Not Everyone Spins Their Wheels


By CATHY HORYN

Published: February 27, 2008
Paris

But Monday’s Dior show represented a kind of defeat of his way of doing things. The clothes were respectable, ladylike, seemingly culled from the early 1960s pages of Paris Vogue and L’Officiel — demure A-line suits, printed silk dresses, fur coats with opera-length sleeves — and the only thing that looked really Galliano, almost as a concession to his flamboyance, were the overteased hairdos and Baby Jane lacquered eyes.

So: what of Mr. Galliano’s earlier attempts to bring Dior into the 21st century with modern cutting? What are we to think now of his famous hobo collection or the Matrix show that tore into the house’s perfect seams and produced new shapes? Were they just about a moment?

If the answer is yes, then Mr. Galliano is right to move forward and attempt to satisfy the apparently growing world of affluent shoppers. Yet, apart from the evening clothes, which drew effectively on his recent couture show, one cannot see what connects the bland minks and working-women tweeds to Mr. Galliano’s ideals. And that’s a problem not just for Dior but also for a fashion genius. It makes for a real limbo.

The opening days of the French fall collections felt unusually bogged down, with a weak show by Martin Margiela on Monday and a heavy, introspective journey by Yohji Yamamoto, with the designer himself singing a ballad on the soundtrack.

One of the most astute and complicated designers of his generation, Mr. Margiela would have to rely on the good will of his audience if he expected people to see design virtues (or signs of effort) in beige minidresses with jumbo cowl necks, one-shoulder jersey tops sweeping over mismatched leggings, and black leather jackets that soared upward at the shoulder like a smokestack.

Nothing made sense even by Mr. Margiela’s enigmatic standards. In the past, he has always seemed a designer who reacts to things from his consciousness, a quality that not only set him apart but also gave his fashion extra perceptive power. This collection, though, looked strictly off the cuff, or maybe was the work of assistants.

That was Mr. Yamamoto scraping along with a guitar, and he wasn’t half bad, either. The strong points in this pure Yohji show were coats and jackets tailored from paper-thin black leather with some edges left raw. The underpinnings were soft and flowing, and most of the coats were also constructed with fabric.

Mr. Yamamoto likes to dissolve sartorial boundaries. Hence, you could not clearly tell if the blue suede front to a black jacket was a shirt or part of the whole. But some of the gathered skirts, with an extra tire of fabric around the middle, looked dustily Yamamoto, with pious allusions to women in bonnets and rustic stoles. He ended on a modern note at least, with lightweight cotton cloaks, pants and flat shoulder bags by Hermès.

Jun Takahashi of Undercover began with a simple premise. He asked himself a series of questions — What is tailoring? What is American sportswear? — and his responses revealed how amazingly fluent he is as a designer, able to mutate classics like the masculine pantsuit and the motorcycle jacket.

The models’ latex cone heads and mutant eyes were a case of comic overkill; Mr. Takahashi’s clothes expressed everything he had to say of the moment. The coolest looks were narrow cargo pants made from pieces of denim and outdoor fabric, like waxed cotton and a hunter plaid that resembled Barbour lining.

From shoulders to hem, tailored jackets followed rounded lines, and circular shapes transformed common sweatshirts and long cardigans. Motorcycle jackets, a favorite of Japanese designers, now came in primary colors and were layered with thick beige shrugs embellished with mounds of feathers or yarn curls. The results were eye-changing.

A designer who controls his pattern making can say the most with his clothes. It’s just like a writer with language. That’s why Karl Lagerfeld and Azzedine Alaïa are the poets of fashion and Rei Kawakubo is our Gertrude Stein. Rick Owens approaches pattern making with the same determination: to make it express the shapes and ideas he has in his mind.

Using wool and leather, sometimes in combination with denim and silver piping, Mr. Owens on Sunday gave jackets a voluptuous shape. A number of them had an hourglass line, with a peplum formed by squares of fabric, while others had cube-shaped billows at the back. If you were to mentally trace the silhouette made by a jacket’s extra volumes — the cubes, the wings of fabrics — you would roughly have the outline of the contemporary person in the street, with her layers. Ms. Kawakubo has made similar visual connections.



At the opposite extreme were cashmere tunics and biker shorts, as well as snug fur jackets or vests that looked tough despite the delicate way Mr. Owens draped them. Still, the energy and modernity came from the tailoring of the harder fabrics. It’s not difficult to see elements of Paris couture in the shapes, or the influence of Mr. Galliano’s early cutting techniques at Dior. But Mr. Owens has sought to refine the methods. The dragging flaps on the zippered boots are all of apiece, as is the collection.

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Fantasyland With Eyes Wide Open


By GUY TREBAY
Published: February 27, 2008
PARIS

So much about fashion shows can seem astounding, in a practical sense. Each is like an unusually complex piece of 15-minute theater, and typically there are eight every day.

Estimated at random, there were dozens of performers at Dior, hundreds of costumes, a producer, a D.J., technical crews for music and lights and stage props (in this case, a waterfall staircase), wranglers responsible for the ornately hierarchical seating arrangement for (in this case) more than 1,200 people, who perched on ballroom chairs with tags affixed with a black satin ribbon, each one inscribed by a calligrapher with the occupant’s name.

There were individual crews for hair and makeup, each traveling with tons of equipment in custom-fitted vans; scores of security goons with earpieces; crafts-services people to provide the food that models never eat (the latest form of ostentatious backstage intake-avoidance is the cup of hot water, nursed as if it were sacramental wine), and all the assorted human flotsam that the industry seems to attract. By that one means models’ boyfriends, a breed apart.

People complain about fashion shows being late, but the wonder is that they happen at all. If Hollywood had to labor under fashion conditions (nonunion, by the way), it would spell the end of moviegoing as we know it. Yet somehow it all works. Ms. McGrath powered along unflappably. The same went for Orlando Pita and a posse of hairdressers charged Monday with concocting at warp speed the kind of leonine 1960s coiffures that, in the versions designed in that era by Ara Gallant and photographed by Avedon, required days of preparation and hairdressing tools like rats, falls and staple guns.

By the time they had been fully spackled and bewigged, the models were barely recognizable. And this is one of the more demented aspects of the business: how after going to the trouble of selecting prized specimens from the global gene pool, what designers like best is to render their beauty invisible.

Sometimes this takes the form of face-covering nylon headpieces that make the models’ heads look like sacks of blocks (Junya Watanabe) or funnel collars (Martin Margiela) that convey the impression that the wearer has fallen down a well. Sometimes it is just that big architectural eye.

