Va-Va-Vuitton; Photo credit: Style.com

If I could sum up Marc Jacobs’ Fall 2010 presentation for Louis Vuitton in one word, it would be “breasts.”

Fashion journalists and bloggers have been abuzz about Jacobs ushering in the “return of the curve” with dresses that Mad Men’s costumers should take note of. Waists nipped in by long belts and flared, A-line skirts dressed women of notably more shape than the usual crop of rail-thin models employed for runway shows. Though the latter had a presence at Vuitton, attention was showered on the heaving bosoms of Laetitia Casta and Adriana Lima (both new mothers), and model-turned-lingerie designer Elle Macpherson, the show’s queen bee in a voluminous pink strapless gown.

The clothes were indisputably gorgeous, hearkening back to one of my favorite ’50s-inspired Jacobs collections, that of Spring 2003, but done up with the exaggerated opulence that the House of Vuitton demands. Lately I’ve found myself trading minis for high-waisted, below-the-knee skirts and Mary Jane heels, and come fall I can see myself pairing them with cashmere (okay, faux cashmere) sweaters, new tortoise shell glasses*, and a vintage schoolgirl’s satchel that I really wish was Proenza Schouler’s PS1 bag.

Miuccia Prada’s Fall collection was also a celebration of shapeliness, a term I use with reserve. When reporters say “bigger” women graced the catwalk at Vuitton and Prada, they’re referring to models over a size 2. If these are diversity efforts, then we are eking toward variety at the slowest possible pace. My instincts tell me this is the best we can hope for at the moment, the swerve and bounce of these women’s figures labeled “radical” by an industry accustomed to denying difference—denying bodies—altogether.

But in Paris and Milan many of the collections themselves were glorious, leading me, a sun-worshipping Californian, to daydream about colder climates and donning nubby knee-high socks or Hannah MacGibbon’s rust colored turtleneck jumper for Chloé. Brilliant.

*Thanks to my friend Luisa of Free The Inspiration for introducing me to Warby Parker’s awesome glasses.

Proenza Schouler PS1 bag; Photo credit: Net-a-Porter

Prada and Chloé Fall 2010 RTW; Photo credit: Style.com

"Miles" Glasses; Photo credit: Warby Parker

Photo credit: Kitsune Noir

I recently resurrected my long-dormant Netflix account, only to be greeted by a queue that stretches 78 films long—88 if you count the 10 titles languishing in the purgatory otherwise known as “Saved DVDs.” The unruly list starts with Jean-Luc Godard’s A Woman is a Woman and ends with Louis Malle’s Au Revoir Les Enfants, but honestly, what I really want to (re-)rent next is The Pelican Brief.

While I contemplate inviting Julia Roberts’ timorous Darby Shaw into my living room, in the interim I’ve been occupying myself with a series of designer documentaries—a mailbox march of red enveloped arrivals inspired by the impending release of The September Issue. (From what a trusted film journalist friend tells me, it lives up to even steely-eyed Anna Wintour’s measure of excellence.)

My first excursion into the world of couture on screen was Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, director Loïc Prigent’s 2007 film about, arguably, fashion’s most influential designer. Once rebuked—and fired—for his notorious “grunge” collection for Perry Ellis, Jacobs is now an industry darling, evidenced by his elite editorial and celebrity following. The sartorial vanguard’s often unconventional vision has filtered into the wardrobes of mainstream America, with suburbanites waiting with bated breath for the H&M collaboration that may never come. Look to your local designer knockoff kiosk to find rainbow-colored, Eye Love-inspired PVC handbags still selling strong, years after Jessica Simpson paraded her pet “Louis” around on Newlyweds—much to the horror of genuine Murakami aficionados.

Visually striking, but devoid of true depth, I found myself making the most tangential—and maybe inappropriate—of associations while watching the movie. Paul Thomas Anderson, speaking about a 70s porn documentary about John Holmes that informed Boogie Nights, described the Julia St. Vincent-helmed picture as more “love letter” than objective slice of life filmmaking. Then again, I’m not sure how precisely cinematic a documentary about an adult star is meant to be. Nevertheless, the same might be said of Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, which engages insomuch as it invites viewers into the charmeuse-strewn workroom where Vuitton collections are born, all the while portraying its creator sympathetically. But beyond this hallowed space, where Jacobs compulsively snacks on protein bars while giving the “yay” or “nay” to fabric flower adornments, there was a marked absence of meaningful insight into Jacobs himself.

I was searching for neither a scathing exposé of Jacobs’ drug-addled years, nor lascivious confessionals from ex-lovers, but a genuine inquiry into the Mythos of Jacobs. What we are given instead is, at best, a half-realized portrait of the slim couturier, and a digitally rendered purple fairy flitting about to symbolize “inspiration.” But alas, had Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton been a less benign movie, you probably wouldn’t be able to purchase it at Marc by Marc Jacobs stores internationally, as is now the case. Look for it somewhere between the mushroom key chains and coffee table photography books.

That said, it still gets points for featuring one of my favorite Vuitton collections to date. It’s pretty, fun, and often inspirational, even if it sometimes comes off like a less thoughtful creative patchwork than the LV Tribute Bag at the center of the Vuitton Spring/Summer 2007 showcase.

Official website of Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton