Honey, we can't really count ourselves among your biggest fans, but you've always provided us with the pleasure of making fun of your clothes or bitching at you for charging people to listen to your vocal exercises, so on some level you HAVE provided us with some entertainment. For that, we are grateful. But darling, we simply MUST register our disapproval of your latest cover for Interview.
Look, it's not that we think you're past your prime at 37, nor are we the types of body nazis that insist that one must only pose semi-naked if all of one's ribs are visible. If we actually HAD taste in women, you wouldn't be ours, but we can admit that you are attractive and certainly there are plenty of straight men who wouldn't throw you out of bed for eating OreosBen & Jerry'sPop-Tarts crackers.
It's just that - isn't this getting a little...tired by now? You've spent most of the last 15 years with skirts slit up to your vulva and tops plunging down to, well...your vulva. Barring a Penthouse spread, there's nothing left on your body to show. We've seen it. A lot. And despite your best efforts, Daisy Dukes never came back in style.
Our unasked-for advice? Take a page from Madonna. No, not the African baby page, the moving-on-from-sluttery page. You see, in spite of your (even we can admit) ENORMOUS talent and self-proclaimed Diva-hood, you come across more like a desperate, aging cabaret singing in a lounge near the airport. We get it. You have breasts. Fantastic. Now show us you're fabulous. Or at least show us you hired people to make you LOOK fabulous. Are there no homosexuals among your personal assistants? Have you beaten them into submission? Because no self-respecting queen would greenlight a cover that makes you look like you were surprised in the shower.
Here's a free tip from us. Divas - true divas, that is - aren't about the tits and the ass. They're about turbans and diamonds, eyeliner and attitude. They don't care if people think they're hot because their talent and their self esteem propel them beyond mere issues of attractiveness or fuckability. Go slumming in a drag bar. Those bitches will show you how it's done.
Darlings, we grabbed Tim Gunn, strapped him to a chair, and forced him to answer some questions about the insanity that is his life. Enjoy! Congrats on your insanely fabulous year! The book, your own TV show, becoming the Chief Creative Officer at Liz Claiborne, Season 4 of Project Runway – darling, you sound like you need a nap! How are you keeping your head on straight (you'll pardon the term)?
Oh, Tom and Lorenzo! I’m ready for a hospital gurney and a one-way ticket to the nearest asylum. Seriously though, without the incredible support that I’m receiving from my boss at Liz Claiborne, Inc, the incredible Bill McComb, I couldn’t juggle all of these moving parts.
Tell us a bit about the show. How does it differ from other makeover shows on TV? What do you think of your co-host, the gorgeous Veronica Webb?
Guide To Style is a different iteration of makeover show. The individuals with whom Veronica and I work each week have self-declared their need for help, rather than being the object of an intervention. Veronica and I do not make decisions, nor do we drive up in a van full of clothes. We guide and support and, hopefully, educate. Yes, there is the inevitable shopping journey, but only after several days of lessons. And Veronica Webb? I don’t have an adequate vocabulary of accolades to describe her. And let me assert that she’s as brainy as she is beautiful.
Lately, one sees after your name the term "Style Expert" and yet that seems a little off to us. We would have classified you more as a "Design Expert." This isn't to say that you don't exhibit expertise in style – because of course, you do - but your real strength as a personality comes from your years as an educator of design. Is this a "rebranding" of Tim Gunn or have you always seen yourself as a style expert? What is the difference between being a design educator and a style expert?
Style expert? It must be a term used by others, because I would never give myself that moniker. I am a design educator, plain and simple. I have also been referred to as a “stylist.” Bull! Rest assured that there is no rebranding in effect. What exactly does a Chief Creative Officer do and what are your plans for the Liz Claiborne brand?
In my role as CCO at Liz Claiborne, I interact with the designers across the myriad brands within the company (see www.lizclaiborne.com). A primary aspect of my role is to be an advocate at the executive level for the several hundred designers across those brands. Regarding Liz Claiborne Apparel, the founding brand of the company, its healthy future is a priority for me and the company. Liz Claiborne was a seminal force in American design and fashion merchandising and we are all determined to regain her legendary momentum.
What's next for Tim Gunn? World domination?
How about unpacking the several hundred boxes that have been sitting idle in my new apartment since my move in late May? That, and just keeping my head above water!
At the risk of sounding like one of those nausea-inducing "This is why we're such a great couple" tracts, one of the reasons we're still plugging along eleven years later is that we tend to take turns freaking out over stuff. For the past couple of weeks, it's been Lorenzo who's been complaining about the (imaginary) lack of space in our soon-to-be refrigerator, or the lack of sunlight in our soon-to-be living room, and generally moping about as he makes the mental shift from 8 years of loft-living into the brand new world of house-living. During this, Tom put on his Mary Sunshine hat and sang that old tune about new horizons and change-is-good and "Remember, this is what we said we wanted and you'll love it when it's all over."
Now, 4 days out from THE DAY, Tom is whimpering and rocking back and forth and "How is that princess chair going to fit through the front door?" and "Ohmigod, what if the movers break that antique mirror we got from my parents?" and "WE DON'T HAVE ENOUGH BOXES! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!" Lorenzo rolls his eyes, pats Tom on the head, runs out to rent the final two discs of Rome, Season 1 and a gallon of fudge ripple, plants Tom on the couch and murmurs comforting words while we both wait for the full frontal male nudity scenes to come up.
And our apartment is a MESS. We gave up on housework weeks ago. Thank God for Clorox wipes or there'd be creeping fungus growing in our kitchen by now. We're drinking wine out of coffee cups, for God's sake. Have you ever heard of anything so sad and barbaric?
