecca Gardner.
The rest of the weekend was a bit of a blur: Lauren did a dinner for Balmain’s Olivier Rousteing the next night, followed by the Dolce & Gabbana store opening; and then on the Sunday night I went to the Rihanna concert. She was late, of course, and would grab her crotch on every song, even the ballads, but I still love her music. Then it was back in drag for Monday night’s Met gala. Surely, you’ve seen some pictures from the Met. (And if you haven’t, go to www.vogue.com right now because they have hundreds and hundreds of the best ones from the night.) The Met gala has been referred to as the East Coast Oscars because Hollywood teams up with the New York fashion crowd for a night of glamour and excess. This year was more fabulous than last, but not as fabulous as next year. There were afterparties at the Boom Boom Room and Giancarlo Giammetti’s house. No one went home without aching feet and eyes exhausted by the splender.
I was quite proud of my ensemble this year. The theme was ‘PUNK: From Chaos to Couture.’ So my friend Taylor Tomasi Hill commandeered me a last minute harness, and then my friends at MAC came over to apply some temporary tattoos to my hands and neck. I had PUNK on my right knuckles and THIS on my left. (I had thought of a variety of four-word options, but I thought those were the most appropriate.)
It was one of those weekends in New York that just feels kinetic. Annie Hathaway went from brunette to platinum blonde from my birthday to the Met, for example. People know that the aesthetic stakes are high. How high? Let’s just say that I had to use paint thinner to remove my tattoos. It stung like hell, but it was worth it. For the record, I’m not just talking about the paint thinner here.
Everyone has a The Great Gatsby story. Some of us were forced to read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic in high school, some of us discovered it on our own. Some of us thought Gatsby is a pathetic lying shrew, some of us thought he is a helpless romantic. My experience with Gatsby was a dynamic one: Assigned it in a high school English class, it was the first book I was forced to read and then fell in love with. I didn’t like books as a young man. Believe it or not, I was a jock. (Stop laughing.) But Fitzgerald was the writer that ignited a literary passion in me that blazed through the rest of his books and on to the rest of the great American writers, and still burns today. Even when I shopped at strip malls and wore Old Navy sweatshirts to school dances back home in Missouri, I strived for glamour. And Gatsby gave it to me. That book reads as a film. When I was a teenager reading it for the first time, I fantasized about how I’d want to see it on the screen. In fact, that’s what Truman Capote famously said when he was assigned to write a (never-made) screenplay of the film: The book is a movie.
Because we’ve all imagined our own versions, to make the book into a film is bold. But Baz Luhrmann did it. Not that this is news. There are billboards and bus signs and magazine covers and Prada parties and Gatsby inspired pink seersucker Brooks Brothers suits and every entertainment show in the world was in New York last week for the splashy premiere at Lincoln Center. I was at that premiere too. My first impressions? I found it absolutely invigorating and optically exhausting. It was basically more saturated version of Moulin Rouge but without the singing and spruced up in 3D. (I say this is a compliment, but I’ve read reviews that say the same thing as a complaint.) Luhrmann gave all of us who read the book as a young person with childhood fantasies of fancy flapper bashes exactly what we wanted: Glamour. The pearls literally flew off the screen. When Gatsby is famously ripping his beautiful shirts out of his closet they feel like they’re falling on the audience as well as Daisy.
Leonardo DiCaprio was swell as Gatsby. But then again, I’ll support any film that gets Leo wet. (See: Romeo + Juliet’s balcony scene, the second half of Titanic, all of The Beach. In Gatsby, when he first meets Daisy he does so in a wet white suit.) I’ve always been a fan of Tobey MaGuire’s ability to act almost exclusively with his eyes too, despite finding his Carraway character in a sanitarium to deal with alcoholism a little far fetched since he is the moral compass of the book. I at first had some trouble reconciling Carey Mulligan with the part of Daisy because, well, I always had a distaste for Daisy’s disingenuous fragility and false innocence. But despite Mulligan reading too smart to play that sort of ditz, she gave a strong performance. (Her best line? “I love large parties. They’re so intimate. Small parties don’t have any privacy.” Luhrmann has said that some of the dialogue in the film came from the book, but since there isn’t that much dialogue in the book he also pulled from letters between Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, as well as other books with similar characters.) The supporting roles were suburb too: Joel Edgerton (who, randomly, I just watched in Kinky Boots on an airplane and fell in love with) was strong and surprisingly likeable as Tom Buchanon, and he has the best opening sequence in recent cinema history; Isla Fischer does a fabulous floozy; and the Australian actress Elizabeth Debicki, who plays Daisy’s BFF Jordan Baker came out of no where and held her own.