“She’s like a homing pigeon, this one,” Ms. McGrath said Monday, referring to the Brazilian Raquel Zimmermann, who currently holds the No. 1 position on the model-rating Web site Models.com. The passion that some people bring to reading the stock market index, others devote to this site. And weird as it may seem, there is a certain utility in a Web locale dedicated to charting the fortunes of people who are beautiful occupationally. Fashion is a consensus business, after all, based to a large extent on wholly subjective markers of taste. Vogue isn’t called that for nothing.

“Raquel flies away,” Ms. McGrath said airily. “But she always comes back.”

By that Ms. McGrath was indicating that Ms. Zimmermann had gone missing from this season from the catwalks in Milan. The reason was simple: her United States visa was due for renewal. She might also have meant, though, that although Ms. Zimmermann’s good looks are incontrovertible, she is an industry anomaly.

A decade older, at 26, than most of the competition, she is proof that the immortal Heidi Klum-ism about being in fashion one day and out the next miscalculates the intervals of change. Ms. Zimmermann has been in the business since she was 16 and has had all the magazine covers and walked all the runways and shot all the campaigns and yet somehow manages to seem fresh again each season.

“Why has she lasted so long?” a Vogue editor remarked on Tuesday (speaking anonymously, for fear of going off message and being banished to a job at a knitting catalog). “Maybe it’s that combination of a Nordic head on a Brazilian body.

Fashion is a funny business, Ms. Zimmermann mused as the hairdresser Teddy Charles readied her mane at Dior. “People are always taking care of you, you have a car and driver 24 hours a day, they’re treating you like a star. You can lose yourself in the fantasy.”

For a middle-class girl from the south of Brazil who had planned on becoming an architect, she suggested, the trick to achieving longevity has been perspective. “Absolutely, you can enjoy all the shows and the creative people and the fabulousness,” she said. “But in the end, you have to know how to go back to normal.”

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By ERIC WILSON
Published: February 25, 2008
HOLLYWOOD — The movie industry must have woken up from the writers’ strike with a rotten hangover, unable to even think about frivolous things like parties and frocks. It was such a buzz kill that quite a few of the actors on the red carpet at the Academy Awards looked as if they either couldn’t be bothered with fashion this year — so not superficial were they — or had dressed in the dark on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

The hits were few and the misses, well, seemed to be less a result of actresses who dare to risk the wrath of the fashion police (Tilda Swinton leading the charge in a shapeless black bolt of fabric that appeared to be designed by the House of Hefty) than a general sense of red carpet malaise.

“I think a lot of people are being safe,” Kimora Lee Simmons, usually a fashion extrovert, commented on the E! channel. “Safe to me reads like boring.”

Certainly the stars deserved some leeway, but you would think that after months of Hollywood gloom and doom, the fashion would have been a little more upbeat. Instead, there seemed to be only two choices — wear red and be seriously appropriate or wear black and be appropriately serious.

The first camp belonged to Katherine Heigl in an Escada one-shoulder dress, Ruby Dee in a satin belted dress and jacket by Kevan Hall, Miley Cyrus in suitably youthful Valentino and Anne Hathaway in a stunner from Marchesa with a sash of red rosettes. The serious crowd included Amy Ryan in a flat (actually navy) Calvin Klein toga and Jennifer Garner, in embroidered silk taffeta from Oscar de la Renta. Few women wore big jewels — a sign of the sober mood — except for those dressed in black, but then they had to try harder just to be noticed as present.

Nevertheless, shown against a backdrop of gray clouds, the black dresses looked so similar that it hardly seemed worth checking the labels. That wasn’t the case for two women who wore purple: Cate Blanchett looked radiant in a satin gown with a plunging neckline that was accented with green beads, matching her earrings; and Jessica Alba wore a draped Marchesa gown that was tipped with a bit of froth.

There were also some shocking moments, the kind of loopy flubs that modern advancements in the profession of fashion styling had all but done away with years ago. Ms. Swinton, bless her Dobby the House Elf-loving heart, will most likely wake up with a few bruises tomorrow for her dress (from Lanvin), and Marion Cotillard, the French (and normally chic) actress from “La Vie en Rose,” wore a mermaid gown from Jean Paul Gaultier that was unsubtly printed with fish scales. Get it?

But the biggest faux pas tended to come from the other side of the hedgerows edging the carpet, where the commentators were climbing over one another to fawn and gawk and gently probe. On ABC, George Pennacchio must have been overwhelmed by his encounter with Heidi Klum, in a red dress with a picture-frame neckline and a woodlike bun of hair on her head.

“Is it by top American designer Michael Kors?” he asked, referring to her co-host on “Project Runway.”

“It’s not,” she said with a sour face. “It’s Galliano.”

On E!, when Ryan Seacrest was not inexplicably playing with Barbies between interviews, he grilled Amy Adams, looking quite beautiful in an emerald Proenza Schouler strapless dress that set off her pale skin and red hair. He asked about the ephemeral gold mesh bag hanging from a chain interwoven between her fingers, and found it was just for show.

“It is a bag,” Ms. Adams protested. “I have invisible lipstick in there.”

But like the fashion, it was ultimately empty.

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I Have Just the Client for You



By ERIC WILSON
Published: February 24, 2008
LOS ANGELES

WINNER! Elie Saab became famous after Halle Berry wore this in 2002.
MARILYN HESTON scanned the faces in the gilded ballroom of the Beverly Wilshire for telltale signs of the Hollywood elite — that would be flashbulbs going off in your eyes — and came up empty. Oh, there were plenty of power brokers gathered on Tuesday for the Costume Designers Guild Awards, enough to double kiss all night: Jeanne Yang (stylist for Tom Cruise), Tanya Gill (stylist for Julie Christie), Arianne Phillips (stylist for Madonna and costume designer of “3:10 to Yuma”), Cameron Silver (owner of the vintage boutique Decades), etc.

But where were the real celebrities who were booked to present the awards?

A flashbulb went off in Ms. Heston’s eyes.

“There must be another cocktail hour upstairs for the V.I.P.’s!” she said, and a moment later, in her silver Rodo pumps, Nicole Miller bubble dress and a spiraling chain of Kwiat diamonds, she swished up the carpeted steps of the ballroom and hooked her arm around the sequined dress of the first woman she saw wearing a headset.

Ms. Heston, who owns a public relations company that specializes in wrangling actresses into gowns, shoes, jewels and bags for the red carpet, dropped the name of a client, Atelier Swarovski, a sponsor of the party. A moment later, she was heading up another flight of stairs with two badges marked “talent” in her hand, sweeping past a security guard and into the promised land of award presenters, inhabited by Katie Holmes, Kristen Chenoweth and Anjelica Huston. Ah, stars.

