A preternaturally gorgeous woman of a certain age falls victim to personal insecurity in a Hollywood industry that prefers its female icons more dewy than distinguished. A delusional, faded screen goddess embarks upon a mad quest to regain the heady thrill of her glory days.
On their own, powerful fictional narratives for our entertainment pleasure. Layer in real-life subtext and the intensity swells. Two of this year’s biggest, buzziest, actress-iest productions — the film “The Substance” and the Broadway musical “Sunset Boulevard” — depict unraveling, aging thespians played by women whose personal lore informs the drama — and the audiences’ fascination factor — in a major way.
These days, meta casting is clearly “in” — and that might hold a lesson for fashion.
“The Substance,” Coralie Fargeat’s body-horror fantasia, has racked up critical praise and audience approval (along with some “that’s gross” wincing) since its Cannes debut. The accolades center on Demi Moore’s work as Elisabeth Sparkle, an aging former starlet who turns to, shall we say, extreme cosmetic rejuvenation. Moore nails Elisabeth’s vanity and vulnerability in equal measure, the performance benefiting from the performer’s own past as much as it does her fearless commitment to the bit.
Neon-drenched horror flicks featuring lots of goo and extended scenes of a sexy golem (an also great Margaret Qualley) writhing around on a morning aerobics show seldom factor heavily into the traditionally goo- and aerobics-free end-of-year awards conversation. Not so for “The Substance,” as Moore looks likely to be included when various best actress nominations roll out over the next few weeks. One cannot watch Moore endure Fargeat’s high-concept ringer (the oft-meme’d make-up smearing mirror scene comes to mind) without remembering that, like Elisabeth, for many years Moore felt badly treated by her industry, cast aside as a has-been former ingenue. That realization elevates the film’s campy blood-and-guts from gore to gut-punch.
In “Sunset Boulevard” on Broadway, Nicole Scherzinger’s Norma Desmond oozes over-the-top pathos. Scherzinger brings a set of undeniable pipes (and gams) to the affair, and she brings her own compelling, strange backstory. The former Pussycat Doll popped onto the scene in 2001 as a member of Eden’s Crush, a semi-successful girl group assembled via the reality show “Popstars.” From there she took a circuitous route to perpetual semi-stardom: brief guest-starring appearances on sitcoms; stint as the lead singer of the aforementioned Dolls; solo album pulled due to lack of interest; judging-panel spots on music-competition shows. A leading role in a 2014 West End revival of “Cats” garnered her an Olivier nomination. But it ended poorly when, according to Page Six, she dropped out of the Broadway transfer for the very Norma-esque reason of not receiving above-the-title billing. At the time, a peeved Andrew Lloyd Webber called her “crazy,” but, letting bygones be bygones, he has proclaimed her Norma Desmond “the best performance of anything I’ve ever had.”
A broader audience is packing the house for “Sunset Boulevard” to take in, and revel in, Scherzinger’s close-up. The mid-show standing ovation after her extended note during “As If We Never Said Goodbye” is not only an expression of awe over her vocal derring-do. It’s also a display of genuine group happiness for a woman who has clawed her way up, down and back up ladder rungs for a quarter-century. That Scherzinger’s politically inopportune social media likes might cost her a Tony Award only adds to the metatextual experience since, as any true fan of hers knows, that is an extremely Nicole Scherzinger turn of events.
There’s always delight in watching a performer soar. That joy is doubled when the victory projects as personal as well as creative. In that sense, Moore’s and Scherzinger’s performances land an extra power punch. Is the audience rooting for Elisabeth and Norma, or for Demi and Nicole? Why not both?
Demi Moore at the Los Angeles premiere of “Landman” at the Paramount Theatre on Nov. 12 in Los Angeles.
Gilbert Flores
As for what these meta casting megahits might teach fashion — in this “musical chairs” era at the marquee houses, storytelling — not of the brand-narrative variety, but of a more personal nature — feels in short supply. With major jobs open, fashion watchers have indulged in wish-casting whom they’d like to see anointed. While the notion of a relative unknown ascending to a high-profile position appeals, many observers long for the kind of “oh, wow!” impact that comes with the appointment of a known megastar with an interesting history.
Case in point: the excitement at the monthslong reports, including in WWD, regarding Pierpaolo Piccioli sliding into Kim Jones’ recently vacated spot at Fendi’s women’s collections. The idea of Piccioli, purveyor of a vibrant, artful aesthetic that puts a modernist spin on Roman Romanticism, helming one of the Eternal City’s top fashion institutions brings with it a certain figlio prediletto mystique.
Then there’s perhaps the biggest job opening of all, Chanel. Since Virginie Viard’s abrupt exit, rumors have swirled, eventually coalescing into consensus that Matthieu Blazy will get the nod, after a highly impressive three-year tenure at Bottega Veneta. The announcement could come any day now. That hasn’t stopped some from ruminating on a more Hollywood-worthy twist. A fashion seat this big, they reason, demands a big star, and fashion stardom doesn’t get much bigger than the man who recently went public with a career aspiration. “There’s only one job that I want,” Marc Jacobs told WSJ Magazine in October, “and I haven’t been asked to do it.”
Jacobs has transcended fashion to become a broader cultural icon, one with an epic backstory to boot. The thought of him assuming the position long held by Karl Lagerfeld is a steak dinner that, however at odds with industry indicators, makes for delicious fantasy dining. At least one big name with connections to both Jacobs and Chanel agrees. Sofia Coppola told WSJ that it would be a “dream” to see her longtime friend flex his creative muscle at the house. “Unfortunately,” she quipped, “I’m not in charge.”
And speaking of backstories and meta-dream appointments, what of the on-and-off gossip about a John Galliano return to LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton? Galliano’s masterful spring 2024 Maison Margiela Artisanal collection was one of the biggest pure fashion stories of the year, a creative triumph that seemed to cement his phoenix-like personal recovery from his catastrophic fall. The storytelling layers projected forward. Months after the show, Galliano won sartorial honors at the Loewe-sponsored Met Gala, dressing co-chair Zendaya in a pair of looks (one vintage, one a redo) from his Givenchy/Dior days. Some read — or at least, want to read — the dazzling display as foretelling a return to the fold — although that may be unlikely if Margiela owner Renzo Rosso has anything to say about it.
John Galliano
Courtesy of Luncheon
But, hey, unlike couture, dreaming is free.