The day after the New York premiere, Vogue’s Anna Wintour and The New Yorker’s David Remnick hosted a luncheon for Luhrmann and the cast. Luhrmann said something during his (comedically animated and unscripted) presentation that I thought was spot on: “Now is the time to look at Gatsby as a social behemoth in modern culture.” The director first got the idea to do the film while taking the Orient Express train through Siberia. The idea was solidified after the recession of 2008, which was similar (though much less drastic) to the self-reckonings many were forced to make when the Roaring ‘20’s moved into the Great Depression. The things we are seeing happening today — “the moral elasticity of Wall Street,” as Luhrmann put one example — were happening then too. Was The Great Gatsby not a warning sign of unchecked materialism in a superficial world? Can we not say the same about today? A girl at my table at the luncheon compared Bernie Madoff to Gatsby. Yes, that was a stretch, even for me who loves some exaggeration. But it did get me thinking.
Some people are arguing over the morality of the character of the great Gatsby in this film. Is DiCaprio gross? Is he gross enough? Should he be that likeable? That’s a longer debate and one that has, and will, go on for generations. Luhrmann said at the luncheon that he thought Fitzgerald predicted the end of the Jazz Age and the oncoming Depression. I’m not sure if that was conscious or not as Fitzgerald was a raging alcoholic who reportedly was barely conscious, especially at the end before he died of a heart attack at the age of 44. But lets not forget that the book ends (spoiler alert!) with the murder of a man all alone in the gilded pool of a big empty house, a man who made himself through tricky deals and lies and loves a woman who has selfishly just saved her own skin. Luhrmann said something so beautiful about Nick at lunch: “He came to work in bonds but he ended up writing a book about a guy everyone forgets and his life began.”
It was inspiring to have Luhrmann’s insight into his movie. One of the biggest criticisms of the film will be his use of 3D. (Indeed, in the car chases in the film I was reminded of Janet Jackson’s music video for ‘All For You,’ where she and her back up dancers vogue whilst riding colorfully graffitied carriages on imaginary animated subway rides through the future.) Yet, he made a good point: Fitzgerald was fascinated by the modernities of his time, most obviously a fast lifestyle and affection for jazz music. To the latter, he brought up Jay-Z, which at first seemed like an unlikely fit for a film about the Roaring 20’s, but again Luhrmann insisted Fitzgerald would have been a Beyonce fan. “The music? I knew there would be eyeball rolling but Fitz, if he was anything, he wasn’t nostalgic. He put jazz and pop front and center in his text,” Luhrmann said at lunch. “It made the text immediate, he made it now.” And specifically about Jay-Z? “One of the most professional people I ever worked with.” Jay-Z ended up a producer of the film.
I must say this film was well researched. Luhrmann took liberties, but he wasn’t irresponsible with them. The guy even took an ocean liner to New York from London because that’s what Fitzgerald would have done, and then took a helicopter ride around Long Island to get a feel for the suburban beach mansions that Gatsby and Buchanan would have driven by on their rides into town. He took Mulligan down to the Princeton Library in New Jersey, where there is a trove of Fitzgerald’s letters, to fine-tune her awareness of the dialogue.
At the end of the day, the question all movie reviews ask is: Should people see this film? My answer is yes. Oh, absolutely. It’s good fun (who doesn’t love a good pool party scene?) and even if you skip (you shouldn’t) the moral lesson of an unchecked American Dream the costumes are wonderful. Personally, I love too that the film has snapped Fitzgerald’s book back into the zeitgeist, and has gotten people excited to read it again. At Luhrman’s lunch, they gave out copies of the book and, unlike most goodie bags at these sorts of functions that people throw away, everyone took theirs with them. Hell, I think it’s great when anything reminds people that there are these things called books sold at these things called bookstores. And the fact that The Great Gatsby is back on the best sellers lists is incentive enough for me.
My Grandma Betty (who’s real name was Grace Almeda Clark Egendoerfer, and I still don’t know how you get Betty from that) was a fair skinned red headed beauty who was born on a farm in Ruble, Missouri. She left school at 4th grade, moved to the big city of St. Louis, married a man who worked at the Anheuser Busch brewery and started a hair salon called Touch of Glamour in their basement. When she was still a young woman, she was diagnosed with cancer and given 6 months to live. She wasn’t having that, though. She beat the fucker with radiation and the determination of a generation who redefined what it meant to be a modern American woman. Skin cancer is scary stuff. Betty was constantly diagnosed with melanomas (basal cell and then epidermoid) and was constantly having them removed. And it was that awareness that kept her alive into her 90′s, which I was particularly grateful for because it meant I was able to meet one of the strongest, sweetest, most stubborn, most courageous women I have ever known. So when SkinCeuticals asked me and a couple of my friends (Sean Avery, Annabelle Dexter-Jones, Rebecca Minkoff, Padma Lakshmi) to appear in this awareness video, I thought of my Granny and said yes immediately. Watch the video here, and check those spots!
