Hyperkult

Mellow yellow: Shelley Duvall in '3 Women;' Photo credit: lecinemadreams.blogspot.com

I have no clue what happens at the end of 3 Women, and neither will you. It is a fantastic film nonetheless, probably moreso because it’s so dreamlike and indecipherable. As I readied to slip on my Judi Rosen stovepipe bells this morning, a flash of Shelley Duvall clad in her ’70s wardrobe from the film struck me, hence this post. I blame the jeans.

During my Robert Altman kick of yesteryear, weeks on end were spent watching his films: Images, Short Cuts, Nashville, California Split, M*A*S*H, The Long Goodbye, and 3 Women, of course, are my favorites, and I have a special place for A Wedding and Secret Honor, too. I’d like to revisit McCabe and Mrs. Miller to see how it measures up today, because I didn’t particularly like it at the time. Needless to say, I think everyone needs a little Altman in their life, even me, the T.V.-less, apathetic moviegoer. Maybe 2010 is the year I get my groove—and my Netflix account—back.

Anyway, 3 Women. Its strange plot—or lack thereof—aside, it’s a marvel to look at. Arid California deserts, ’70s apartment complexes, Sissy Spacek’s lustrous hair, and, oh, the pastels! The costumes are deceptively simple and decade-specific, but because the film’s visuals are so distinct, I can’t help but think that every scalloped lace collar, every nightgown print, every chiffon flounce, was meticulously considered. The movie is rife with keywords I use when searching for vintage dresses on eBay.

And, while I know the artwork is wildly different (for obvious reasons), I can’t help but associate the mural painted on the interior of a pool in 3 Women (Exhibit A):

3 Women and phallic art; Photo credit: lecinemadreams.blogspot.com

…with one of my all-time favorite Prada campaigns, a collaboration with L.A.-based illustrator James Jean (Exhibit B):

Prada Spring/Summer 2008 campaign; Photo credit: populargoodness.files.wordpress.com

At best the only similarity is that they’re both murals. Plus the pastels.

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