The "twatification" of fashion reaches its apotheosis in Michael Roberts' doc, MANOLO: THE BOY WHO MADE SHOES FOR LIZARDS

Yes, "twatification," and though I can't be certain I've coined the word, do feel free to use it if you like. It certainly fits MANOLO: THE BOY WHO MADE SHOES FOR LIZARDS, the new documentary about to hit South Florida (after opening in NYC and L.A. last week). Entitlement oozes from every pore of this diabetic confection, as it also seems to from the film's subject: the gosh-he's-got-an-ego-the-size-of-Texas footwear designer, Manolo Blahnik. In this bizarre and way-too-lengthy film (there's content here for about 30 minutes, yet the movie trails on for 90), we get a little Blahnik history, a look back at those notorious 1960s and 70s, and a view of many of the pretty, colorful shoe designs with which this guy has gifted us.

As director, first-timer Michael Roberts, shown at left, regales us with talking heads of celebrity and fashion -- from Anna Wintour (sans sunglasses!) to Rupert Everett to Rihanna (below, right) --  who drone on and on about the wonders of Mr. Blahnik and his creations. A little of this goes a very long way. My spouse, who has a much higher tolerance for fashion's idiocy than does TrustMovies himself, found the film initially fun, but by its end was rolling his eyes and twitching in annoyance. To quote him: "This could be a recruiting film for ISIS in how it shows our culture."

From the beginning Blahnik (shown above, left) comes across as something of an effete snob, and though he has little of intelligence to tell us, he at least does so with energy and spirit. But Mr. Roberts' contributions to the film are particularly misguided and obtuse. While some archival footage and photos are used (as below), the filmmaker prefers to give us staged recreations of childhood and young adulthood that range from so-so to simply silly, seeming to be on view so that we can see how "creative" this director can be.

The nadir is reached during a pointless episode in which Roberts creates a tacky, technicolor and completely unnecessary update of the Dietrich/von Sternberg Blond Venus (shown below: Is this the filmmaker's audition to direct a remake, perhaps?).

Along the way we get quite a bit of Bianca Jagger, a look at the footwear the guy designed for Sofia Coppola's Marie Antionette, and a section in which Blahnik and John Galliano reminisce. I must admit that the movie is rather lovely, sometimes quite beautiful, to look at (those shoes set against various nature/floral scenes), though the most fun visually has to be the delectable petits fours shown us at one point, the top of which offers up the image of a Manolo shoe on the frosting.

And although the shoemaker's love/sex life is alluded to and then put aside (one would guess he is gay, but, well, maybe not), we do learn something of the importance of Blahnik's relationships with three women, the late Misses Isabella Blow, Anna Piaggi and Tina Chow. 

Mostly, though, it's just Wintour (above), as well as others, wagging on about Blahnik's brilliance in a movie so filled with self-love and ego-boosting by others that I am surprised the filmmaker, his cast and crew could view the finished product without feeling noticeable embarrassment.
 

From Music Box Films, Manolo: The Boy Who Made Shoes for Lizards opens this Friday, Sept. 22 in Miami at the O Cinema Wynwood and in Ft. Lauderdale at the Savor Cinema, and next Friday, Sept. 29 at the Living Room Theaters here in Boca Raton. To find venues elsewhere around the country, click here and then click on THEATERS in the task bar midway down your screen.

Looking for something strange, sensual and South American? Gabriel Mascaro's NEON BULL

If the Portuguese word vaquejada doesn't ring an immediate bell, you'll remember it after viewing the Brazilian film, NEON BULL. (You're going to remember a few other things about this movie, as well.) Vaquejada is a kind of Brazilian rodeo sport in which the bull -- dehorned, it seems -- is trapped between two horses and then pulled to the ground not by the usual roping that we're used to but by yanking very hard on the bull's tail until he is forced to the ground.

If this seems a bit silly at first (and second and third) glance, it is probably only a tad more so than our version. And it's a hell of a lot easier on the bull than, say, bullfighting.