In the traditional pecking order of Hollywood, a fashion publicist would rank only a notch or two above the television commentators, makeup artists, hair stylists, tuxedo designers and spray-on-tan technicians who descend on the city during the week leading up to the Academy Awards — a mobile sales force of manicured Willy Lomans holed up in suites at the Raffles L’Ermitage. As many as 80 publicists are here representing blue chip designers, all competing for a shot to dress a Cate Blanchett or a Hilary Swank in a Valentino, Armani, Gucci or Calvin Klein dress.

Ms. Heston would probably stomp on an actress’s toes if it got her to change into shoes by Rodo, a client.

“If you don’t ask,” she said, “you don’t get.”

Aggressive, ingratiating and unencumbered by any sense that she might be pestering people, Ms. Heston, 53, has become a star maker for designers trying to break into Hollywood. That is because she does not stop asking. Marc Bouwer, who designed Angelina Jolie’s white satin Oscars gown in 2004, recalled bumping into Ms. Heston, with an armload of Elie Saab dresses at almost every turn, even after Ms. Jolie had committed to wearing his dress.

“She showed up at practically every fitting, invited or not,” he said. He recalled driving to Ms. Jolie’s house to make alterations and finding Ms. Heston’s car in the driveway. “We pulled over into the bushes until we heard she was on her way.”

Mr. Bouwer said he admired Ms. Heston, “but you do not want to play against her.”

After all, who, outside of the fashion news media, had ever heard of Elie Saab before Halle Berry turned up at the Oscars in 2002 in his deep purple tulle and taffeta gown? Or Roland Mouret before Scarlett Johansson wore his tight, curvy dresses at the Golden Globes and Oscars in 2005? The credit has gone largely to the actresses’ stylists, but Ms. Heston was there, one step deeper behind the scenes, pushing for her dresses, dying shoes to match and sewing an actress into a dress if she had to.

“Where she is brilliant is finding young designers and supporting them,” said Sienna Miller, who met Ms. Heston five years ago when she first arrived in Los Angeles and was still an unknown actress. Ms. Heston, representing M.A.C. cosmetics and Vidal Sassoon at the time, helped introduce her.

“She’s always there in a crisis,” Ms. Miller said. “It’s not that she does the styling — I’ve always dressed myself — but she’s a huge help.”

Ms. Heston’s client Nicole Miller recalled her amazement when she opened a magazine and saw her bohemian print scarf dress on Ms. Jolie when the actress made her first public appearance with Brad Pitt. “There was so much demand for that dress, we could have made another 10,000,” Ms. Miller said.

Watching Ms. Heston operate last week in the ivy-covered warehouse that serves as her showroom on Melrose Avenue, or attending a marathon of parties on Thursday night where she kiss-kissed Tilda Swinton, Michelle Trachtenberg, Donna Karan and Roberto Cavalli, was like following a chess match as she moved pieces strategically from one stylist to another. At times, it was boring. And at times it was scintillating, as when she made an especially brash play or picked up her phone, brushing aside her Vidal Sassoon blowout, to say, “Hellohoneyhowareyou. ...”

“I’ll send you JPEGs!” she yelled to Rachel Zoe (stylist to Cameron Diaz and Jennifer Garner), who had been avoiding her entreaties to see Kwiat.

“She needs a shorter heel?” she asked of Ms. Gill, who was browsing for Ms. Christie. “We can chop them off!”

“Canadian! Canadian!” she squealed to Linda Medvene (stylist for Sarah Polley, a best-director nominee for “Away from Her” and a Toronto native). “Me, too!”

Ms. Heston, originally Marilyn Grace Pernfuss in Kitchener, Ontario, has displayed a knack for handling big personalities since she was 16, working a summer job at the Vancouver Aquarium as an announcer for the dolphin and whale performances. In 1975, she landed a job managing V.I.P. cruise passengers arriving on the Island Princess (a star in “The Love Boat”).

That summer, Charlton Heston and his family disembarked and asked her to arrange their return to Los Angeles. The actor’s son, Fraser, a film director and producer, later asked her on a date and invited her to attend the Oscars when Charlton Heston was given the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award in 1978. She arrived, in the greatest humiliation of her life, wearing a simple skirt and a blouse.

Like Scarlett O’Hara, she would never be hungry again — not on a red carpet anyway.

After marrying Fraser Heston in 1980, she worked as a film publicist (her credits include “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”), then shifted to fashion, introducing Jimmy Choo to Los Angeles. Now companies like Emanuel Ungaro, Alexander McQueen, Reem Acra and Collette Dinnigan typically pay her a $5,000 monthly retainer to lure celebrities.

Some say Ms. Heston would stop at nothing to get her labels on a hot actress, and indeed that seemed to be the case when she turned up at a studio in Culver City on Wednesday with a garment bag full of Reem Acra and Biba dresses and $50,000 worth of Kwiat diamonds stuffed in a FedEx envelope. Anna Friel, a rising young star, was being photographed by a major fashion glossy, so Ms. Heston showed up with samples.

There was an uncomfortable moment as a publicist, a photography director and the magazine’s stylist stared down Ms. Heston, delicately pointing out her diplomatic faux pas. Ms. Friel stepped in.

“Remember when I wore that spotted dress?” she said. “That was Marilyn.”

“Remember the green one? That was Marilyn.”

Ms. Heston began gathering the diamonds until the publicist stopped her.

“I want to keep them just in case,” the publicist said.

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Do You Get Where He’s Coming From?



By CINTRA WILSON
Published: February 21, 2008
WHEN I first visited Adam, the picture windows displayed a female mannequin that was trapped inside a bell-shaped bird cage, wearing a fur-lined silver vest. A male mannequin in the opposite window was paradoxically free: seated on a wooden bench in a comfortable Mr. Rogers zip cardigan, reading a book about architecture, surrounded by a nifty collection of ornamental bird cages.

In many stores, one feels starved of proper influence from the past. Sophomoric designs spring into the fashion world that are so right-this-second as to be divorced from any history or future; they resolve no tensions that fashion has been feeling for the last several hundred years, or even the last five. They feel haplessly marooned in the present.

The designer Adam Lippes doesn’t have this problem. His designs seem to be moving toward something, or back to something. But this, too, has its dangers: if the specific influences the designer is drawing from lack depth, or he isn’t influenced deeply enough, his overall message can be inscrutable.

