Chalamet Goes Electric, D&G Go Grand Palais and Ye Goes Berserk, Again.

Everything I've been procrastinating about recently

Welcome to another secret meeting in the basement of my brain. Here’s what I’m wondering:

1. Is Timothy Chalamet Bob Dylan’s secret offspring?

   He’s definitely been drinking the same creativity potion. Not early to this party but consider me ELECTRIFIED by Timmy C’s performance in A Complete Unknown. And I am a proper Bob Dylan fan. Like, the hardcore slightly weird kind… well, for a millennial at least. I was exposed to Bob at a very young age (thanks Dad) which maybe explains part of my deep-seeded identification with his lyrics but I also just feel Bob was every bit deserving of that Nobel Prize for Literature he couldn’t bring himself to accept in person (thanks Patti.)

   

   Timothee Chalamet on the set of James Mangold’s A Complete Unknown

   So naturally I was worried going into the cinema, in the way any diehard is anxious about sharing something so formative to their interior life with others; worried about it being ruined in a mass market kinda way (not that Dylan himself is niche but you get me) —and particularly worried when I heard that Chalamet was performing Dylan’s greatest hits himself throughout the film.

   But Chalamet nails it. Dylan’s voice, both when speaking and singing, his mannerisms, his brooding attractiveness, the vowels of Bob’s Minnesotan accent, more Canadian than American — it’s all there and so lifelike as to be uncanny. You quickly forget you’re watching one of the most famous actors of his generation —all you can focus on is the extent to which the young Dylan of the early Sixties was the voice of his generation (whether he liked it or not).

   
   Special mention also to Monica Barbaro, whose Joan Baez ballads sends chills down the spine. Both actors apparently learned to sing and play properly for the film, which was five years in the making, for Covid and writer’s strike reasons.

A Complete Unknown has officially made me a “Chalamaniac”, and I expect I’m not the only Dylan fan to experience this: I’ve been aware of Chalamet since Call Me By Your Name, and thought he was cute as a button, but am now an official admirer of his talent and chutzpah. Don’t take it from me though:

If you don’t know much about Bob, let’s just say this doesn’t happen often.

Hey, don’t take it from Bob either. Go see the best musical biopic in years. Then watch this.

(Visions of Joanna being my favourite song probably ever I have obviously watched the above eighty times. Now all I can think about is the person walking their dog by this scene without stopping!? Wtf!!)

I also reckon A Complete Unknown is helping expose a bunch of younger Chalamet fans (I gather he has a large Gen Z fanbase) to the wonder of Dylan’s music. Saved!

2. Can you still spell Gabbana?

   

   Du Cœur à la Main (‘From Heart to Hand’)at The Grand Palais until March 31st.

   So. Are we un cancelling Dolce & Gabbana then? Were they ever really cancelled? With D&G’s massive and frankly spectacular exhibition at Paris’s newly-renovated Grand Palais (primo coveted location here) I, err, couldn't help but wonder. But wait, does cancelling even exist in today’s post-woke vortex? Are we all taking the low road now? Or is it the intellectual high road, deciding to separate the work from the artist? Wait ew isn’t Weinstein up here on the high road, someone chase him out of this lane!! Can Rowling stay if she resists swerving? Wait isn’t it all up to history to judge? Don’t we need hindsight? Rearview mirror 20/20? I can see R. Kelly’s stretch Navigator pretty clearly without it but I still want to listen to Ryan Adams while driving. I’ve been thinking and a wonderin’ all the way down the road about whether we can hold the living to the standards of our time while letting the dead rest in politically-incorrect peace. Still have no idea and I’m getting carsick.

   For a while there, it looked like D&G were in pretty hot water on account of, as critic Susie Bubble put it, “eyerollingly trite racism” and then a series of even more disgusting DMs complete with poo emojis sent by Stefano Pilati to call-out doctors Diet Prada who had publicly called them out for a racist ad campaign. While I personally struggle with the inherent toxicity of Diet Prada’s raison d’être, D&G did wrong, undeniably.

   And yet. D&G’s remarkable attention to aesthetic detail and outrageously romantic Sicilian widow garb rides again at The Grand Palais. Credit where due, the exhibition is spectacular, in a more is more kind of way. I disagree with the critics who’ve called it gaudy— it’s a specific take on fashion that’s a feast for the senses for a good 45 minuets before you get an ocular migraine. I suspect critics are transposing their own justified anger with D&G’s racist debacle onto the actual visuals, but to each’s own. What fascinates me more is whether the exhibition’s imposing presence in Paris’s newly renovated cultural epicentre underlines the possibility of redemption, and if so where lines are drawn. Offend, apologise, lay-low, come back? (Galliano anyone?)