Vaquejada appears to be the subject of writer/director Gabriel Mascaro's new movie (the filmmaker is shown at left), but it turns out to be only one of them. Another is clothing design, a skill to which our hero, Iremar, aspires -- to this end using the lithe body of his "companion," Galega, who earns her living as an "exotic dancer" (two photos down), as his model. Iremar's "money" job is dusting the tails of those bulls prior to their pulling, and another of his roles is being a kind of surrogate father to Galega's on-the-cusp-of-the-teen-years daughter. That our boy manages all of this -- and a good deal more -- is a testament to his strength, virility and focus.

Iremar is played by an actor you'll not soon forget named Juliano Cazarré (above), who has some 29 credits on his resume, though I doubt that any of them will resonate quite the way this role does. Cazarré possess a masculine beauty, strength and grace that puts him immediately in a class by himself. Facially and physically -- from his stature and movement to his sizeable cock, which is on lengthy display during a group shower scene -- he's a standout. His acting,too, seems just right for this particular role that calls for a combination of strength, focus and keeping any emotion very close to the vest.

Filmmaker Mascaro creates a small, strange but almost cozy little world here, a kind of makeshift extended family in which, finally, your heart goes out to that deprived daughter but to no one else. The others, due most likely to their hardscrabble lives, put their immediate needs and desires above everything and everyone else.

Iremar uses Galega (Maeve Jinkings, above) as the model for his clothing "creations," which will not, I think, set the fashion world ablaze anytime soon. The two seem to have no sexual relationship, however. She instead does it with a young newcomer to the group, while he has a lengthy, full-out sexual encounter with a very pregnant woman (shown below and not fertilized by our man) whom he meets as she hawks her perfumes.

The sex is enormously sensual and absolutely consensual. It's hot as hell, too, but it does not appear to draw the participants any closer -- except momentarily/physically. Yet Iremar seems every bit as concerned with protecting the baby in his partner's belly as he does with getting his own rocks off. Cazarré's work in this scene, as in the rest of the film, exudes the kind of masculinity that never needs to push. It's simply full-out and on display at all times.

Mascaro's pacing is leisurely-unto-languid but so specific in what it lets us view from scene to scene that his film never bores. He shows us a world that, though it may be ordinary to some Brazilians who live in these specific areas, will seem much like Mars to the rest of us (a shopping mall in the middle of a completely desolate landscape?).

For Iremar, what matters is his clothing designs and making enough money to get them going. To this end there's a scene in a stable involving bringing a stud horse to climax in order to steal its semen to sell and then purchase a better sewing machine.

The other men may make fun of Iremar and his sewing habit (the term "faggot"is tossed about jokingly), but homosexuality per se is absent from the movie. That group shower with Iremar and his coworkers, however, is one of the most homoerotic in cinema history, ending with Iremar standing like a naked king surrounded by his kneeling, submissive courtiers.

If I've conveyed even half of the sublime strangeness of this Brazilian movie, then I've succeeded -- somewhat, at least. When Cacá (a lovely, sad, spirited performance by newcomer Alyne Santana, below) -- the young daughter who will probably never know either the mother or father she deserves -- asks Iremar for a hug and he gives it (above), the emotional high point of the movie is reached. And that happens maybe one-third into the film's 101 minutes. Afterward, everyone simply goes back to his or her next step on the way to momentary satisfaction.

Neon Bull, released by Kino Lorber, opens this Friday, April 8, in New York City at the Film Society of Lincoln Center and on April 15 in Los Angeles at Laemmle's Ahrya Fine Arts and Noho 7. To see all currently scheduled playdates with cities and theaters, click here and scroll down.

CHIC! Fashion, fun and a little love in Jérôme Cornuau & Jean-Paul Bathany's French charmer

I was told that CHIC!, the new movie starring that diva-to-idolize, Fanny Ardant, was a French farce. It's not. There are no slamming doors, characters running from room to room, in flagrante delicto moments, nor any of the other signs that a farce in on view. This surprisingly low-key movie refuses to push almost anything, relying instead on subtlety, sweetness and humor based more on character than situation to charm the pants off us. Which it does. My pants, at least (my spouse's, too).

Fashion is the theme here: how and why it is created and the effect is has on the half-dozen or so main characters on view. These would include the notorious and talented haute-couture legend responsible for the line (Ms Ardant, above); the haughty young woman, Hélène, near the top of the food chain of the corporation who "owns" the designer and her line (the delightfully sour Marina Hands, below);

her boss, a would-be Napoleon whose constant shouting can't quite conceal his ferocious fear (the very funny Laurent Stocker, at center, below), and the down-to-earth gardener (a terrific Eric Elmosnino) hired to give Hélène's home a touch of green.

