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Thursday, March 6, 2008

posted by Cintra Wilson at 1:21 PM
Category: Fashion? | Permalink

The Critical Shopper today takes the reader on a multi-floored tour of the new Gucci flagship.

The Times Copy Desk, bless their ironed socks and blow-dried toothbrushes, felt a little uncomfortable with a few of my word-choices. Here is the original version with outrageous profanity (like the word "condom") left in:

CRITICAL SHOPPER: GUCCI
By Cintra Wilson

The brand is strong, the numbers are great...but Gucci seems to be going through a minor midlife crisis. A fling, maybe. Nothing serious.

On a subtle level, Gucci still seems not to have bounced back since the divorce. Tom Ford was the great romance of Gucci's life, after all. They had an enviably exciting run - the old blue-blood finally had its overdue sexual awakening when young playboy Tom swang in, with his condom-tight slacks and groin-deep necklines. They couldn't last, of course; both the markets and egos involved were too volatile. Still, Tom, for all his flaws, really understood Gucci.

Gucci's recent print ads are upbeat and bosomy; a jailbait nymph with pouty lips clambering on rocks with an oily-haired boyfriend. If you squint, they resemble (ahem) George Marciano Guess ads... a fun, flirty style, tackier than one expects of the Gucci legacy.

The new flagship seems architecturally inspired by Hyatt Regency atriums of the late 1970's: Chocolate walls and carpets; smoky topaz glass, grey slabs of twinkling granite.

The store's exclusive 'Heritage Collection' of handbags and luggage seems aimed toward those who aspire to inherited wealth. The centerpiece: A caramelized alligator sarcophagus of a steamer trunk with shiny brass locks such as the Viscount might take on a steamship to the colonies, surrounded by smaller components, like its matching jewelry box. ($33,250 ).
The handbags are perfect for jungle doctors bringing quinine to the heathen: muted green crocodile and pocked ostrich with lacquered bamboo handles. ($3650). Matching ankle-strap pumps had a bamboo dowel lathed and embedded into the perilous needle-spiked heel. ($1980)

These items are decidedly not pre-distressed - these are new family heirlooms, purchased with your freshly minted war and arbitrage lucre.

One ascends to the second floor up a floating marble staircase that resembles a tour through the organs of Liberace's Lucite Wurlitzer.

The menswear suggests that Gucci is giving credit where more credit is wanted. Young brothers in purple lambskin bomber jackets and jeans belted over the knees were gliding around in tinted eyeglasses, greeting each other with knuckle-bumps over large shopping bags.
Gucci seems to realize it owes much of its recent popularity to hip-hop's enduring affection for the Gucciness of Gucci - which, arguably, isn't affection for classic Gucci as signified, but affection for hip-hop's kidnap and brainwash of Gucci, who has been successfully turned out, Patty Hearst style, to represent that cultural revolution of dazzling urbanites.

Yes, Madame, as a matter of fact, we did shoejack these loafers straight off Gore Vidal; they have now been properly swerved.

The new suits are cartoonishly dapper: oversize plaid prints with cigarette legs one ordinarily associates with Vaudeville soft-shoes and hapless Anglo-dorks like Dick van Dyke.
But they will look sensational on Andre 3000.

On the third floor: ample indication that Rosemary's Baby-Doll, maternity smocks are finally being replaced by slim shift-dresses belonging to that Hitchcockian twilight zone betwixt Grace Kelly and Tippy Hedron.

I accosted the assistant, a bespectacled young Antonio Banderas -type, to ask about a lightweight trench-coat. ($2455.)
"Is that jacquard?"
He confessed he didn't know, and slapped his own hand. I agreed, and slapped his hand too. He became very attentive.

There were regrets from other decades: Bea Arthur's 'Maud' was represented in a sleeveless, loud vermillion tent ($2395). A T-shirt seemed to have been Beadazzled by your aunt in 1991. ($495.)

I found them: waistlines. I nearly wept. Clingy, body-conscious dresses in 1940's jitterbug cuts ($1695.)

"I'll take those to the special dressing room," purred Adolfo, my assistant.
"Try thees one, too." He handed me what looked like a Diane von Furstenberg wrap-dress, covered with impressionistic barbells. ($2195)
"But I hate the print."
"Trust me," said Adolfo. "Do you like high heels?"
(Vampish deadpan.) "I like very high heels."
We smiled.
"Show me which ones, I'll bring them in your size."
Moments when straight men make such offers are far too rare in this life.

I found candyapple red leather pumps, with skinny, black four-inch heels, and followed Adolfo to the dressing room.

"Show everything to me," he said. I thought he was being polite.
When I opened the door to swish around in the mirrors seven minutes later, he was seated outside, waiting.

"I am not supposed to say this, but you look really hot," said Adolfo.

Too good to be true. I wondered if Gucci was trafficking in "companionship."

Adolfo delivered armfuls of dresses, and the pumps, in all three flavors. The dress he suggested -- the Ersatz von Furstenberg, was, other than massage oil, the sexiest thing I've seen on my body; LA, TV-sexy in a way I never thought I could pull off. Adolfo insisted on belting it, resulting in a blushing, Cary Grant physical comedy moment that I thoroughly enjoyed.

I tried a black and white gingham with a peekaboo cleavage window. ($1595)
"You should shorten eet," said Adolfo.
"Oh please," I rolled my eyes.
Adolfo got on his knees and began tucking my hem. I pretended the brush of his knuckles against my knees wasn't the kind of small, electrocharged intimacy I've seen as a preamble to letters in Penthouse Forum.
"See?"
He held my dress and indicated the mirror.

A miracle: that little tuck had transformed me, Cinderella-style, into Elle McPherson.

Adolfo, realizing I would do anything for him, urged me to try a silk spinnaker covered with black dots.
My romance with Adolfo abruptly ended.
Suffice to say: 101 Dalmations don't make it right.
As the song says: I've got 101 Dalmations, but a bitch ain't one.

But I bought the red pumps ($525). You must invest in the magic that moves you. They're a vote of confidence for my romantic future: Angels wanna wear my red shoes. Put on my red shoes and dance the blues. I'll click my ruby slippers three times and say: Ciao, Adolfo. There's no place like Rome.

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