   All I know is the trendy cafes still play Kanye. Speaking of which!

3. Bianca Censori: censored victim or severely misled statement-obsessed Kim 2.0?

It would be completely different if she was standing here by herself, imo.

The naked lady above is 29-year old Australian with a masters degree in architecture, who also happens to be married to Kanye West, who also happens to be her boss (her LinkedIn profile reads Head of Architecture at Yeezy, West’s fashion brand.) Incidentally, (or not) no one can find footage of her speaking on the internet.

“The Mute Spectacle of Bianca Censori” by Naomi Fry in the New Yorker last week is an interesting take. Since Censori’s relationship with her employer turned “romantic”, she has attracted more attention for her agressive displays of nudity on the red carpet than her design abilities. As Fry puts it, “she herself has become her own design project, and perhaps, her husbands.” Emphasis on her husband’s methinks.

I’m all for self-expression but this definitely feels like his, not hers. The whole thing stinks of sartorial overlord trying to outdo his ex-wife on the bod-con attention-stunt front.

Editor’s Note: I wrote the above Friday and now find my questions answered by Connie West himself (as my mum calls him):
“I have dominion over my wife this aint no woke a— feminist s— shes with a billionaire why would she listen to any of you dumb a— broke b— people say the red carpet was her decision yes i dont make her do nothing she doesnt want to do but she definitely wouldnt have been able to do it without my approval you stupid a— woke pawns I have no respect or empathy for any one living cause no one living can f— with me but I do love some people and give them favor.” -KW

Even Elon was ready to deactivate Ye’s account by this weekend. Bye Connie.

4. Jack Schlossberg: Court Jester or Crown Prince Waiting in the Wings?

   I’ve touched on this before but I really have a sneaking suspicion that Vogue’s Political Correspondent (yes, that’s a thing) Jack Schlossberg (31), with his Kennedy passion and blood, inherent understanding of the political system (inherent + Harvard Law), refreshingly reasonable mother, and, of course not to be overlooked, beautiful JFK-Jr doppelgängeral face, may just be the Democrats’ only hope in a cycle or two.

   

   Jack Schloossberg for Vogue by Peter Fisher.

   Whatever you think of The Donald, it is odd that The Resistance feels so utterly dismantled compared to 2016. Jack sometimes seems like its only leader under 40.

   Yes I know his Instagram is completely bonkers but if you watch him in an interview or presenting an award, he’s actually pretty lucid. Plus, as Trump has shown us, a little buffoonery apparently goes a long way in this attention economy. In short, I suspect Jack has decided that if you want to compete with Trumpism you have to compete for cold hard attention, by any means. He may be right. Either way, Schlossberg will be 35 next election…

   

   You think I’m joking but I’m not. (Ph: Peter Fisher for Vogue)

5. What jeans should we buy though?

   Phew. Let’s take our face off the photocopier and talk shop(ing).

   I get an inordinate number of questions about denim brands. Which ones are the best, which ones will last, won’t pollute, won’t chafe; which ones can be dressed up, dressed down, machine washed. Which are good for tall girls, girls without butts (sadly me), curvy girls, girls with skin that itches all over. I reckon this is because jeans have been the go-to cool kid-uniform at least since Dylan’s time but also because I’m based in Paris where they are considered second skin and acceptable work and party wear when styled properly.

   And yet. If there’s one fashion thing Americans do better than the French (and there is only one thing) it’s denim. Swedes not bad either.

   My best denim brands at the moment are as follows. Linking to my favourite pair at the moment from each.

   DL 1961 Denim great cuts, great quality, great leather and tops too. OBSESSED.

   Jeanerica very elegant styles from Stockholm. Love these.

   AGOLDE. In the absence of my longtime favourite, Goldsign, their sister propose very cools styles year-round, especially if you’re after a relax-fit.

   Matteau. Fave Aussie brand have just launched denim and I’m here for it.

   Special mention to Mango and Sezane for those on more of a budget. Mango because they do really flattering cuts and last longer than you might imagine, Sezane because they do a great range of sizes, all the way up to a 48.

   

   More inspo from the bootcut series. Nothing beats the over cowboy-boot look.

Now can someone find me this jacket?

Bob Dylan in Mayfair, London, 1966 (Getty)