The first stuff I glommed onto at Adam was shiny holiday finery, on sale. Gold lamé dollybird dresses with high boat necks, studded along the collarbones with classic rings of Greek goddess/regal Egyptian rhinestones ($169, down from $250).

They transported me to Oscar nights in the mid-to-late 1960s: back when the Oscars meant something. Real men with sideburns wore butterfly bow ties and were fighting drunk, and women back-combed their hair into ice sculptures and painted Cleopatra eyeliner halfway up each temple.

This rack brought to mind the movie “Darling,” a portrait of London right as its behavioral pendulum was swingin’ away from the repressions of the ruling-class establishment into a breezy decadence (that proved as clunky and as bloodless as the old mores it was subverting). New cultural adventures were swirling around those dresses; wars were beginning to end. Captain Kirk kissed Lieutenant Uhura in a space beyond race. Barbra Streisand strapped on a Nefertiti headdress, with no irony whatsoever. Colors were bleeding and minds were beginning to open. It was the tipping point of suggestion that girls still locked in their Goldwater girdles might want to burn their bras in a few years.

The mannequin at Adam obviously wanted to escape her cage... but did she know why?

This wasn’t vital information. There was a laudably uplifting and clever mood pervading the place. Mr. Lippes hits his inspirational nails rather exactly on their heads, but they’re art nails. Fellini beach party bonanzissima! Blouson dresses in billowing stripes made from the cotton of faded circus tents. A yellow chiffon halter dress transports J-Lo through time, to guest star on “The Love Boat.”

Designers generally make the shopper aware of their muses through their clothing; Mr. Lippes takes a bit of a shortcut by displaying his personal library. Art and architecture books by Alex Katz, Jackson Pollock, Richard Prince, Nan Goldin, Tord Boontje and Jean Nouvel are scattered on coffee tables and lean in thick wooden bookshelves alongside hand-blown Danish water glasses ($26) and pastel T-shirts folded in stacks of gradient color.

A tiny woman with a shag haircut and little round librarian glasses emerged from a dressing room wearing a button-up turquoise smock. Smurf veterinary clinic, was what first came to my mind.

“That is so almost there,” I said, hurling my unsolicited opinion at her.

“I don’t really like it.” She tugged at the hem.

“I don’t like it, either, but I see where it wants to go. It’s almost incredibly cute. I like the idea of it on you exponentially more than I like it on you.”

It had bulbous pockets on the hips, which made it an unforgivably eggy, shapeless shmatte such as one might wear to serve pies at the Hickory Pit. But there was something precious about the blouse. It was weirdly innocent and benignly nurse-like. If she had been teaching knee-high children to finger-paint, it would have been glorious. As a garment, though, it was way too spayed. June Cleaver jokes aren’t funny anymore, since our collective sexual maturity started going retrograde.

My sales assistant was a gentle, blushing boy with shaggy hair and a necktie zipped under one of Adam’s baby-blue cardigans, and a pair of thick, square plastic glasses I identified as Early Air Force — a frame once referred to as “birth control,” for its efficacy in repelling girls (which just goes to show, one man’s poison is another boy’s date).

The more expansive the imagination of the designer, the more the clothes invite you to romp around onstage in the lifestyle of the designer’s imaginary playhouse. I nearly succumbed to a black knit dress with a peekaboo neckline, pleated sleeves and silk braiding around the neck and belt ($295). But it was wholly transparent; the fantasy wasn’t my style. It required a Lindsay Lohan-esque urge to stand around at a Hollywood bar showing your panties in a way that looks unintentional.

The New York Times film critic Bosley Crowther wrote in his 1965 review of “Darling”: “The heroine, as played by Julie Christie, is a vigorous, vivacious sort, full of feline impulses and occasional disarming charms, but uncommunicative of the urges that make her tick.”

Adam’s caged woman must have been imprisoned for something, and we can only hope that she eventually figured out why. Perhaps Mr. Lippes is telling us that in an unpredictable world, it’s best to dress hopefully: white canvas, Rita Hayworthy sailor tap-pants ($185) could be just the ticket for weathering the tail of a long winter. Just add silver tap shoes and fan-kick, sister: this, too, shall pass.


Adam

678 Hudson Street (near West 14th Street); (212) 229-2838.

ADAM-IZED The golden-boy designer Adam Lippes brings his label to a black-tiled showplace in the meatpacking district. Spiffy, trendy confections wrapped in soft-baked minimalism. Girl-friendly.

ADAM-ANT All the stuff you need for play dates with the beautiful art-youths of Bushwick (roll over, Williamsburg).

MADAM, I’M EXPENSIVE Most of the prices are reasonable, but I really wanted the silver fox blanket (sorry, PETA!) to put in a hammock and never get out: $2,300, and that’s just cruel.



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The Bride Wore Very Little



By RUTH LA FERLA
Published: February 21, 2008
THE gown was almost wanton — fluid but curvy with a neckline that plummeted dangerously. “It makes me feel sexy and beautiful,” said Natasha DaSilva, who slipped it on for a fitting last week.

Except that Ms. DaSilva, who will be married on Long Island in September, plans to wear it at the altar.

“Why not?” she asked. “I want to look back in 20 years and feel like I looked hot on my wedding day.”

Ms. DaSilva, 26, thinks of herself as adventurous, but not so brash that she is about to cross a line. Dressing for a wedding as if it were an after-party is accepted among her family and friends. “For my generation, looking like a virgin when you marry is completely unappealing, boring even,” she said. “Who cares about that part anymore?”

Ms. DaSilva is typical of a growing number of brides flouting convention by flaunting their curves. More vamp than virgin, many are selecting gowns that bare a generous expanse of cleavage, midsection, lower back or thigh, temptress styles that may be better suited to a gala or boudoir than to a church or ballroom.

“Brides today absolutely want to look sexy and glamorous,” said Mara Urshel, an owner and the president of Kleinfeld, the venerable Manhattan bridal salon. In recent months, the store has seen a spike in demand for plunging necklines and negligee looks, one that has only intensified since the spring bridal collections began arriving in stores. For brides shopping now for gowns to wear at summer or early fall weddings, “there is a lot of freedom of choice, and these girls exercise every bit of it,” Ms. Urshel said.

Determined to look torrid on their wedding day, they are picking dresses modeled, say, on the one worn by Christina Aguilera, who was married in 2005 in a gown with a plummeting neckline and ruffled fishtail hem. Or maybe the hope is to emulate Sarah Jessica Parker, who, in the forthcoming film version of “Sex and the City,” spills out of the front of her wedding dress.

