OPINON: The hype surrounding celebrity fashion has never been more fervid, but as Paris Fashion Week draws to a close, Leah McFall (of Karori, Wellington) has never felt less inspired.
What’s happened to celebrity fashion? I don’t mean the clothes they’re wearing to the shops or in Justin Timberlake’s case, the police station. I mean the clothes they’re wearing on the red carpet. It all feels dead on arrival.
Take all the big events so far this year – the Oscars, Baftas and Globes, plus London and Milan Fashion Weeks – the outfits seemed blandly same-same. Unless you count Brooke Shields in a yellow gown and matching Crocs this week. But if you thought Shields was making a cute feminist statement about comfort being sexier than toe-pinching agony, you'd be mistaken; her people made sure to tell us foot surgery was the reason. I can’t work with this. It isn’t playful or rebellious; there is no statement here.
What about Cannes? It was overwhelmingly on message, with actors faithfully representing their brands (pale Dior and ruffly Chanel). At no point did a celebrity’s personality outshine their clothes, although Bella Hadid forgot to wear any. The only double-take was Sienna Miller naked to the waist under a gaping blazer, with wide jeans that seemed oddly full of air. It’s as if a sudden wind had whipped half her gear off, and the only thing holding her down was boob tape. She wasn’t wearing the clothes, exactly; they were wearing her.
It was hard to find meaning, unless there’s meaning in seeing someone’s knickers through their dress (Miller again, in blue Chloe. I would have loved this but for those pants). Yet this trend paled beside the Met Gala, where the memo was to wear no undies at all. Rita Ora posed in little but astring of beads. Doja Cat arrived in a swathe of wet cotton, occasionally using a hand to cover her visible breasts. J-Lo, one of the Fannings (which one? Who knows?) and the reliably exhibitionist Emily Ratajkowski (pictured, top of story) also chose naked looks. The result was sexless and deadening – fashion for clicks.
Remember red carpet sizzle?
It makes me nostalgic for a less robotic era of stardom, when celebs weren’t fighting for attention or so grateful for ambassadorships with brands. There used to be sizzle on the red carpet – true sex appeal, the almost careless kind. There was actual camp, not its joyless imitation. There was dignity, too, where a gown might elevate the woman wearing it. A glimpse, somehow, of possibility.
Let’s start with sex. May I present Elizabeth Taylor in 1980, wearing a strapless red gown to the Oscars that looked like she’d just got out of the bath and knotted a towel across her bosom? It was the kind of dress you could remove in a hurry, suggesting she had better things to do that evening, probably with her seventh husband. She’d later divorce him because he was a senator and needed her to dress conservatively. Offered fashion or a husband, she picked fashion. Iconic.
As for camp, find something better than Celine Dion’s backwards tux by John Galliano for Dior. In 1999 it made her a laughingstock, but nobody’s laughing now. Reversing the jacket was her idea; representing perhaps the last time a star dared to reveal her real self, at the Oscars.
What about grace? My pick is Michelle Williams at the 2006 Oscars on the arm of her then-partner, the late Heath Ledger. Until that moment she’d been an underrated actress on the indie fringes but suddenly here she was, a vision in yolky Vera Wang. It was gossamer, cinched, pleated at the hips, feathery along the neckline. It recalled a legacy of design that respected the body without exploiting it.
This dress announced the arrival of someone few had noticed; young and hopeful, with the worst day of her life still two years away. It offered elegance, with a hint of mystery. It was a story; and story is the heartbeat of fashion.
Which brings us to the home of couture: Paris. You’ve got to feel sorry for Paris. Once the city of freedom and light, philosophy and passion, pâtisserie and capri pants, this week it’s a roiling hellscape of dread and despair.
In the political equivalent of a panic attack in a lift, Emmanuel Macron has just risked his presidency by announcing a snap election. Everybody’s holding onto the sides for dear life as France hurtles towards the prospect of a hard right prime minister taking charge in two weeks. Meanwhile the Olympics are imminent, but the Seine remains too full of merde for competitors to swim in. Macron has promised to take a dip to prove the water is fine. He probably still will, as E coli is the least of his problems.
Yet worse than any sewage-related embarrassment, or the humiliation of every liberal idea for which the city is famous, this week, concluding today, was Paris Fashion Week. This brings Parisians their most painful burden of all: celebrities.
I’m not sure there’s ever been a crucial moment in history made better by celebrities, though there are countless examples of their making things worse. Sean Penn springs to mind.
Thankfully it was only Menswear and Haute Couture showing in Paris this time. Olympics preparations have made hotels expensive, snarled up avenues with road cones and scaffolding, and discouraged some labels from bothering. Pincushions must have been thrown in pique at Givenchy, Balmain and Valentino, who withdrew shows. Paris is not its carefree self this season; fashion is not coming first.
But don’t expect understatement in response to such fractious times. There was no doubt the usual excess; tiny bags; tiny dogs; tiny dogs in bags; references to sport, perhaps by making models carry tennis racquets; though I couldn't yet see any sign of Alexa Chung. She’s usually at everything, though nobody knows why.
The most anticipated men’s show, Louis Vuitton, sucked the oxygen from the rest of France for a good half-hour. Creative Director Pharrell Williams staged it outdoors at UNESCO, with male models pacing past its sculptural dome, representing the world, and the flags of member countries.
Williams matched his outfits to each model’s skin tone to evoke the broad palette of all humanity. Louis Vuitton’s message appeared to be that people of every colour could come together by carrying the same brand of bag: theirs. As fashion houses are known for mixing lofty ideals with unflinching materialism, nobody found this a problem, giving Williams an extended standing ovation amid stadium-strength lighting, a full orchestra, and a gospel choir.
So far, so exhausting, but the celebrities haven’t even arrived en masse yet. That will be tomorrow (Sunday in Paris) for a much-hyped Vogue party hosted by one of the Delevingnes (which one? Who knows?), and then four days of haute couture runway shows. There are Hollywood types aplenty on the payroll at Dior and Chanel, so a herd of twiggy ankles will soon come thundering in.
I hold out little hope for their looks, if 2024 is anything to go by. Each will be rigorously curated by their brands, leaving little opportunity for risk or mistake, humour or statement, story or magic.
Still. We’ll always have Paris.
Leah McFall is a writer based in Wellington. Read more of her work on leahmcfall.substack.com.
SHARE ME