Oscar Fashion 2009

I shot Fashion Week and disappeared into the Alps just long enough to get pneumonia, but before I get into all that, a word about the Oscars red carpet. Keeping with my promise to be constructive (see Spreeblog), I'm limiting my discussion to three things: boobs and Kate Winslet.

I know why the Brit star gets under my skin at the awards shows. She is an actor, but can't get past a screen test on winning honors. For example, her "I'm shocked and speechless" affect at the Golden Globes, was followed by an off-camera request for her to in that case exit the stage, that she in turn rebuked with an "I'm not leaving until I read my speech." She also claimed to have revered Meryl Streep since the 33 year old Winslet was a little girl. Ouch. (I'll take her out for you, Meryl. Just say the word.) Then there is the "Oh, I couldn't have plastic surgery; I need it of course, and don't have anything against it, but my hubby won't stand for it," schtick which is patronizing tripe. But I wanted to be completely objective when I saw her on the red carpet. Severe, tailored, glamorous, and one-shouldered but flattering to her decollete and physique, and despite what others have criticized as a too dominatrix hairstyle, I liked the style. We don't all live on the beach, and an updo is completely appropriate with formal wear; it should be encouraged, even. But then, wait. What was that on the tulle? Were those - hearts? Big black hearts on an all-serious gown? Lesson: You can blend thrift shop with couture, but be careful mixing formal with any design you might find in a Hallmark store.


What I found most inspiring this year was the number of perfect bustlines. Those that worked offered softness and coverage, an interesting ruffle or a mid-century modern cut. Even Miley Cyrus, whose dress walks the line between beautiful and Little Mermaid (I've decided that the singer/starlet has the style moxie of Cate Blanchett - a good thing), knows how to show just enough to keep men interested but the cat calls at bay. (At left, from left, Daniel Craig's wife Fiona Loudon , Diane Lane, Alycia Keys, Miley and Letisha Cyrus.)

Other frontages done right are - perhaps the rightest - include Viola Davis in a big fav Reem Akra. The dress does it all. Melissa George's Dior neckline is simply wonderful, but the jewelry is too lightweight to offset the intense blues and blacks, heavy satins, and patent leather belt. Tareji Hensen shows how weight matters, with her own powerful necklace. But it is a harder call if the beautiful neckline worn by Evan Rachel Wood (in Elie Saab) is enough. The fact that the dress is the same color as her skin helps make the earrings stand out, although the effect is more dramatic in Streep's selection with the draped neckline, deep color that compliments the skin and hair tone, and dangling earrings. Lesson: Accessorizing is hard. Sometimes the dress is enough, but if in doubt, seek other opinions.

But color, as we mentioned above, doesn't get enough attention. Everyone coo'd over Natalie Portman dress (with a lovely bustier that fit her perfectly), but a stronger hue would have kept her from disappearing. The same is true with Robin Roberts who actually carried the halter dress well, but she needed more color, more power: deeper, as with Amanda Seyfried in her Valentino. Valentino understands the power of color. Another alternative for Roberts would have been to go lighter, because of the deep tones in her skin.

Frontages that showed a lot of breast or destroy the form or ignore underarm issues mock the red carpet. Did Sarah Jessica Parker get implants? I don't care if she did, but a gown should not make that that the foremost question in my mind. Queen Latifa was almost perfect - see how much better the connected side looked than the shoulder that was left to battle with gravity? I love Penelope, but not in ironsides underwear. For more insight into how the exo-skeleton look fails, see Naomi Watts and Sheryl Crow in their Vanity Fair after-Oscar party dresses, here.


Another popular look is the Italian Restaurant. It works on Amy Adams (in Herrera) and Susan Downey (inBluMarine), but even with a Prada label - or because of it - GQ's most perfect body-girl, Jessica Biel, disappears. When she hosted the Geek Oscars three weeks before, she chose a dress that complimented her skin, hair, and make up color, and looked regal enough for the occasion. The Fashion Police may adore Biel in the Prada, but all I saw is a woman who could barely walk, looking like she was hobbling to the shower. Lesson: A label is no guarantee.




Finally, I have to ask. Did Capote fly in from a skiing vacation? As for Heidi, great hair, great earrings, great color, great neckline, but I would have adored this more with fewer slits. Her jewelry about her neck and forearm, was perfect. Find out what she is wearing and buy some for yourself. Mary Hart reminds us that crinkles work best with solid colors. Otherwise it looks like you slept in the gown.

See you at the Kennel Club.

Marvel Me This, Batman

Was there a Mrs. Sub-Mariner? I mean, at first it seems an okay gig. Not a lot of clothes to wash. But then there would be all that polishing and drying, and what is that suit, crochet? Herring? Maybe Nike has some new Olympic alternative, but then what do you do with all the hair product bottles lying about in the bathroom. I'm telling you, there is more than water keeping that do in place. And is it just me, or does he look a little tense? Yes, I agree, disturbed. Cripes, you work all day, come home to your man, and as you lock up the Sea-Doo and carry in the plankton, you have to plan your method for deflecting doom and disturbia? I don't know. I am a giving person but there are limits. And what about feeling flabby all the time? I would feel flabby.