“Young women increasingly look to the red carpet for style ideas,” said Millie Martini Bratten, the editor in chief of Brides magazine. “They are very aware of how they look,” she added. “They diet, they work out. And when they marry, they want to be the celebrity of their own event.”

To accommodate them, the once rigidly corseted bridal industry has loosened its stays. At the spring bridal shows in New York last October, tastemakers like Vera Wang, Oscar de la Renta, Reem Acra, Angel Sanchez and Carolina Herrera unveiled a preponderance of strapless styles, trumpet shapes and even a few above-the-knee looks. More-daring designers offered filmy peignoir dresses, two-piece looks and skirts slit all the way to the hip.

Some of these va-voom confections seem tailor-made for the bride who envisions the march down the aisle as a long-dreamed-of photo op, and the reception as an after-party on the scale of Oscars night.

“Women now are looking at their weddings more like a movie premiere,” said Jose Dias, a designer for Sarah Danielle, a New York bridal house.

These steamy fantasies extend to their choice of location. “It used to be that unless you married at home, you were married in a church,” Ms. Bratten said. But today fewer weddings take place in a house of worship, and fewer still in the bride’s hometown.

According to a 2006 survey by Condé Nast Bridal Media, 16 percent of couples choose a destination wedding — a fourfold increase from a decade ago. The same survey found that only 46 percent of brides are married in a church or synagogue, down from 55 percent the year before. With weddings transported to other locales comes a loosening of conventions.

Whether they marry in a walled garden, on a tennis court, on a yacht or at the beach, “brides are more focused on the after-party, and on personalizing it,” Ms. Bratten said.

Beginning with the gown. Today the prevailing fantasy is no longer, “ ‘I want to be a princess in my ball gown,’ ” Mr. Dias said. “A lot of women have done that already for their prom.”

Mr. Dias, who is based in Los Angeles, accommodates clients’ desires for dresses that echo runway trends with halter-tops and off-the-shoulder gowns that are more emphatically provocative than the strapless looks that have become commonplace. His dresses are cut to appeal to the bride who is “confident in her sexuality,” he said.
Similar considerations prompted the designer Monique Lhuillier, a favorite in Hollywood, to fashion a dress with an Empire bodice, wide lace straps and a wispy chiffon skirt — features more often found in a nightgown. A hit of Ms. Lhuillier’s spring bridal collection, the dress is available at Kleinfeld.

Yielding to clients’ demands, Pnina Tornai, an Israeli-born designer, specializes in patently vixenish gowns. Only a couple of years ago Ms. Tornai’s dresses — often cut from semi-sheer panels of lace — met with a chilly reception in New York. “When I first came to show my collection at Kleinfeld, I was thrown out the door,” she said. Undaunted, she modified her dresses and several months later returned. Today her gowns are among the store’s best sellers.

For brides who want to maintain the traditional modesty during the wedding ceremony but cut loose at the reception, there is the increasingly popular option of topping the dress with a shawl, stole or bolero.

When Jana Pasquel, a New York society figure and jewelry designer, said her vows in a convent in Mexico City last November, she wore bouffant dress by Vera Wang; effusively romantic, it was traditional except for the neckline, which revealed more than Ms. Pasquel cared to show.

Her father, who is Mexican, “is a traditional Catholic,” said Ms. Pasquel, 31. “He would not have liked me to walk down the aisle like that, so I had the designer make a cover-up, a kind of a bolero, very full and infanta-looking. It came all the way up to my neck.”

At a second marriage ceremony later that week on a beach in Acapulco, Ms. Pasquel thought only of pleasing herself. Inspired by a trip to India, she wore a tiny midriff-baring bodice and an abundant skirt made of gold leaf. More sensuous than brazen, it made an impression, she recalled. “People talked about it — a lot.”

Catherine Cuddy, an insurance analyst in New Jersey, was similarly focused on turning heads when she married in Bryant Park in New York last October. She dispensed with the customary long, fitted sleeves and train in favor of a halter style that dipped to the small of her back.

Even a veil was too much for her. “I didn’t want to cover up my dress,” said Ms. Cuddy, 33, a self-described Rita Hayworth type. Or the torrents of curls that rushed past her shoulders. Or, for that matter, her gym-toned back.

To get in shape for her gown, a white lace sheath that appeared to have been turned on a lathe, she stepped up visits with her trainer from one to three sessions a week. Ms. Cuddy had no thought of defying tradition or making a statement of any kind. She simply wanted to make the most of her curves, she said.

When she marries in Long Island City next fall, Ms. DaSilva, too, will dress as she sees fit — and with her mother’s blessing. “My mom loves my gown,” she said delightedly. “She thinks it’s very figure-flattering.”

Would her male relatives object?

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ms. DaSilva said. “Besides, in my family, we’re mostly women. It’s pretty much — we’re in control.”

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By CATHY HORYN
Published: February 20, 2008
Milan

Nothing about Prada or Jil Sander is easy, though simplicity — and tradition — are at the core of both fall collections. Miuccia Prada turned lace into a holy and fetishistic enterprise, while Raf Simons of Jil Sander tested the structural foundations of minimalism.

Yet these are the two designers who, quite simply, matter in Milan.

In contrast to the firefly transparency for spring, Mr. Simons went heavier, warmer, the tweed and dark woolen collars spiraling against the face — and that may be a turn-off. But in virtually every outfit in his show on Monday night, Mr. Simons put purpose to his tailoring. And Milan has been awash in clothes without interest or real design.

Under Mr. Simons, Jil Sander has become a source for beautiful dresses and modern tailoring. This time, he said, he wanted the tailoring patternmakers to think more like the drapers, and vice versa. That exercise produced a slim navy wool sheath with a chevron of pressed pleats from neckline to hem, as well as a remarkable dress with a bow effect at the neck done with an inner structure of padding under speckled gray tweed.

Structure is the essence of fashion, and many designers have shied away from it — or do it cheaply with a gather. Mr. Simons sees only contemporary possibilities with the most traditional values, like a tweed jacket in a blend of navy and purple that breaks interestingly above the elbows and holds your attention with the way the fabric spills and drapes across the front. And this hard-core interest has put him in the vanguard of women’s fashion.

“You want to be more simple in fashion now, and more minimal,” Ms. Prada said after her fascinating show on Tuesday night. Of course, she is not talking about lovely dresses, like those that Tomas Maier showed earlier in the day at Bottega Veneta. Mr. Maier’s chic, liquidlike dresses — complemented this season with rounded blue-violet coats pasted with felt curls — have the ardent-heartedness of a man pressing his case with chocolates and roses. (O.K., O.K., you big slob, make me a lady!)

