Altman's latest spoof misses fashion humor

By Dini S. Djalal

Jakarta (JP): At first glance, the fashion world is ripe for parody. Against the sound of a ringing cash register, fashion gathers the beautiful, the flamboyant and the talented for a merry-go-round of glamour and decadence. To a director known for his sharp satirical movies, this mayhem may seem perfect fodder for a hit spoof.

But it's not. Despite its winning concept, Robert Altman's latest lampoon Ready-to-Wear (or Pret-a-Porter, hisses the fashion set) is a miss. Fashion insiders may be having the last laugh, because those intending to mock them are being mocked by their own cliches.

The cliches are woven by a plot as thin as dieting models. The most despised man of France's fashion industry (Jean-Pierre Cassel) chokes to death on a ham sandwich while discussing his wife (Sophia Loren) with her old lover (Marcello Mastroianni). Set against this murder mystery (which never gathers steam) are the pandemonium of Paris' Autumn 1993 Pret-a-Porter shows. Back- stabbing competition ensues between smug fashion editors, smug designers and smug models.

Altman's most inspired turn is his send-up of fashion journalism. As a refreshing break from the frivolous brouhaha, Altman sets up Julia Roberts and Tim Robbins as two reporters whose initial reluctance to share a hotel room becomes a week- long frolic in bed. Roberts and Robbins never leave their hotel room, and why should they when they can finish the job by plagiarizing TV news reports? The enmity between the fashion editors (Tracey Ullman, Sally Kellerman, and Linda Hunt) is also beautifully revealed, subdued under airbrush kisses. This much Altman understood: in a world where beauty is religion, nastiness is kept out of camera view.

His portrayals of other fashion figures lack similar insight. As Cort Romney, a designer modeled after Vivienne Westwood, Richard E. Grant (Withnail & I) is camp with a capital C. His performance is as over-the-top as the make-up on his sneering face. Are all designers gay and effeminate, or is this just a tired stereotype? Similarly, Rupert Everett's non-designer heterosexual character spends more time bedding women than managing his mother's design house (Anouk Aimee, in the film's most noble role). Are all straight men in the fashion world immoral philanderers, or is this too just a cliche?

The film's entire cast collide like comets in search of a target. From Danny Aiello's cross-dressing retailer to Stephen Rea's cocky photographer to Ute Lemper's eight-months pregnant model, the absence of direction marred whatever acting could have surfaced from their individual fifteen minutes of screen time. There were exceptions. Kim Basinger played the ditsy blond TV reporter to the hilt, and was surprisingly funny. Not as funny as Tracey Ullman, who basically plays her comedian self. Lili Taylor's over-earnest New York Times reporter was an oddity in a fun house, as were Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni, whose purpose in the film seemed only to replay their bedroom scene from the 1963 classic Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. Ultimately, Ready-to-Wear is a stage of caricatures. The most memorable performances came from the cameos, particularly Thierry Mugler's brazen admissions.

Altman would have done better if he had focused on these real- life figures rather than his fictitious characters. The fashion world is indeed larger-than-life, and truth is often funnier than fiction. The backstage scenes of models and designers preening themselves could have been extended to showcase some of modern society's biggest egos and neuroses. The shows' excess luxury could have been juxtaposed against the homeless of Paris' streets. Instead of finding humor where it is most obvious, Altman insults our intelligence by having the actors continually tread on dog-droppings. This is not funny, beyond cliche, and just plain stinks.

Perhaps Altman's biggest problem was the subject. His 1992 satire, The Player, was brilliant because it showed the insider's view of the movie industry. Altman understands Hollywood, he does not understand fashion -- or else he would not have placed Harry Belafonte in the front row of a Vivienne Westwood fashion show. Belafonte is as likely a fashion symbol as Madonna is a symbol of chastity.

Granted, the topic of fashion is a death-wish. The fashion world is a fickle set. Ready-to-Wear took a decade to materialize, two years for production, and yards of publicity columns. By the time it hit the screens, it was simply no longer fashionable. The clothing industry had eaten, digested, and spewed the film back out like yesterday's fashion faux pas.

But Altman is not courting fashion victims, but the world at large. In terms of box-office receipts, this may be Altman's biggest money-maker overseas. Perversely, it took a superficial charade of clothes-horses to prompt international recognition of Altman's usually genius work.

Yet it is this flawless reputation which may have contributed to his failure. Hollywood's biggest stars will forgo hefty salaried and luxury accommodations for a chance in Altman's films. Prior to the completion of the script, an exhausting roster of actors and actresses had already signed to the movie. When Robert De Niro showed interest in one of the designer characters, the name was changed to "Cy Bianco" to make it sound more Italian (the role is now played by Forrest Whittaker). As Altman told Vanity Fair magazine, "We (had) to come up with something for each of them". The strain to fit in all the stars shows.

In the past, Altman's haphazard way of making films worked. What people like about his films are the improvisations and chaotic real-life atmosphere he invokes. What the actors like about his direction is the lack of it -- Altman allows them "artistic freedom". In Ready-to-Wear, however, what transpires is neither reality nor artistry. Instead the audience witnesses mere confusion.

Altman admitted it as much during filming, remarking to the actors, "I don't know what I'm doing, but I trust that you all do". Upon insistence by his scriptwriters that the film try to understand the fashion world better, least of all by discussing the AIDS plague, Altman answered that he wanted to make a "light" movie. He got what he wanted. Ready-to-Wear is as light as the lint you flick off your favorite but now-unfashionable cardigan.