Poor guy. It's almost as if he were a landlocked wage-earning from 2009. From Miami. Image from here. Art by Michael Turner (1971-2008).

X-Box The Zero Edition

I opened my eyes as a whisper. I recognized the dark bedroom, and with equal certainty knew that my left hand was resting on top of my daughter Edit's head. Less sure about the weight I felt on my chest, I dropped my eyes enough to be able to outline the nose end of our dog. The rest of her stretched out alongside me, the length of the bed. All of her was snoring. Then I glanced towards the windows. The shades were still up, but even with the stadium lighting from the hospital across the street, I could see nothing outside. Frost had completely coated the panes. Comforted by contact and a down duvet, I decided to avoid consciousness as long as possible. But as I am a human game of Mouse Trap, I began to massage the top of Edit's silky head, which caused her to swing an arm and a dead-weighted hand into my face. With consciousness now barging through to the surface and shoving inner peace off the yoga mat, I realize that both bed rules: (1) sleep in your own and (2) no dogs, had been clearly violated during my ski-induced coma. The last thing I remember of the night before was, "It's time for bed, girls," followed by, "It's only 7:30, Mom."

Twelve hours earlier I had turned on the weather. Channel 4 reported a -6 F morning. I wanted to call my ski partner and say, "My lungs won't work at less than -2," but instead I told the kids that maybe they should wear gloves and if their hair allowed, a hat, shoved them out the door with a cold but organic-ish pop tart, and started looking for layers. Hodgson Russ, LLP was throwing its annual ski day holiday at Holimont ski resort, and I was going as a guest of a friend from M&T Bank. Yeah, it was cold, but this was a free lift ticket at a private club. Free and private betters the temperature of anything by 10 degrees, at least.

At zero degrees, snow squeaks, wind-tears ice up on lashes, and the soft foam on the edge of goggles hardens into face biting steel. At zero degrees, you start calculating the windchill caused by your own vertical drop and you don't dare take off a glove to answer a cell phone. At zero degrees, you ski moguls. You have one bad knee and a family to support, but to stay warm, you ski moguls. But at zero degrees with a 10 foot base, babies stay home and the snow conditions are dude-perfect. So we break-necked down the hills without worrying about a slushy stick-trip, or ice patches. We didn't have to extend courtesies to slower skiers, because there weren't any. (Sure, we'd get a brain freeze at the bottom of every run, but since when did a brain freeze ever stop anyone from sucking down the next milkshake?) Then, near the end of the day, after Hodgson had enticed most of the slopes into the lodge with food and entertainment, I discovered I could turn the runs into a video game. I started at about 10 yards behind my partner and with full out recklessness followed in his tracks, around curves and turns, through the black diamond trails, never sure where he would go. It was if I were in an X-Box, and I felt like I was nine years old again. We did this until the shadows masked the runs' blips and bumps. Only then did we get sensible and take our frozen body parts inside to thaw. Image by CB.

See You At the Semi Annual Show

Mayor Bloomberg delivered a press release: "Starting in the fall of 2010, the bi-annual Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week events will move [from Bryant Park] to Damrosch Park at Lincoln." Um Mayor, it's a semi-annual event. CityHonorz was hardly alone in this error. Newsday, Examiner.com and StyleAmmo also confused bi-annual (every two years) with semi-annual. I'm no William Safire, either. I got my own lesson on the proper use of bi and tri when my long ago boss slammed me for suggesting, "Three times a year is, um, tri-annually." But when the economy has everyone wondering what, if anything, is worth the overhead, showing smart is just plain smart. Photo of Akiko Ogawa collection from F/W 2008, by Catherine Berlin.

Steuben Glass

Upstate New York is Steuben country. Two years ago I featured a Joel Smith menorah in a Buffalo Spree column. I appreciated the simplicity and how it must have weighed like lead, and at $4,500 it qualified as a "keep the kids away" piece, a solid sign of value. Smith has created this year's hand cooler, tchotsky for those who suffer from sweaty palms and the constant obligation to get up from a desk chair to meet clients. (Less wise for a conference or business lunch. A fist-sized wallop of glass in the shape of an cow, whale, or bunny is tough to hide in your pants or jacket pocket, although I'd appreciate watching someone try.) But as much as I'm a Smith fan, it is Peter Dronby's Glade series that has me contemplating how many quarters I have to pilfer from co-worker's desk drawers. I can't remember the last time I looked at a piece of glass art about the size of piece of letterhead and thought, "It is so worth $9,000." Cate