Fashion Week Observed
“But I am French!” a tourist announced at the door of Alice Tully Hall Monday evening. His name was not on that most sacred Excel spreadsheet, the guest list, for the Film Society of Lincoln Center’s gala tribute to Catherine Deneuve. “This actress is French! I am French!” he told the doorman. His face showed that singular Gallic disdain, exasperated that Americans should be privy to an icon as beatific as Madame Deneuve. A security guard intervened, sending the fuming Frenchman on his way.
Inside the atrium, however, a reverent group was congregating, awaiting the entrance of the filmic doyenne. In true French fashion, she kept them waiting.
New York fashion week has finally come to a close. Amen! For those less-fortunate editors and fashion authorities (or perhaps we are the lucky ones) that have not jetted off to London or Milan, we finally get a moment to recover.
In retrospect, we relished the young talents of Prabal Gurung and Jason Wu. The Observer will never forget the spectacle and grandeur of Alexander Wang—or the impeccable quality of Simon Spurr’s suiting. With such a busy social schedule and so many shows, it’s hard to remember all the garments we evaluated with a careful eye.
We’ve already noted the infinite sadness of Rooney Mara as depicted in her “official” portrait snapped at the Oscar nominees’ luncheon. But there’s so much more going on with the twenty acting nominees this year, as each one has a customized framing to suit his or her respective persona. What else is worth noting in the nominee portraits?
Albert Nobbs, a lumbering saga about the pitfalls of a woman posing as a man to hold down employment as a butler in 19th-century Dublin, opened for one week in December to qualify for Oscar nominations. It is now expanding to commercial marquees for public scrutiny. Thanks to a quirky performance by Glenn Close featuring enough prosthetics, wrinkles, painfully binding corsets and pinched diction to generate critical acclaim and give Meryl Streep a run for her money, attention must be paid. But not too much. As a period piece, Albert Nobbs is slower than Proust, and nothing of any consequence ever happens to write home about. In her bowler hat and high starched collars, Glenn Close looks like Conan O’Brien playing Oscar Wilde.
Awkwardly directed by Rodrigo Garcia (son of acclaimed novelist Gabriel Garcia Marquez) from a novella by George Moore that was turned into a play Ms. Close performed off-Broadway 30 years ago, it’s a dull little fugue in a minor key
This morning, thousands upon tens of New Yorkers are realizing they have to go see Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, as that film was announced as one of nine Oscar Best Picture nominees.
Big surprises of the morning included that film’s nomination for Best Picture, the inclusion of Best Actor nominees Demian Bichir and Gary Read More
Tomorrow morning will bring that early-morning announcement of this year’s Oscar nominees–with the attention-desperate wrinkle that no one knows how many nominees there will be. Herewith, our predictions, for last-minute entries into your office pool (if yours is the sort of office at which Oscar nominations are the subject of a pool. Ours is not, Read More
In early May, sometime around Mother’s Day, while the rest of New York City flocked to farmers’ markets for the season’s first peonies, real estate nerds and professionals were glued to their computer screens hung up on a certain Corcoran listing which mysteriously changed from “On the Market” to the nebulous “No Longer Available” on Read More
Editor’s note: There are corrections to this article at the end of it.
Public broadcasting exec Sharon Rockefeller strolled into the sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art on Tuesday night, May 26, alongside the artist Jack Shear, both laughing, with cocktails in hand after sitting down to a sensible dinner.
“We had Read More
Wednesday evening at Pier 60, the dedication of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge (formerly known as the Triborough!) attracted a long list of high-profile guests—Sarah Jessica Parker, Carl Bernstein, Matt Dillon, not to mention gaggles of politicians and Kennedys. And Archbishop Desmond Tutu! The Daily Transom wondered what kinds of Manhattan landmarks this sort of Read More
Sweaty BALLS! Is it time yet to empty our checking accounts (of course we don’t have any investments, real estate or 401(k), ya big silly) and flee to, eek, Quebec? Or better yet—Pompeii? Or should we just close our eyes, pretend nothing is happening and drop a couple thou on a Read More