Every time I come to LA, I ask myself the same question: Why doesn’t everyone live here? I was there for over a week and didn’t see a single rain drop. I was drenched in sun and sunny people. I saw friends and their babies and had long lunches of healthy food and went on hikes and bought a whitening toothpaste. If that’s not paradise, I don’t know what is.
I flew straight to LA from Venice, where I was with Louis Vuitton. It was no easy commute, let me tell you. But oh, was it worth it! After changing into a Gucci floral suit in the confines of a tiny airport toilet, I went straight from the airport to the MOCA gala, which had a fabulous Hans Ulrich show. Robert Pruitt designed bongs because it was 4/20 (don’t worry, Mom, I didn’t partake) and me and Harry Brant tried to climb a giant inflatable panda bear that was a sign for the portable toilets. There was a marching band and then a performance from the Go Go’s. I got home a little worse for wear, with all my luggage, to bunk at my friend Jacqui Getty’s house.
Jacqui is, essentially, the mother hen of all wayward West Coast youths. She is kind and compassionate and hysterical. She also knows how to throw a mean Mexican themed birthday party, which she did for me. (The bar was set high for her, especially after my ‘country bumpkin couture’ birthday party. Did you see the videos from that? Or did you see the sweet Polaroids that Karlie Kloss took for me at the party?) She opened her home – and a bunch of tequila bottles – to the coolest, sweetest, funnest girls on the planet. Even the legendary Linda Ramone came dressed in a red velvet cape, Cavalli tiara, and she gave me a birthday present I always wanted: Beverly Hills Hotel pajamas. My worst best friend Kelly Sawyer brought a cake with the best worst picture of me on it. I can’t thank Jacqui enough for that party.
The day after my birthday party I did something that would become an often event for me in LA: I changed my flight. I was having too much fun. Besides, Armani was having a party on Thursday. (I later changed my flight for another friend’s birthday, and because I wanted one last hike up Runyon Canyon. What? It was the weekend.) And who wants to miss an Armani party? It was in celebration of Sean Penn’s relief efforts in Haiti, and the actor made a speech that was touching – and probably horrifying for his publicist. He praised Hugo Chavez and made jokes about being a single man. His best line: Actors in Hollywood know how to get narcotics, but not in bulk.
The next night was a dinner for the photographer Brian Bowen-Smith that Marc Jacobs hosted. My friend Selma Blair’s face was on the T-shirt, which the waiters were all wearing. Somehow, I came home with three of them. The Los Angeles excitement didn’t end there: The following day, my friend Milla did a bar-b-que where I ate my body weight in kebabs and that night was Jessica Alba’s birthday party. A fellow Taurus. Is it just me, or is there a disproportionate amount of birthdays this time of year? What was happening nine months ago? Summer loving?
Like all passionate love affairs, however, this one too came to an end. Toward the end of the week, the LA veneer started to wear thin. I got lost in the underground garage of CAA’s Death Star of a building. On my way to the Paramount Lot for Armani’s cocktail party there was so much traffic I thought I was going to explode into a puddle of anxiety. (I hate when little old ladies walking down the street faster are going faster than you are in a car.) And after a week, I was tired of having kale salads for dinner at 7pm and being the only one who ordered dessert while everyone else was talking about stem cell facials. Though, to be fair, I will say that the lady who told me about them – and you know who you are – did have fabulously taunt skin.
I flew back to New York to a grey sky and grey days. And just as soon as I thought I was over LA, I missed again. Which only means I need to find a new excuse to go back. Anyone have any birthdays coming up?
Captions, from top: Me with a bevy of birthday babes, including Kiki D, Kelly, Nicole, Jessica, Rachel and Lauren; the worst best cake ever; Terry and China at MOCA; Harry and a panda; Cyrpien on a refridgerator; me with my favorite English flowers, Poppy and Lily; Milla and some bubbly; Nicole’s fake ‘I like you’ face; Linda and JD; Dianna and Byrdie; PC and JT (they like initials); Alessandra; kisses for Mario and RJ; the outdoor dinner table; Patrik with two Getty’s, Rosetta and Jacqui; Joy and Sam Ronson; Dianna and me; Gela and John Taylor; Noah Mills, the most handsome handy man that ever existed; Sam giving me a kiss, much to the surprise of Kelly and Jessica; the one and only Kiki D; Natalie and my wife Gia; a group shot of boys being boys; an ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ inspired selfie at Runyon Canyon; Liz and Alex Olsen, the supremo skater, at the Armani event; Sean Penn and Josh; Fergie, Rachel and me at dinner; Frankie and Miley at Marc’s dinner; Selma and Selma’s face; Milla, a BBQ hostess with the mostest; my college friend Dagny is all grown up with her hubby Cory and baby Hazel; me and Hazie; Tara and Amanda at Milla’s BBQ; Kelly and Hilary in the lawn; last call, literally, at Jess’ birthday