No, Ms. Prada’s black lace dresses are something else. Lace is the fabric of women’s lives, from christening robes to bridal gowns to widow’s weeds. (And let us harmonize: We are fashion nuns!) So, like Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons and perhaps like Azzedine Alaïa, Ms. Prada took a single idea and stayed with it, working the black and beige lace (or orange and blue lace) into coats and slim dresses and tops with stiff satin peplums, all over bodysuits or white cotton shirts. As she said: “You have to go all the way. A little touch of lace becomes pretty.”

Structurally, proportionally, the clothes were very direct and simple — the ruffled edges of some of the 1940s dresses repeated in the suede and patent-leather pumps and nylon bags. The lace becomes the intellectual and emotional catalyst. You can’t not ask if the dresses are indecent — many of them are, after all, transparent. But Ms. Prada has made sure that it’s not the only question her collection raises against the female self.

To an outsider — woman or man, straight or gay — many of the clothes on the Milan runways would look peculiar. They have no precise fit, no clear design values; and, apart from Sander and Prada, only a superficial waxing of authority. A weird sensitivity has captivated designers, like too many readings of Virginia Woolf, and it has resulted in sagging shapes with carefully placed flounces, practical cloaks and a suicidal palette saved by a bright touch of peacock blue.

Collections like Alberta Ferretti and Pringle, designed by Clare Waight Keller, have the range of a conversation conducted over a backyard fence. Ms. Waight Keller has a flair for knits, but her Pringle is all discreet sensibility and no humor. Her press notes refer to a “clean, disciplined correctness,” and that meant capes and austere poncho dresses. But only to a fashion person disciplined in little details would these “correct” clothes have value. To someone else, a blank husband, they would read as “nag, nag, nag: take out the trash.”

Christopher Bailey has steadily moved away from the idiosyncratic groundwork he first laid at Burberry. Those clothes were always surprising and informative, a mix of British heritage, new influences and masculine uniform, and they made Mr. Bailey a contemporary pathfinder.

His show on Monday restored some of that freshness, particularly in the A-line wool coats worn with bric-a-brac jeweled necklaces (hung on chains like decanter labels), and smart, sculptural knit tops worn with sexy silk trousers. But he still gets lost in the couture effects, like frumpy Empire lines and pleated cloqué, the stiffness and fit making beetles out of supermodels.

It took giants to build the Milan fashion houses, and apparently it takes corporations to bury them. Gianfranco Ferré is the latest management fiasco; after Mr. Ferré’s death last June, the company hired the designer Lars Nilsson. That marriage was swiftly annulled — did somebody not ask enough questions at the start? — and the collection on Monday was a respectful team effort that stopped short of embarrassment.

Mr. Ferré’s fashion was modernist architecture with the blood thirst of a diva. It always said: Go for it. Designers are fumbling all over Milan, doing delightful things with seams. This would be a lucrative moment for someone at Ferré to get it right.

No words could properly describe Cristina Ortiz’s first effort for Salvatore Ferragamo, another house in perpetual transition, until I looked out the car window on my way to Prada and saw a billboard of the tawny mane and cleavage of Celine Dion. But exactly!

Like a lot of designers, Angela Missoni finds inspiration in “The Women,” the George Cukor film now in remake, and as she observed on Sunday, “135 actresses and not even the shadow of a man.”




Well, not quite. There is the incredible influence of Adrian, the MGM costume designer of the film. Ms. Missoni didn’t attempt to channel Adrian — that would be pointless — but she did appreciate his feeling for asymmetry and unusual prints, among other bygone qualities.

Who doesn’t admire self-expressive fashion and wish there were more choices for women? Ms. Missoni’s trouble is that while she understands the principle of having an independent style, she doesn’t have the imaginative powers to realize it in a contemporary way.

She may believe that women would feel happier in a poncho lined in a Missoni print, more sophisticated in a turquoise print silk dress over a turtleneck, and more mysterious in a pair of gray flannels with a stiff floral stole, but the results, on this outing, looked self-conscious.


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It’s Lonely at the Top, the Middle in the Plaza Hotel ...




By CHRISTINE HAUGHNEY
Published: February 17, 2008
KATHY RULAND decorated her family’s new two-bedroom condo at the Plaza Hotel with care. The windows, overlooking Central Park, are draped with gold silk, and the living room showcases her beloved Indonesian painting of the Hindu goddess Sita, which was bought at a gallery near her main residence in Laguna Beach, Calif. When she wakes up to front-row views of Central Park, she says she feels like a princess.

In the time she has been living, on and off, at the newly converted Plaza Hotel, she has met five residents of the 181-unit building. In fact, she has no idea who lives on either side of her; of the 10 apartments on her floor, she knows not a soul, not a face, not a name.

She wouldn’t mind meeting someone other than the decorators, real estate brokers and other service workers fussing over the apartments. But even the building’s security guards can’t offer much information.

“I keep asking, ‘Has anybody else moved in?’ and they shake their heads,” she said. “The place has been deserted.”

The Plaza Hotel, which has spent much of its 100-year history packed with guests like the Vanderbilts and the Beatles, not to mention debutantes and Frank Lloyd Wright, closed in 2005 to reopen as part hotel and part condominium. The hotel is scheduled to reopen March 1, and the condominiums have been finished for months. Buyers have closed on nearly 100 apartments.

Yet for the most part, no one is home. Only a half-dozen residents live there full time and another three dozen residents live there on weekends, according to Lloyd Kaplan, spokesman for the Plaza’s owner, Elad Properties.

On any night, the Plaza has rows and rows of darkened windows. The hallways on upper floors are silent except for the occasional shudder of wind. When young girls ask Ed the doorman whether Eloise is home, they are told she is on vacation in Paris.

So the buyers actually residing at the Plaza are finding life a little strange. Not that they regret their decision to move in. It’s hard to complain, after all, about living in multimillion-dollar apartments in one of Manhattan’s most legendary buildings, or to grouse about too much privacy. In New York, with its doubled-up roommates, clotted sidewalks and elbow-to-elbow dining, privacy is one of the ultimate luxuries.

But the Plaza does provide a window into the transient lives of the latest wave of the ultrarich in New York. Most of the buyers of luxury condos like those at the Plaza — including current and former top executives of Staples, JetBlue, Viacom and Esprit, as well as a few Russian billionaires — are rarely there. The city is just one more place they spend time around the country or the world. When they are living at the Plaza, some say they find themselves longing for a nod from a neighbor by the elevator, a hello in the lobby, a friendly wine and cheese gathering. Like anyone else, they long for a community, albeit a community of the megawealthy.

