As a general rule, fashion biopics are hysterical, overblown dramas filled with characters far too ludicrous to be accurate depictions of the inspiring creatives they’re based on.
So when I heard there was a film in the works about the late Isabella Blow – the maverick fashion editor and early muse and associate of Alexander McQueen – I assumed the worst. But The Queen Of Fashion, which has just wrapped, might be an exception.
There’s a first-rate cast and it has been endorsed by many of Issy’s closest friends and collaborators.
The excellent Andrea Riseborough is cast as the eccentric and visionary Issy, and – trumpet sound here – apparently I am played, as editor of British Vogue, by Michelle Dockery.
Dockery is one of my favourite British actresses. She can display hauteur and brutality in equal measure. As Lady Mary in Downton Abbey she perfected the cut-glass accent, while in Guy Ritchie’s The Gentleman she was transfixing as the drug baron’s hard-bitten Cockney wife. So I am delighted by her casting.
In truth, it’s not only her acting skills I’m thrilled about. She’s just fabulous looking. Who wouldn’t want to be portrayed by this elegant beauty?
I know nothing of the movie’s storyline but I strongly suspect my character won’t be treated kindly.
Although I was a huge supporter of Issy, introduced her to Vogue and gave her licence and encouragement to produce the stories she was keen on, her own recollections differed.
She ultimately saw me as someone who let her down. If the film takes that angle, at least being played by someone as attractive as Dockery will be some compensation.
Stop treating Mr Fox as fantastic
Last Monday, while we were away, guests staying in our house sent me pictures of several rooms. They showed shoes scattered everywhere, including a pair of half-destroyed sheepskin slippers lying on our bed.
One of my Adidas Gazelle sneakers had been dragged from one room to another and torn apart, while the guest’s own shoes were in pieces.
She was sure the garden door hadn’t been left open at any time and there was no sign of a human intruder – nothing of value, such as our laptops, had been taken. Even more oddly, no food in the kitchen had been attacked.
We still don’t know what happened, but assume the wretched foxes that plague our lives managed to get through the cat flap.
Some people have fond feelings toward the vulpine creatures. Not me. I have previous form with them. A few years ago, I discovered one in the living room sitting calmly on the sofa watching Netflix.
Once it had been shooed out, I stupidly sat down where it had been and promptly contracted the most painful condition I have ever had – fox scabies.
Anyone who thinks these are sweet little creatures who should be fed and cared for is insane. Unfortunately, round our parts they are now as prolific as squirrels. As is the trail of rubbish they leave across the back gardens and pavements.
AI can’t capture our true beauty
I wrote a few months ago about how some modelling agencies are starting to licence the rights to images of their models for use in AI. Then, last week, a story broke about a flawless AI-generated model in a Guess advert in Vogue.
While AI models will no doubt become more popular, it’s unlikely that they will replace models at the top end of the industry.
Although being a clothes horse is the core of the job, a large reason why the most successful models have got where they are is their personality.
Linda Evangelista, Cindy Crawford, Gigi Hadid, Kendall Jenner and Kate Moss are all bright women who bring a large dollop of character along with them.
They have become famous because they are interesting and look fantastic.
AI can generate a flawless looking model but she won’t exist off the page. And I doubt her looks will have that coveted kink, the slight ‘strangeness in proportion’ that philosopher Francis Bacon claimed is key to true beauty.
See a playlist? I’d rather roll with it
I’m off to see Oasis tonight and someone’s offered to send me the playlist in advance. Why would I want to know the song line-up?
Despite bingeing on Instagram snippets of the reunion tour, I have avoided finding out whether Don’t Look Back In Anger or Wonderwall is the encore, or whether they will play Champagne Supernova. I’ve enjoyed prepping myself with lesser-known songs, just in case.
Wanting to know a concert’s playlist in advance is as baffling a concept to me as reading a restaurant’s menu before you arrive. Anticipation is such a vital part of the experience.
Put to shame – by a cool 11-year-old
The young of today are different, that’s for sure. I took an 11-year-old to see Jurassic World Rebirth at the cinema, with assurances that should he find it too frightening we could leave.
As character after character was threatened and devoured by terrifying beasts, I kept glancing at my companion to check he was OK. He sat impassively through it all.
Meanwhile, I was scared stiff and found the tension as unbearable as England’s penalty shoot-out in last Sunday’s Euros final.
Is Gwynnie really such a mean girl?
Amy Odell’s biography of Gwyneth Paltrow paints her subject as a mean girl who becomes the toxic boss of Goop. Funny isn’t it how it’s always female employers who get tarred with this label?
I have no idea how Gwyneth ran Goop but I do know it is frequently women leaders who are portrayed as demanding and cruel.
And most often their accusers are other women – as the unnamed employees would have been at Goop.
So much for the sisterhood. I hope the Isabella Blow biopic doesn’t paint a similar picture of me.
