Image courtesy of IMDb.com.

A Single Man is a beautiful film. In every respect.

The cinematography is achingly picturesque. Paul mentioned that it was described as “looking like a perfume commercial in every shot,” but that description rings a bit too pejorative for me.

In any case, every scene is beautiful. And the clothing is sublime. Colin Firth’s suits fit him like a dream (and he looks the dreamiest I’ve ever seen him). Apparently Tom Ford even made sure that the suit Firth wore was inscribed with his character’s name on the jacket’s inside pocket. His character is George Falconer — who shines his shoes every morning, wears tie clips, and writes on monogrammed stationery. Style. Genius.

And, most importantly, the story is beautiful too. Now I just have to read the novel it’s based on.

At times I wondered if the emphasis on the visual style of the film, which is especially marked by Ford’s frequent close-up shots and deliberate changes in colour filtering, detracts from the viewer’s ability to actually feel the film, which is weighty in terms of both plot and performances. I’ve decided that if the focus on visuals does distract and detract from the emotional impact of the story, it does so only on rare occasion and it is a worthy distraction. It might also serve to create a purposeful distancing effect, to allow for a more critical perspective on the film’s events; while this is Ford’s directorial debut, I have much faith in him. If you see this film, as you should, I suspect you will too.

(Also, my apologies for the delay in posting again: I’m getting into bad habits, and I partially planned to post on a Wednesday again—ideally followed by a proper weekend post—since I could only see the film last Tuesday night, but that plan obviously failed. I should be back on track now though. Sorry!)

Quite possibly the best photo I’ve seen of the largely candidly-uncapturable Anna Wintour, taken by (Canadian!) Tommy Ton:

Anna Wintour, captured at New York Fashion Week by Tommy Ton, for Style.com.

Also, on a somewhat related note, The September Issue is now out on DVD. Despite my lack of love for it, I feel compelled to buy a copy.

Also also, I find it funny/interesting when more than one fashion blogger captures and posts an image of the same person. Considering that the original idea of most of these blogs was to showcase people who wouldn’t otherwise get shown, I wonder if it’s an indication of the over-saturation of the market. And, as someone who just wants to make it onto one of the good ones once, I imagine how spectacular it would be to get featured on two of them!

Tommy Ton vs. Scott Schuman.

Also also also, my apologies for the lateness — and resultant partial redundancy — of this post. I was away in Montreal for most of reading week and am still exhausted to the point of being incapable of functioning. More on that trip (likely), this weekend.

Image courtesy of Harper's Bazaar.

“Alexander McQueen died,” read the full body of the text I received from my friend Cole last Thursday morning.

Since I was off the grid (at work, without internet access), I couldn’t even investigate further and just had to await her replies to my questions: “What?! No way. That’s tragic. How?”

“Suicide. I’m sending you the link now.”

I received it seven hours later. Alexander McQueen, Designer, Is Dead at 40. The article has been updated frequently since then, with the fitting addition of Cathy Horyn to its authorship.

Everyone seems to be writing that a) they are overwhelmingly sad about McQueen’s death, and b) that McQueen was the designer who was the most _______ or the best at _______. For me, he was the one whose runway presentations I longed to see most. “One day, I’ll get to see one of McQueen’s shows.” And shows they were. Spectacles. Theatre even, I would heartily argue.

Tom Ford recently told Vogue that he had never done anything purely artistic until he directed A Single Man; he sees himself as a commercial designer more than as an artist.

Alexander McQueen was an artist. A designer whose collections were both tapped-into and ahead of the zeitgeist. Present and predictive.

Just like the notorious ways he staged them — the descriptions of which are now making their way into his obituaries and tributes: as a retelling of the film They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?; with models as choreographed pieces on a chess board; with models as patients in a mental asylum; featuring a hologram of the infamous Kate Moss; and, eventually, simulcasted online.

His presentations were art. His designs were art. By all accounts, the construction of his clothing was also masterful. (I wouldn’t know, but I certainly hope to one day.)

Scott Schuman wrote of McQueen’s death that he wished there was someone he could look to, to help him make sense of it, like Schuman believes that Tom Brokaw would have if McQueen had been a celebrity or politician rather than a fashion designer. For me, Schuman — whose writing, while not usually his forte, is rather strong on this occasion — is himself one of those people. As is his partner, Garance Dore. As too is Tim Blanks.

And finally, as is Cathy Horyn, whose use of McQueen’s own words resonates poignantly in one of her posts on his death. Speaking of his close friend and champion, Isabella Blow (who committed suicide in 2007), McQueen told Horyn that, “She would never understand that all it came down to was: ‘You just are, Isabella. And that is your commodity.’ She never understood that because of her insecurities.”

McQueen’s genius was his commodity; I will remember it.

Courtesy of VOGUE.fr's VOGUE TV.

I’ve never really had an appreciation for Vanessa Bruno or Lou Doillon before, but this video is one of the best presentations of a collection that I have ever seen. The direction, by Stéphanie Di Giusto, is brilliant, as is the cinematography, and Doillon’s airy, carefree movements mesh perfectly with Gonzales’ music, all of which cohere to capture Bruno’s largely ethereal  S/S2010 collection. Beautiful. Sweetness and light.