Kathy Ruland’s family owns two apartments in the Plaza. Her parents, Betty and Fred Farago, bought a one-bedroom $5.8-million apartment in July on the 15th floor, and a two-bedroom in October for themselves, the children and the grandchildren.

When they first bought the one-bedroom, the Faragos encouraged Ms. Ruland’s 17-year-old son, Stan, to spend the night by himself in the Plaza, one of the first people to overnight there.

The family knew the building was nearly empty, but thought Stan could be like the character Macaulay Culkin played in the movie “Home Alone.” That night, Stan ordered pizza, Cokes and cheese bread for the security guards and hung out with them downstairs. When it was time for bed, he reluctantly went upstairs to the family apartment. “It was a little bit spooky because it was totally dead,” he said. “It was this huge hotel, and I was the only one up there.”

In the fall, his 21-year-old sister, Kelley, moved into the apartment.

She had just transferred to Columbia University and didn’t want to stay in her dorm room, because she was lonely. Her roommate, it turned out, was always away with her boyfriend.

Kelley thought the Plaza would be busier, she said. But security guards called her Eloise as she headed in and out. Although her mother and grandmother often visited, she felt isolated. Last month, Kelley transferred back to the University of California, Los Angeles, moving into a shoe-box-size room at the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house. “It doesn’t matter where you are or how nice the place is — you get lonely,” she said. “The only time I wasn’t lonely was when my mom and grandma were there.”

Of course, New York can be a lonely place, even for the rich who make Manhattan their primary home and live in the equivalent of private clubs — 740 Park, for instance. Entry into those co-ops requires not just money, but also the right credentials. That means that they are closed off to the Russian billionaires and wealthy entrepreneurs from other American cities who live here part time.

Bernard and Joan Spain, who also live there, have held three cocktail parties for people who live nearby.
Contrary to what outsiders think, those residents can also be isolated. Michael Gross, who wrote a book about 740 Park, said the residents he interviewed talked about how they rarely saw one another and often rode elevators alone. The only exception was in the early 1970s when one vertical line of apartments, the D-line, filled with young families. But that closeness quickly disappeared when the D-line became known as the divorce line, because of all the marriages that fell apart.

“They don’t do secret deals to rule the world in the elevator,” he said. “They rarely see these people.”

The Plaza residents are isolated partly because the building is still filling up. Some buyers are waiting for decorators to customize their apartments for their art collections. Other buyers are staying at their third and fourth — or in some cases eighth and ninth — homes until the building’s restaurant and gym are open. That may not be until the spring.

In some ways, the Plaza Hotel’s residents are like newly wealthy New Yorkers during the Gilded Age in the late 19th century. Back then, newly transplanted New Yorkers lived in luxury hotels rich with dining rooms and men’s and women’s lounges.

David Nasaw, a biographer of Andrew Carnegie and a history professor at the Graduate Center at the City University of New York, said that Mr. Carnegie lived in amenity-rich hotels like the St. Nicholas when he first moved to New York.

He later upgraded to the Windsor Hotel, and established himself socially by spending time in the hotel’s dining, drawing and reading rooms. Back then, Mr. Carnegie’s accommodations were looked down upon by older New York families who lived in private residences.

“Nobody who had any kind of money would dare live in an apartment building where there weren’t services,” he said. “You wouldn’t imagine in the 1870s or 1880s getting your services anywhere else. These places prided themselves on the amenities.”

Mr. Nasaw said the superwealthy in the 19th century may have had an easier time figuring out how to meet the neighbors. The social rules on how and when to call on one another were far more explicit, and it was easy to tell whether social overtures were accepted or rejected. Think of the invitations and rejections Countess Olenska receives in Edith Wharton’s novel “The Age of Innocence.”

“These formal structure and rituals allowed people to navigate,” Mr. Nasaw said.

THERE are, of course, no real rules anymore. That’s why when all the decorating is done, brokers say, it may not be easier for the neighbors to be neighborly. For many residents, this will be just fine. “The ones who bought there are not looking to be part of a community,” said Kathryn Steinberg, a broker with Edward Lee Cave, who sold two apartments at the Plaza. “They have their community.”

John Coustas, president of the Greek shipping company Danaos, closed last month on a two-bedroom apartment. He doesn’t plan on living there full time, but isn’t worried about being lonely. He has three sets of friends who also bought there. “Of course we hope that we’re going to meet more people,” he said. “We’ll see how it develops.”

Ms. Ruland said meeting people is hard simply because it’s hard to tell the residents from the help. One neighbor cast his eyes away from her one day when she walked through the lobby with a mop and bucket. She said she felt like telling him her family owns two apartments in the Plaza.

She hopes, she said, that over time she will meet someone there who shares her love of art and running. Her mother hopes that she will find neighbors who like to play canasta or bridge.

“It’s going to be easier when we go to the fitness center,” she said. “I would love to meet people. The sooner the better. It’s getting. ... It’s getting. ... We’re ready.”

Bernard and Joan Spain say the fitness center may not be the answer. The couple, whose main home is in Philadelphia, bought their $7 million two-bedroom apartment in June. After renovations, they moved in last month, replacing their space at the nearby Sherry-Netherland Hotel. In their five years at the Sherry-Netherland, they said, they never saw any neighbors at the gym.

They have high hopes for the Plaza. In August, they attended the 100th anniversary party to see if they could meet future neighbors. And when they moved in, the Spains introduced themselves to the single woman who lives on their floor with her mammoth dog, and also to a Swedish family they met in the lobby.

Ms. Spain has held three cocktail parties for friends who live nearby. “We popped some popcorn and put out some mixed nuts,” she said.

They invited the neighbor with the dog, but she took a rain check. And last week, Mr. Spain said, he met another neighbor while taking out the trash.

The views help prevent them from getting lonely. They entertain themselves by watching thousands of people mill in and out of the Apple Store below. They also talk on the phone with a friend’s friend who bought a third-floor apartment, but has not yet moved in. They hope that they will meet people when the shops and restaurants open.

“We expect that we’ll meet very interesting people,” Ms. Spain said. Her husband added, “We’re optimistic people.”

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Boys Will Be Boys, Girls Will Be Hounded by the Media



By ALEX WILLIAMS
Published: February 17, 2008

A VIDEO of Heath Ledger hanging out at a drug-fueled party two years before his death would seem to constitute must-see material for a tabloid entertainment show.

Relatively speaking, the late Heath Ledger has been treated gently by the news media.
But when such a video ended up in the hands of the producers of “Entertainment Tonight,” the program declined to broadcast it, a spokeswoman said, “out of respect for Heath Ledger’s family.” The 28-year-old actor died on Jan. 22 from what the medical examiner called an accidental overdose of prescription medications.


