I have done it! I have pulled it off! I am a hit!
How do I know? Vogue says so. WWD says so.
It’s true that Chanel, the maison de couture for which I design, is one of the few remaining big advertisers in fashion. Therefore, all the important publications are my bitches. Big deal! The fact remains that I have reinvented haute couture. How? With the sneaker.
Yes, the common sneaker used for cardio training, which as you know I don’t advocate because it makes you hungry, and being hungry makes you fat, like Adele. But if you are buying the Chanel couture sneaker you won’t be running around a bigger space than your closet. Okay, okay, maybe your bedroom, or an art gallery. If the normal Chanel prêt-a-porter sneaker starts at $600…
As horrible as it feels for a perfectionist to make mistakes, I have to agree with the cliché that I learn far more from them than I do from my successes. I learn almost as much from other people’s mistakes, and I say ‘almost’ because it’s harder to assimilate an indirect experience — still, you are experiencing the mistake when you are watching or reading it,
In an appearance on an Australian radio broadcast the other day while promoting his Django Unchained downunder, Quentin Tarantino made a surprise announcement, which perhaps wasn’t so surprising for those of us who saw the obvious trajectory of his self-consciously subversive movies. QT, as he is known to Scientologists who still hope to bring him into the fold, was making this appearance on a station notorious for causing a nurse to kill herself after they prank-called her while she was caring for the Duchess of Cambridge. His goal?
If it has “Quentin Tarantino Presents” on the front of it, you can be sure a movie is going to be a live-action graphic novel, with all of the wondrous absurdity and excitement that implies. From the red-band trailer released today, The Man with the Iron Fist appears to be just that, .
THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW
Am I shamelessly brown-nosing our one and only advertiser (so far), Taschen Books, by kicking off the week in review with an item about the launch on Wednesday evening of their book Harry Benson. The Beatles? Hell, yeah. What, we’re supposed to kiss up to Groupon like other sites? Um, no. This is PFC. We loved Taschen before they even knew we existed, so we’re thrilled for any attention they give us.
While Tuttle, Dame Bea and I waited for local radio station KCRW to muddle through technical difficulties before their interview with Mr. Benson, I looked around the store and said to Tuttle, “Taschen really are a good match for us. It’s what we’re about visually and philosophically. Look at how they mingle tits and ass with intellectual fine art, and are so big and bold about it.” And in that moment my gaze landed on one of the blown-up Albert Oehlen collages that decorate the store’s walls, an image of a leering Tom of Finland fetish cop groping the ass of a boy from what looks like an early Pablo Picasso painting.
Just. So. Us.
We have to admit, this looks like the least silly and most appealing of Tarantino’s films, well, ever. Could it be the bad boy has grown up?
by James Killough
As an aspiring narcissist, I’m not one for watching sports unless it’s something I’ve practiced myself, which limits me to swimming and boxing. I am glued to the TV when the Olympics roll around for the former, and will watch the latter on the rare occasions I’m in a sports bar and it happens to be on. The third sport I’ve participated in from time to time and play reasonably well is a good ol’ film industry smackdown, and none was more amusing to watch than the epistolary dustup between Mel Gibson and writer Joe Eszterhas this week.
What happened is the highly overrated, long-standing joke Eszterhas—the screenwriter behind Basic Instinct, Flashdance and, most notoriously, Showgirls—mouthed off in a nine-page tell-all email to Gibson after Eszterhas’ script for The Untitled Maccabee Project was rejected by Warner Brothers. Of course, he leaked the email to the press, most notably to The Wrap, an industry website that appears to have taken his side, presumably in the hope of getting all of those “exclusives” from Eszterhas, which kept popping up as alerts on my BlackBerry as the whole silly saga unfolded.
by Eric J Baker
Editor’s Note: This marks the 100th post on the PFC blog, which wouldn’t mean much if this were TMZ with a dozen fluffy gossip posts an hour, but a PFC piece requires a lot of TLC to create. It’s only appropriate that Eric Baker take this honor because it is he who kicked us over the 4,000-views-a-day mark on Friday with his Duran Duran story. — James Killough
We were talking movie directors here the other day (actually, I was talking movie directors and Killough was like, “Yeah whatever, Baker—shut the fuck up—I know”) and Roman Polanski came up, not for his movies but for his marriage to Sharon Tate. The Polanski-Tate union suffered from the dreaded Billy Joel-Christie Brinkley syndrome years before medical science had even identified the disease, which occurs when an ugly, talented man marries a beautiful, possibly talented, but who cares, she’s a goddess, woman. And Sharon Tate was a goddess.
You may know that Tate was murdered in 1969 by Charles Manson’s gang and that Polanski went on to perpetrate a sexual act against a 13-year-old girl in the mid 1970s.