We can take comfort in one thing, though:
At least SOMEONE in this place is enjoying the current state of affairs.
Yes kids, it's time for On a Clear Day You Ca-- oh, forget it.
Look, the plot is all the hell over the place on this one and most of the songs are forgettable. We'll try to keep up, but really, the only point to this movie is Barbra's hair, makeup and wardrobe, all of which are divine.
Hit it, Babs.
See what we mean? That's gotta be the weirdest opening to a musical we've ever seen. Ah, 1970. How you amuse us with your mainstream attempts to catch up with the decade-old counter-culture movement. Vincente Minnelli directing Barbra Streisand in a hippy-dippy musical about reincarnation and ESP. What's not to love? We're sure Allen Ginsburg and Ravi Shankar were there on opening night. Anyway, here we are in Yves Montand's psychiatry class. Yves plays Dr. Marc Chabot, who likes to hypnotize his students and humiliate them for kicks. Barbra, who snuck in to the class, accidentally gets hypnotized into thinking she's five years old and freaks the hell out. Yves is not amused and hypnotizes her into walking in front of a bus.
Actually, he just talks her down and tells her to leave. The next day, Barbra shows up at his palatial office in another adorable outfit, chainsmoking and fast-talking her ass off. Oh, for the days when one could smoke in college offices and Babs wore eyeliner.
Anyway, she wants to be hypnotized into quitting smoking because her fiance insists on it. Incidentally, she's about as believable a smoker as she would be a nun. Yves agrees to hypnotize her partially to shut her the hell up and partially because he's intrigued yet skeptical of some apparent ESP abilities, like getting flowers to grow by singing to them and knowing when the phone's going to ring.
Well they had to advance the plot somehow. Suddenly, she sits bolt upright in her egg chair and starts speaking loudly in a truly horrible "English" accent. And just like that we're in 1814 London and Barbra is a drag queen (which is kind of redundant when you think about it).
She is Melinda Tentrees, a haughty, slutty social climber with a taste for outrageous clothes and a habit of lapsing into a 20th century New York accent at the drop of a hat. She narrates her life story for Yves and us. One day, at a drag queen picnic, she met Roger Tentrees, her destined husband. That night, at the vagina hat dance, Roger can't keep his eyes off her. You see, Babs outdid all the other bitches in vagina hats and showed up in an ovary hat.
She seduces him by rubbing a wine glass on her tits and singing without moving her lips. Apparently, that sort of thing worked in 19th century London. Then again, she was probably the only anatomically correct woman at the party. Then, Vincente Minnelli discovered double exposures. Later, Babs comes home to find her former step-brother, Jack Nicholson, hanging out on her roof and playing a sitar in a paisley shirt.
Seriously, how can you not love that? And if that doesn't do it for you... SWINGING MANHATTAN AND INFLATABLE FURNITURE, BITCHES! We meet Barbra's fiance Warren. A graduate student who appears to be in his forties, Warren is high-strung and controlling. He will be dispensed with before the final reel, of course. The next day, she returns for another "session" with Yves. He puts her under and then sings about how he's in love with Melinda. Then he sets fire to his psychiatry license. Haha, no he didn't. But he should have. No real reason for this screen shot, but if there are any budding drag queens out there, that's how you want to do your eye makeup. Y'know, she's kinda dressed like a Barbie through this whole movie. Just saying. Hoping that she will prove to be half as interesting as Melinda*, Yves takes her out for a drink over his burned license and nonexistent professional ethics.
*She's not. That night, Barbra can't sleep because she's horny for her psychiatrist.
Also, she wears nightgowns that match her sheets. More hypnotizing. No reason for the shot other than to document every outfit she wears in this film. Yves decides to go public with the case of the girl with the past life. His students are both stunned and really, really groovy. The story hits the press and Babs hears about it on her transistor radio while she's watering her plants. She doesn't realize that Yves is talking about her, because he's totally unethical and never told her about what comes up in her sessions. This being 1970, the students immediately start organizing a rally and waving signs around.
You know, because it wasn't like there was ANYTHING ELSE to be protesting. At the university, old white men (and Bob Newhart) discuss what's to be done. They tell Yves to knock it the fuck off. Later, Yves puts Babs under again just so he can say goodbye to Melinda. She sings. Even later, Babs is left alone in his office (great idea!) and she accidentally turns on the massive tape recorder which holds all the recordings to her sessions.
She sings again.
Yves shows up on her rooftop and she tells him that she knows everything. Because she's wearing pants now, she has the strength to yell at him and tell him to fuck off. The next day, again in pants (and looking like Rhoda Morgenstern), she tells Warren to fuck off too.
Feminism was all about fashion. Betcha didn't know that. Yves decides that the best way to rectify the situation is to stand on top of the Pan Am building and sing at the top of his lungs. Babs is arrested for wearing Marlo Thomas' clothes. Outfit check. Another outfit check. Dig those sunglasses. Pissed off at all his singing, she shows up, allows herself to be put under one more time, and reveals that she's lived over a dozen lives and in at least one of them, in the year 2038, she and Yves will be married. Apparently he's happy with that and lets her go. For some reason, she goes outside and holds a note for like 30 seconds.
And with that, the movie (and any vestiges of the counter culture movement) comes to an end.
Nick Verreos and David Paul debuted their Resort/Spring 2008 Nikolaki Collection at the W San Diego Hotel on August 16th and it's appropriately dramatic, goddess-y and FIERCE, girl!
After the show, Nick served drinks as the celebrity bartender in the hotel's Living Room bar.
Nick, stop playing with your hose and get back to work!
