Sometimes we are working on so many things (documentaries with old friends, long phone conversations with old friends, taking 839173 photos with rented lenses over which we cannot stop creaming our photographer-pants, attempting to find new cost-effective processing labs in the city or by mail who will not screw up both our photos and our bank account DEAR READERS PLZ RECC, becoming very disgruntled that we had to stand in line for half an hour for the Oak sample sale when we do, in fact, write for their magazine and abandoning that wait in a self-righteous huff for whiskies with The Rejectionist with whom we are sort of half-planning a bunch of extremely excellent posts and apparently occasionally adopting her Royal We, half-planning features and interviews and other things with all kinds of lovely folks like Nicolette Mason and many more (are you NY based? are you into fashion or are you a homo or a smartypants or have nice hair or something? Do you want to Let Me Take Photos Of You and maybe also Talk About Yourself? EMAIL ME NAO), making and freezing dozens of all sorts of dumplings from all sorts of countries because WE LOVE DUMPLINGS/PIEROGIES/RAVIOLI, chewing out CVS for screwing up our film yet AGAIN why on earth did we take it there to begin with, slowly but steadily winning the war against the extremely persistent mold that came with our very cheap Brooklyn apartment’s bathroom [we find that half a bottle of red wine makes bathroom cleaning quite pleasant!], day trips to Coney Island, and so on and so forth) that there really is nothing to do other than post a few photos of what our past few weeks in this rainy spring, including, but not limited to, cats we have recently met, cute internet friends from Canada, and unexpected surprises from rolls of film leftover from this summer!
More after the jump, you know how it works.
It’s no secret that The Fifth Element has long been one of my favorite movies. (actually, in general, an aside about how I’ve always kind of been way into Luc Besson’s girls though I Have Some Cognitive Dissonance about the whole like fragile-tortured-asskicking-childlike-animallike-babe thing? ANYHOO. Clothes!)
But re-watching it last night drove home one reminder pretty hard: holy shit, those Gaultier costumes were brilliant. Aside from the obvious — Milla Jovovich in orange crotch-suspenders, Gary Oldman’s plastic-covered undercut and pinstripe coat — the over 900 costumes on everyone else in the movie do so much to create the feel of the film that’s made it so visually memorable for over a decade.
I mean, seriously. In retrospect also, there’s something so quintessentially mid-90’s about all of it too, as if Gaultier embodies something about the 90’s in the same way Balenciaga and Hedi Slimane’s Dior Homme seem to represent pop culture in 2000-2010. Looking back over his collections from the late 80’s to the mid 90’s — the cone bras, the kilts, the corsetry, the deconstruction, the lurid colours, long skirts, “tribal” and “medieval” influences — there’s an inevitable sense of playful, cheeky irreverence about it all that I can’t get enough of. Gaultier’s set for a massive retrospective, starting out at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts this coming June before traveling to Dallas and San Francisco (and fingers crossed for New York!)
As a side note — if anyone knows of a good resource for digging up runway images pre-2000, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LET ME KNOW. It’s practically impossible, which is pretty disappointing. Most of these images are from the SS07 30-year retrospective collection, which kind of doesn’t count. Alas!
Much more from The Fifth Element and classic Gaultier, after the jump.
more old film. august thru december, disposable cameras.
We’re just going to start this out with blatantly saying that I loathe anything Sex and the City related with the passion of a thousand burning suns, and the defense that’s been making the blog rounds lately — Jackie Ashley’s review at the Guardian — still falls short for me. But while it does little to control my irrepressible sneer at any mention of the franchise, it brings up indirectly a lot of issues I’ve been wrestling with lately. Ashley, a fan of the series and films, argues that a closet of Manolos, credit cards that pay themselves, an endless string of sexy men and best friends to always fall back on when they turn out to be jerks, are a female fantasy life, whereas the male fantasy life involves big cars and iPads and guns and porn, so back off and stop criticizing us for liking SATC ‘cause a girl can dream, ok?