You might remember M. Elmosnino (below, center) from his César-winning title role in Gainsbourg: A Heroic Life. His performance here shows once again how very versatile he is, fitting easily into just about any kind of character and genre.

The film's director, Jérôme Cornuau (shown below), is a newcomer to my purview, though he has made nearly 20 films (most of them for French television). So whether it is more his doing or that of his screenwriter,

Jean-Paul Bathany, I cannot say for certain (maybe a lucky combination of both), but the product of this collaboration is such a gentle, loving rom-com-cum-satire that yours truly found himself, for maybe the first time in his film-going history, being able to appreciate a movie with fashion -- the most-often appalling and ludicrous of all the supposed "arts" -- at its center.

How Monsieurs Cornuau & Bathany achieve this is by keeping their humor grounded in character rather than "event," the latter of which usually leads to a sit-com  Even their "diva" is just a human being, brought to fine life by Ardant, who has a wonderful little speech toward film's end, in which her character tackles behavior and artists and makes a most interesting, sensible and telling point.

All the characters here -- even the nasty boss, silly as he is -- behave too intelligently for farce. Scene after scene offers a small surprise (note the pitch-perfect one that takes place in the office of Hélène's shrink), and when characters do stupid or bad things, they pay for them. Yet the film is full of funny events and happenings, all handled in a lovely, low-key style. How much more unusual -- and welcome -- is this approach than that of all-out satire, farce or over-the-top humor.

Ms Hands (who also won a César for her fine performance as and in Lady Chatterley) is quite special here, balancing her anger and hauteur against a genuineness and gentleness just begging to be allowed to appear. As they gradually do, the movie morphs into something we hadn't initially expected. Think of it as a rom-com with smarts -- lots of 'em.

Chic! -- from Distrib Films US and running 103 minutes -- opens this Friday, May 1, at Laemmle's Music Hall 3 in Beverly Hills. If you don't live in the L.A. area, never fear: the film will be available simultaneously on Vudu, iTunes and Google Play.  (Eventually, I would hope, we'll be able to see this one via Netflix streaming. But not quite yet.)

Ari Seth Cohen & Lina Plioplyte's ADVANCED STYLE offers the aged looking good -- if you're a fan of clownish costuming, that is...

In these cultural times of rule-by-youth (every other kind of rule is by wealth, power and Supreme Court fiat), who wouldn't welcome the opportunity to see "fashion" from another angle? The angle chosen by writer/blogger/ fashionista Ari Seth Cohen, who co-wrote this film (based upon his writing and blogging), along with its director Lina Plioplyte, is the celebration of the older female segment of our population who are, in their own way, keeping up with fashion and still looking good in their 60s, 70, 80s and -- yes, even into their 90s.

ADVANCED STYLE, the 72-minute movie made by this first-time-filmmaking pair, concentrates on a number of older women who have dedicated their remaining years to looking good, with major focus on maybe half a dozen of these. Plioplyte, shown at right, and Cohen (below) move back and forth amongst the women, letting us into their lives piecemeal, some more than others. We see them at home, negotiating the city and/or park, and spending time with their loved ones (those who still have

any left), occasionally at work (one or two of them seem to own a boutique). One svelte number (below) hangs out at Harlem's Apollo Theater, where she used to dance, and where in front of the wall/mural of photos of famous performers who have also played the Apollo, she tels us that she is now legally blind so can no longer see the faces of these people. Another oldster, hanging out in on Cape Cod, introduces us to her friend, who is having heavy-duty memory problems.

Given the ravages of old age, it's not surprising that these women might turn to fashion for relief and respite, but one does question Mr. Cohen's taste in offering up as "fashion" clothes that often look more like clown costumes than anything fashionable.

(One woman even tells us that, regarding her first date with the man with whom she's now lives, he later told her that she looked like a clown.)

Super-bright colors, odd shapes and heavy-duty make-up highlight many of these ladies. Only one of them (shown below) seems to have a penchant for darker colors, together with a classier, retiring personality.

