Most women I know, young and old, no longer need experts to tell them how to dress. The remedial era in American fashion seems to be ending, not a decade too soon. Fashion magazines and blogs have become delivery systems for advertising and celebrity brand promotion. If you spend any time at a nail salon, you will notice that your fellow-clients aren’t engrossed in Vogue or InStyle—they are on their phones.
The global industry that produces ready-to-wear at every price point may be thriving—we all, on occasion, crave something new. But Fashion with a capital “F” is dead. It depends on respect for a social hierarchy that is increasingly irrelevant, at least to consumers. And without a hierarchy, there is no caste of haughty arbiters, no mass of meek followers, no avant or rear guard. We have been liberated, in part, by the Internet, where self-expression is the new conformity.
So does anyone care what the stars wear on the red carpet, apart from designers touting their labels, which is to say their diffusion lines and scents; bloggers shooting at guppies in a barrel (poor Miley Cyrus) with their “best” and “worst” lists; television personalities fawning over every outfit? I missed Joan Rivers on Sunday night, and not only from the obit reel. She was, in most pertinent respects, a She-Rex, but her charm was in her talons and her bite.
What is there to report? That Oscar-wear, like a food pyramid, falls into five categories: trashy, bombshell, statement, classy, and Meryl Streep. None of them held much surprise, thanks, largely, to an army of stylists (i.e., risk managers). Vintage glamour like Julia Roberts’s memorable Valentino of 2001 (was it that long ago?) was conspicuously absent. Perhaps vintage isn’t comped? Slits were to the thigh and décolletage was to the sternum, as usual, though Solange Knowles was covered to her chin in an architectonic red number that resembled an envelope. There were forty-nine other shades of carotene and chlorophyll, including the ruby sheath, with a rhinestone epaulet on one shoulder, worn by Dakota Johnson, who stars in … well, you know what. The Scarlett Woman (Johansson) wore emerald, while Nicole Kidman's gown was somewhere between Belgian endive and Boston lettuce, and Emma Stone sparkled in chartreuse. So much for the redheads. There were two blond bad girls in black: Sienna Miller and Margot Robbie, the latter in a slinky Saint Laurent—the best dress of the night.
Drat. I swore I wouldn't use that phrase, or allude to the mani-cam, which has been banished from the pre-show, apparently in the name of feminine dignity. Speaking of which, did you notice that the Academy seems to have mandated a livery of sorts—a red-dress uniform—for its seat warmers? The two ladies singled out for embarrassment by Neil Patrick Harris, desperately roving the aisles in search of a joke, were garbed almost like twins. Harris later made a brief apparition in tighty-whities, an allusion to a scene in “Birdman,” the evening’s big winner. The show might have seemed shorter had he worn them throughout; instead, he kept changing his tuxedo.
Hollywood loves a thoroughbred; let’s try to think why. Cate Blanchett, Natalie Portman, Lupita Nyong'o, and Gwyneth Paltrow looked predictably thoroughbred, although Paltrow, in pink satin, seemed to want to remind us that fifteen years ago she won an Oscar, for “Shakespeare in Love,” wearing pink satin. (Her latest film credit is for “Iron Man 3.”) J. Lo, as usual, was more or less nude. A few sequins, and some Commando underwear, don't count. Jared Leto, in pale blue, with flowing locks, was dressed for a prom circa 1974, including the white shoes, though that is the year—of A-line denim, bell-bottoms, brown tweed, albatross-wing collars—to which fashion’s time machine, and Prada’s, in particular, has set its aimless dial. Marion Cotillard upheld the honor of France in a white couture recycling bag by Dior. (What’s in must go out.) Lady Gaga has made her name morphing, in the wink of a commercial break, from trashy to bombshell to statement to classy. She can also sing. On Sunday, she looked positively pontifical in Alaïa. The diminutive Tunisian, a designer’s designer, has been in the business for thirty years but—shame on the Oscars—was making his début there. I wouldn’t want to weigh myself in that dress; it could have walked the carpet on its own. Twenty-five artisans spent sixteen hundred hours doing the crystal embroidery and are now recovering in a darkened room. Gaga's fabulous gauntlets, in gore-colored leather, were suitable for falconry (I hear she is starring in a “Birdman” sequel), though they were derided online as “dishwashing gloves.” But isn’t that the point? She’s our Cinderella.
As for Meryl, you know that she doesn't care about this nonsense, yet you believe her performance. She always looks like herself, whoever that is—Meryl is a mystery. I suspect that you have her outfit in your closet: a long black skirt, a black jacket, and a white silk blouse. I know I do. Hers was by Lanvin, though it doesn't matter. Acting speaks louder than clothing.
