This magazine is lost. Editorially and artistically, it’s the equivalent of a girlfriend who knows she’s about to be dumped but insists on faking a pregnancy in a last-ditch effort to salvage the relationship. In short, it sucks. Ms. Wintour, I’m here to tell you that you can only stuff a basketball up your Prada dress for so long before someone starts to wonder what the hell you’re doing.
Let’s start with the articles. Much like Penthouse, they’re a waste of space. There’s a really stupid column, “Up Front,” that is Vogue’s pathetic attempt to compete with the tabloids. It’s written by a different contributor each month, someone with a theoretically earth-shattering life experience that they think I’m supposed to learn from. We’re meant to empathize with the author, but give me a break…these women are too insulated, rich, and clueless to earn my sympathy.
Some of the more recent topics presented for our approval: a woman who learned her father had a secret gay past, a wife dumped by a husband who then married a much younger woman, a society belle who married a hulking and uncultured tribesman, and a woman embarrassed by an tragically unhip mother who lives in a hut in Hawaii. Their responses to these hardships usually involve wearing items of clothing that have four digit price tags and sighing prettily that life goes on despite people who embarrass them or deprive them of a date for the next charity ball.
So far, all I’ve learned is that these women are not good writers, have too much money and spare time for their own good, and treat the people around them with thinly veiled contempt. Vogue obviously has nothing to offer in the way of arresting life stories, and it shouldn’t try to compete with outlets that do.
Also, someone has GOT to do something about Plum Sykes. As if being the former BFF of Gwyneth Paltrow isn’t bad enough, she clearly has no purpose in life. She writes about the joy of finding the perfect long-sleeved dress, and how terrible it is to have such thin arms that most sleeves never fit snugly enough. Well, boo fucking hoo. She also writes about buying a $5,000 custom-made suit for a weekend party at her country house, and how the suit made her feel like a super-chic kick-ass hostess. Oh, what a travail it must be to feel less than perfectly stylish while relaxing at your country house! Give me the rack or the iron maiden, but SWEET JESUS IN HEAVEN, don’t let me feel unchic whilst serving brandy in the drawing room. This woman is as relevant as an 8-track player. Thank God I’m not the only one who thinks so.
There is nothing worth reading in this magazine. Even cover stories with theoretically interesting actresses like Reese Witherspoon and Anne Hathaway offer nothing new or novel. Most of the writers get the actresses to dish fantastic secrets like their personal philosophies on how to wear clothes they have neither paid for nor will ever wear again. The magazine’s big coup, getting Jennifer Aniston to let loose with an Angelina sound bite, was broadcast to the world in large black type on the cover, as if in competition with the National Enquirer. Again, this magazine is having relevancy issues. A whiny Jennifer Aniston who protests too loudly that she’s really and truly happy yet can’t wait to play the victim card AGAIN…boy, there’s something we’ve never seen before.
In the “Dispatch” column, fantastic foreign locations are reduced to blather by models and socialites, who dish about what they love about exotic locations, and what you need to bring when you visit them yourself. They say things like, “I just love white sand beaches! I never come to Tahiti without a bikini and my boyfriend!” or “The energy here is so young and fun…a great place to relax!” No shit. I never would have guessed that a beach would be relaxing. Thanks for the insight. You’ve really opened my mind.
Now, a word about the art direction. I am SICK TO DEATH of seeing jumping models with ponytails flying above their heads, staged on a plain background. I am not the only one who thinks this. THINK OF SOMETHING ELSE FOR THEM TO DO. Or maybe stop playing Van Halen and Kriss Kross at the photo studio. Try a little harder to earn those six-figure salaries, people. Also, I am sick of seeing models with their hair wrapped in some tight sheath, at the end of which the hair poofs out like it has been electrocuted. Stylists who do this should be fired.
Wintour’s favorite models appear with the regularity usually only bestowed by Metamucil. If I see Coco Rocha or that godawful Agyness Deyn one more time, I will lose my lunch. I do not agree that it was “brave” of Coco Rocha her to dye her hair red, nor was it necessary to document the “transformation” in the worst piece of ass-kissing since the liberal media discovered Obama. What does Coco have on Wintour? I’d love to know.
I am already tired of “fresh faces” Arlenis Sosa and Chanel Iman. Just because Oscar de la Renta loves Sosa, does that mean we have to see her eight times an issue? And must we really keep recycling women like Christy Turlington and Linda Evangelista? Like Vogue itself, these women were fabulous in the 90s but are quite ho-hum now. Surely there are other models willing to work for blow. Just like bitchy blogwriters, they’re a dime a dozen. Try using some of them.
I don’t know if her feud with Rachel Zoe has taxed her ability to do more than one thing at once, but the Devil needs to shape up if she wants to keep wearing Prada. As it stands, I relish each issue of Vogue only for the delicious opportunity it affords me to make fun of it.