Work it, girl. The recently released documentary The September Issue, offers a beneath-the-skirt peek at the eccentric world of high fashion, as director R.J. Cutler’s documentary exposes the not-so-pretty inner workings of American Vogue — the magazine that dictates, with Talmud-like authority, what will be in and what will be so out. But in the end, you’re more likely to be bored than titillated.
Vogue’s September issue, always a notoriously dense installment, outdid itself in 2007 (when Cutler’s cameras were rolling) at 840 pages and nearly five pounds. Perhaps not coincidentally, the issue appeared at the peak of Wall Street’s bloated excess, with exotic financial instruments that had cover-girl looks but ugly duckling realities. Cutler follows the production of the issue from start to finish, focusing most closely on Anna Wintour, the chillingly aloof so-called high priestess of the publication and, to a lesser extent, her creative director, Grace Coddington.
Wintour was the not-so-veiled inspiration for the 2006 film The Devil Wears Prada, but while Meryl Streep’s performance of the Wintouresque character is willfully and comically sharp-tongued, those left offended in Wintour’s wake are more like collateral damage. Vogue’s real glamazon isn’t just menace, she’s simply and cleanly honest. Wintour knows she holds the world of fashion in her delicate, manicured hands, but she isn’t drunk with power: she’s intensely sober with it. Sitting with rigid posture, her arms crossed (and toned enough to make Mrs. Obama jealous) and her sunglasses on, she unenthusiastically looks at nervous and eager designers proffering their work. And she alone gives the figurative thumbs-up or -down, like an empress deciding which gladiators will live and which will be thrown to the lions.
What the film lacks is a real sense of purpose. Sure, it can be viewed through the lens of a character study. But Wintour seems hopelessly bored with us mere mortals, and that doesn’t make her seem divinely exclusive—like the goddess Athena—it just makes her seem hollow. And while the film approaches some semblance of pathos as Wintour describes her siblings’ indifference to her profession, their lack of firm support doesn’t make her any less powerful or successful or unapproachable. Or any more human.
The film certainly isn’t pointless. It offers a look into a truly unique if bizarre realm—one that trickles down into ours, whether we like it or not. What Wintour says, goes. And a lot of what ends up on the clothing racks—from couture to Costco—is there because of her. Maybe Vogue is a flaming ember in a world that burns for the trendy, outrageous, ostentatious (and sometimes beautiful) apparel that shines on its glossy pages. But while Wintour’s position as supreme ruler of all things fashion is compelling and her prickly demeanor is entertaining, the novelty of both wears off quickly. And it’s an 88-minute film.
