Fractured Dreams

So I finally got to see The Devil Wears Prada last night, and liked it as much as I hoped I would. Although, I fear I liked it for all the wrong reasons. As we were leaving the cinema, The Bookworm looked at me and said, “I’m never reading Vogue again.”

Maybe I’ve become a craven media type, but I had the opposite reaction. You’re supposed to cheer on the young put-upon assistant, Andy, but at several points I found myself cheering on the magazine people — e.g. “evil” boss Miranda’s monologue about how trends filtered down into Andy’s wardrobe even though she felt exempt from fashion, or an editor saying Andy was whining and only “deigned” to work there. She was, after all, only counting time until she could get a job somewhere with “integrity”.

As the Slate review put it:

Unfortunately, the film offers a simplistic moral: People who care about clothing are either nasty (Miranda) or irredeemably superficial (her minions). The more Andy tends to her appearance, the less she tends to those around her. Goodness, the film would have us believe, is next to dowdiness. But any woman (or man, for that matter) who dresses for a job knows that this notion is ridiculous. Clothing possesses a talismanic quality, a transformative power…

And why shouldn’t people care about what they put on their back, the way they present themselves to the world? I’m reminded that my grandmother discouraged M from becoming a fashion designer and pushed her instead to be a chef, because “people will always need to eat.” But people will always need clothes too, unless civilization collectively reverts to some Garden of Eden-like existence.

All this is not to say I didn’t laugh at all the snarky lines, or cringe at the bitchiness — Meryl Streep (who I don’t usually like for some inexplicable reason) was fantastic by the way, and turned the one-dimensional character from the book into a layered human being.

I read the book this afternoon, assuming that as always it would be better than the film, and I was taken aback by how much I hated it. Aside from the pedestrian writing style, the novel is so thin on plot that nothing actually happens until the last 20-odd pages and the whole thing reads like an extended whining session committed to paper. I could go on, but I’ll save my grievances for a Now Reading review.

Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months. ~ Oscar Wilde

I never thought I’d see the day that my beloved Oxford Street would let me down, lol. All I wanted was a nice little dress; something simple, elegant, pretty. I trekked the length and breadth of that damned street, ducking into every clothes shop I came across, but could I find a dress, any dress, any piece of fabric that even resembled a dress? Unfortunately no. Instead I felt like I’d entered a time warp and stepped out circa 1986. A fashionista I may be, but I can safely say that this season’s version of the ‘let’s dress up like we live in a bad 80’s video’ style does absolutely nothing for me. When the vintage section of Topshop looks exactly the same as the latest arrivals section, well, it doesn’t particularly inspire my confidence.

Of course, my wardrobe is full of ‘latest arrivals’ that make me look like a refugee from the 1970s, or so I’m told, but the 70s brought fashion that was worth recycling. (Although my mother is fond of saying “I hated that the first time round, so I’m not gonna like it now.”) The 1980s on the other hand was a decade that has permanently scarred those of us who grew up in the time period. I mean, I looked bad enough in neon as a 5 year old. I don’t need to repeat that particular disaster at 21, thank you very much. And anyway, cargo pants and string vests are all well and good, but what about when casual is not appropriate?

Which brings me to the ever-insightful Oscar Wilde. Sometimes a fashion trend can be so ugly that it’s an act of mercy to bring out the next season’s collection. Having said that, the 80s comeback has been brewing on the catwalks since like 2001. But before it was bearable. It didn’t involve leg warmers. Or pink. I look awful in pink. The problem with fashion is that if you don’t like it you’re stuck. You can’t buy what’s not there. So no new dress for me. And no more waiting until Friday afternoon to look for something to wear on Saturday morning. Ha. We’ll see how long that one lasts .