I am uninspired.

Image courtesy of www.vogue.com

Just like this month’s cover of American Vogue.

My excuse is a bruised tailbone; I wonder what theirs is.

What do you wear to a protest?

I’m going to a protest today.

It doesn’t matter what you wear to a protest.

End post.

Cosenzan Man, May '09.

I saw this gentleman while in Cosenza, Calabria, Italy, where I had the pleasure to stay last May for just over a week while part of a performance exchange.

There was just something captivating about his dapper dress and collected composure; I had to get a shot of him — under the pretense of my friend taking a photo of me, hence my presence in the corner of the frame.

If I was ever to be an older, Italian man, he’s who I would want to emulate.

The beach horizon at Tropea, Calabria.

Right now, I just wish I could go back there.

Image courtesy of Marc Jacobs.

I recently bought a Vancouver 2010 Olympics t-shirt from the Bay. But I do not really support the Olympics. Hmmm.

I also frequently buy clothing that I suspect is too cheap to have been equitably produced. And clothing from stores that have run into trouble and garnered bad publicity for their supposed use of “sweatshop” factories. I used to work for one such company.

But the most Marxist woman I know also shops there.

Two years ago, I had my own “genocide olympics” shirt made (on a tank top manufactured by the vertically-integrated American Apparel) to support Mia and Ronan Farrow’s campaign protesting the Beijing Olympics. Hmmm.

I debated — as I tend to — whether or not to buy my 2010 Olympics shirt, but it was just such a righteous piece of Canadiana that I couldn’t quite resist. I did resist for a few weeks, but then, not so much. I’m telling myself that it’s not even obvious that it’s an Olympic shirt; it looks more like a merely patriotic one, with its bold type proclaiming my Canuck status.

But I dunno. Why do I keep making these seemingly bad calls between fashion and politics? If I like the garment enough, I’ll willfully ignore the politics of its production or even talk myself into believing that they’re inconsequential. I know that it would be difficult to avoid buying any clothing at all that is produced using any inequitable labour practices whatsoever — and that excuse is often called upon, but I also believe that it wouldn’t be impossible to do so.

I just seem to believe that it is not worth the effort. Or, that the story of how a garment is made and the politics behind its construction shouldn’t outweigh its aesthetic appeal. Or, that there isn’t enough well-designed, affordable, fairly-manufactured clothing to be had. Or, that I can’t actually know how a company manufactures their clothing and therefore cannot deduce how a product of theirs was made, unless this information figures as part of their marketing or they have been called-out for it before by the media.

But I’m not sure that I do believe in any of those positions. Only that I shop as if I do.

Image courtesy of Westin.

I don’t like shopping.

Well, that’s a lie. But I’ve discovered that I don’t like shopping for specific items. It becomes too much like a task.

When I was shopping for new winter boots (an enterprise which — not surprisingly — failed, by the way), I came to this not-so-stunning realization.

What happens with targeted shopping is just like the unfortunate transformation that reading somehow undergoes when it must be undertaken for a class: I love Anna Karenina, but if I was required to read it for a Russian Lit class, it would be a significantly more arduous process than it already can be.

Of course, upon finishing the novel for the course, or finding the right dress for the particular party, the elation and success might be greater than they would be otherwise. But I can never quite recognize that factor while in the moment, or call upon it to motivate me throughout the process.

Shopping becomes work when looking for a specific item. The whole enterprise loses its wonderful fortuitousness. I kinda hate it. It’s great when you succeed, but not as great as when you find something that you weren’t even looking for and didn’t even know that you had to have; the success is a relief rather than a wonderful surprise.

So, I’ve concluded that aimless shopping is where it’s at. Is that weird? Maybe I do have a (bourgeois) problem…

Image courtesy of Greg Laden's Evolution blog.

Nobody really knows where Boxing Day came from. Or so it appears, according to my research (just call me Dorothy Ann).

The holiday has British origins, and religious roots in St. Stephen’s Day, and that is all that seems certain.

A prominent theory states that  Boxing Day was traditionally the day for people to give gifts to their inferiors, following the gifting to equals and superiors which took place on Christmas Day and preceding it. So, tradespeople, servants, employees, and the like got their Christmas presents this one day late. Churches are also said to have kept boxes to hold donations for the poor, which were distributed on this day.

In any case, it’s now largely a commercial celebration, with people lusting after sales, spending what money remains in their wallets post-Christmas’ seemingly mandated orgy of spending and buying what they wanted to receive as presents but did not.

I avoid it. I used to go Boxing Day shopping every year, and I worked it once (at the Gap), but I finally realized that it’s just not worth the trouble.

My feelings toward Boxing Day are largely similar to my feelings toward the opening days of mainstream movies: too many people too intent on a singular commercial object in too crowded a space = me at my most highly annoyed.

And, more importantly, the sales are just not that good. Many continue for a week, and thus can be scoped out later on with less fuss, and it’s become very unlikely that I’ll find any unusually superb deals.

So I now stay home for Boxing Day. And write about it.