We spend some time with this woman and her grand-daughter who, no surprise, is also interested in fashion. But then, when the group makes a trip from New York City to Hollywood to appear on Ricki Lake's TV show, even this lady manages to go a little bizarre when given the chance to "perform." Whew-- what happened to all that "class"?

A couple of our gals are indeed chosen to be part of a Lanvin campaign celebrating fashion and aging (at least I think there were two of them, although the lady in red above seems to want to keep it all to herself).

Well, that's life. And age. And fashion. I suppose. Advanced Style, given its short length, is over just around the time it begins to outstay its welcome. But one wonders: Yes, these women are certainly sweet and undoubtedly old. But are they really the best examples of fashion that Mr. Cohen could find?

The movie opens  this Friday, September 26, here in New York City at the Quad Cinema. Next week it hits Miami, and then another half-dozen cities on October 10. Come October 17, it opens at the Laemmle's Music Hall 3 in Beverly Hills. For a complete listing of screening venues and playdates, click here.

This year's biggest waste of time so far: the Lespert/Niney/Gallienne YVES SAINT LAURENT

For anyone who found the 2010 documentary L'amour fou -- about Yves Saint Laurent and his business partner/lover Pierre Bergér -- lovely to look at if a little weak in the characterization department, hold on to your hat. The new and much-marketed narrative movie about the pair, titled simply YVES SAINT LAURENT, offers even less. In every department. You might imagine that, within the 106-minute running time, some revealing specifics regarding character might surface. Sure, YSL was a notoriously private person, but the whole point of a narrative version, one would imagine, is to delve more deeply and then show us the man beneath the glamour and gowns. Good luck. Not only is the movie tiresome and repetitive, but the people are mostly boring.

I am particularly unmoored by how truly awful this movie is because one of the two lead actors and the film's director are favorites of mine, from whom I expect a lot. And while Pierre Niney, shown below, who plays YSL, does as much as he can with the far-too-constrained script, the film's director and co-writer Jalil Lespert, at right, whom I have long admired as an actor, has not gone one inch beyond the expected and the clichéd as a filmmaker. What in the world were they thinking?

Let's start with the really lousy fake nose they've given poor M. Niney. It's so noticeable, particularly because it does not move like a real nose. Then let's tackle how the filmmakers decided to show his character: by making it clear that YSL was a workhorse who cared most about his dresses -- and repeating this fact over and over again.

YSL's relationship with his family is likewise made one-note, mostly a mom issue (played by Marianne Basler, above), sans any relevant details. The fact that the man is socially somewhat retarded and is finally brought out into the world via drugs and sex (which make it easier for him to relax and relate) is also handed to us on a platter -- which we're fed from once too often.

About M. Bergér (played by Guillaume Gallienne, above, left, who was so much more interesting in his awarding-winning Me, Myself and Mum) we learn next to nothing, other than he was evidently bi-sexual. We see little of the amazing possessions the two managed to collect over their lives together (see the doc version for that). There's a smattering of business talk now and then, but none of it exactly entices.

The fashions, such as they are, roll by us with regularity and not much else. You'll learn much more about these from the documentary version, as well. In any case, there's more drama in the pleat of an YSL skirt than in the entire movie, the height of which arrives when one character slaps another in the face. Wow!

Perhaps the filmmaking team wanted only to stick with the facts as known -- generally a mistake where a narrative film is concerned because part of the point of this format is the opportunity to extrapolate and invent. (YSL's leading model/muse -- for awhile, at least -- is played by the glamorous Charlotte Le Bon, shown above and below).

As the movie drags on, you can't quite bring yourself to believe that this is all there is. Surely there will be something more? Then -- poof! -- it's over and the end credits are rolling. And we're rolling our eyes.

So unendingly tiresome and boring are these people and their "scene" that one is almost tempted to suggest that M. Lespert has given us something utterly subversive here: Showing up the fashion world -- together with its kings, queens and clothes -- for the empty, worthless shell game that it is.

Yves Saint Laurent, from The Weinstein Company, opens at Film Forum (a rather strange venue for a stinker like this) on Wednesday, June 25, for a two-week run. Elsewhere? Surely, yes. But don't expect much help from the TWC's current web page on the film....