Sunday, June 20, 2010
So I'm staying in this hotel and I'm indulging in my favourite shameful illicit pastime - watching E! News while waiting for Keeping Up With The Kashardians to start - and it's 40 Of The Greatest Most Shocking Ever Crimes Against Fashion! or something like that.
Anyway, it's odd because they keep selecting really wonderful outfits and then clamoring to say how evil and weird and unlovely they are. And the critics themselves are looking evil and weird and unlovely, but no-one mentions that.
One editor who seems to have had her contour blush sprayed on by a car detailer, to form a metallic bronze triangle the top corners of which exactly meet the chevrons of her caterpillar eyebrows. She looks like a New Yorker cartoon of Marissa Tomei, only writ large on the small screen.
Another is sporting a turquoise and emerald faux chiffon painterly floral scarf tossed Women's Institute-style around the shoulders of her faded black cotton drill blazer. Is she Camilla Parker Bowles's second cousin? Is she for real? It's confusing.
So here comes Britney Spears, say #21, skipping down the red carpet in matching denim with former beau Justin whateverhisnameis; then Cher looking like a demented goth, and Lady Gaga being Lady Gaga, as you might you'd expect. So far so predictable.
Then suddenly, in at, say, #12, trots Charlize Theron looking unutterably chic and polished, regal and beautiful in truly stunning Dior couture satin, flaring smartly from a cross-over sash at the hip and iced with a dramatic, oversized bow. She looks like a Cecil Beaton debutante in this dress; she looks her best.
"Oh no!" whines polyester scarf woman. "That bow looks like it weighs a tonne. Why can't she wear something sexy and plunging?"
"Yikes," says some other blind person. "What's that all about? Did she know she was going to be bored so she brought her own inflatable pillow?"
Next up, it's Scarlet Johansson, resplendent in a silk Louis Vuitton prom dress with a structured little bodice that perfectly flatters her ample bosom without encouraging it to spill out all over the place and stop traffic. She looks delectable, and bang on trend (circa 2007 when the snap was snapped).
"Ugh!" cries contour blush lady. "What's with the black eyebrows and blonde hair? Can't she afford to get them dyed?"
Then it's SJP's turn to be lambasted for looking hip and eccentric in tartan McQueen. And accessorised...by a tartan McQueen himself. Oh no! We wouldn't want that now, would we? What was SJP thinking? Was she on crack? Never mind that every woman who's ever read Vogue would eat worms for the chance to stand in the same room as McQueen, never mind be dressed by him and have him turn up on her arm at the Met. Only now she never will because poor McQueen is no more.
So. It got me thinking about this taste thing. What is taste? Why is it so intensely personal? Is there such a thing as good and bad taste? Who decides the bench mark? I suppose if you have to ask you don't have it and all that, but then I look at Helena Bonham Carter wearing a sandwich on her head with a riding crop and a white corset and I think, well, vive la difference!. Life would be boring if we all thought the same way. But, heck that scarf is an abomination - my pick for crime against fashion #1.
Posted by Mrs Press at 3:36 PM