Amy Winehouse did not merit the same discretion. Images from a video that showed her smoking what a British tabloid, The Sun, said was a pipe of crack cocaine, as well as admitting to having taken “about six” Valium, were widely disseminated in the news media around the same time.

When Owen Wilson was hospitalized in August after an apparent suicide attempt, his plight was the subject of a single US Weekly cover story. Not so Britney Spears, recently confined in a psychiatric ward, who has inspired six cover stories for the magazine during the same time span.

When Kiefer Sutherland was released from the jail in Glendale, Calif., after serving a 48-day sentence for a drunken driving conviction, the event merited little more than buried blurbs.

Contrast this to Paris Hilton’s return to jail last year after a brief release to serve the rest of a 45-day sentence for a probation violation involving alcohol-related reckless driving. The event invited a level of attention that evoked the O. J. Simpson trial. Hordes of cameras enveloped the limousine that ferried the tear-streaked heiress to jail.

Yes, women are hardly the only targets of harsh news media scrutiny — just ask Mel Gibson. But months of parallel incidents like these seem to demonstrate disparate standards of coverage. Men who fall from grace are treated with gravity and distance, while women in similar circumstances are objects of derision, titillation and black comedy.

Some celebrities and their handlers are now saying straight out that the news media have a double standard.

“Without a doubt, women get rougher treatment, less sensitive treatment, more outrageous treatment,” said Ken Sunshine, a publicist whose clients include Ben Affleck and Barbra Streisand. “I represent some pretty good-looking guys, and I complain constantly about the way they’re treated and covered. But it’s absolutely harder for the women I represent.”

Liz Rosenberg, a publicist at Warner Bros./Reprise Records who represents Madonna, among others, also thinks sexism is at work. “Do you see them following Owen Wilson morning, noon and night?” she asked.

Some editors confirm that they handle female celebrities differently. But the reason, they say, is rooted not in sexism, but in the demographics of their audience.

The readership of US Weekly, for example, is 70 percent female; for People, it’s more than 90 percent, according to the editors of these magazines.

“Almost no female magazines will put a solo male on the cover,” said Janice Min, the editor in chief of US Weekly. “You just don’t. It’s cover death. Women don’t want to read about men unless it’s through another woman: a marriage, a baby, a breakup.”

Thus, magazine coverage of Mr. Ledger’s death gave way to stories about Michelle Williams, Mr. Ledger’s former girlfriend and the mother of his daughter; US Weekly, for instance, put the headlines “A Mother’s Pain” and “My Heart is Broken” atop a four-page spread. Mary-Kate Olsen, telephoned several times by the discoverer of Mr. Ledger’s body, came in for it, too: “What Mary-Kate Knows” trumpeted In Touch Weekly.

Indeed, while one of People’s best-selling issues of the last year was its cover story on Mr. Wilson’s suicide attempt, a follow-up cover on his recovery was one of the worst sellers, said Larry Hackett, the managing editor.

Conversely, he said, the Britney Spears story continues to flourish precisely because women are fascinated by the challenges facing a young mother.

“If Britney weren’t a mother, this story wouldn’t be getting a fraction of attention it’s getting,” Mr. Hackett said. “The fact that the custody of her children is at stake is the fuel of this narrative. If she were a single woman, bombing around in her car with paparazzi following, it wouldn’t be the same.”

Others, like Roger Friedman, an entertainment reporter for FoxNews.com, said that female stars tend to make more-compelling stories because “they are more emotional and open” about their problems. Male stars, he said, tend to be “circumspect.”

Rebecca Roy, a psychotherapist in Beverly Hills, Calif., who has several clients in the entertainment industry, said that male celebrities can often wriggle out of trouble with a rakish bad-boy shrug. But, she said, the double standard can reinforce the destructive behavior of female stars, pushing them to further depths of substance abuse and erratic behavior.


Ms. Roy said that troubled male stars like Robert Downey Jr. are encouraged to move past problems to a second act in their careers, while the personal battles of women like Lindsay Lohan or the late Anna Nicole Smith are often played for maximum entertainment value.

“With men, there’s an emphasis on, ‘he had this issue, but he’s getting over it,’ ” Ms. Roy said. “But with women, it’s like they keep at it, keep at it. It’s almost like taking the wings off of a fly.”

Ms. Min acknowledged that her magazine played down its coverage of Owen Wilson and Heath Ledger. Part of the reason, she said, was that female readers tend to be sympathetic toward young men in crisis.

“With Heath Ledger, people walked on eggshells trying to strike the right tone,” Ms. Min said, adding that “public sentiment for Heath Ledger factored into our coverage.”

Edna Herrmann, a clinical psychologist in Los Angeles, said that while schadenfreude is part of the enjoyment of star travails, women especially respond to female celebrities with commonplace demons. “Misery likes company,” Dr. Herrmann said.

But some believe the power of a celebrity’s publicist has more bearing on coverage than gender. “Entertainment Tonight” reversed its plans to show the video of Mr. Ledger following protests from stars like Natalie Portman and Josh Brolin organized by ID, which represented Mr. Ledger and still represents Ms. Williams.

In some cases, celebrities may be victims of their own appetites for media attention.

“It would seem to me that no one who demanded, who expected privacy, at the get-go was denied that privacy,” said Stan Rosenfield, a publicist who represents George Clooney.

And Harvey Levin, the managing editor of the gossip Web site TMZ.com, said that female stars are afforded every opportunity to move past their sins, as long as they clean up their behavior.

“Nicole Richie, who took a beating generally for being a screw-up, has turned it around, and everyone’s cheering for her now,” Mr. Levin said of the former Paris Hilton sidekick and tabloid staple, now the mother of a month-old daughter.

Even if news media coverage is weighted in their favor, male celebrities aren’t exactly feeling immune from harsh scrutiny.

“There is certainly an argument for it being incredibly sexist, the attention that’s given to women and the hounding of them,” the actor Colin Farrell said at a recent party for his new film, “In Bruges.”

Mr. Farrell, who has attracted his share of attention, said such potential bias did not make him any less of a news media target. “If they catch me out and about,” he said, “they’ll go for it.”

As Mr. Farrell spoke in a room filled with journalists and photographers, he was not even sipping a beer.

Additional reporting by Paula Schwartz.

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Art and Life, Steeping in a Teapot


By DAVID COLMAN
Published: February 17, 2008

FRITZ HAEG is not the best-known artist in the Whitney Biennial, opening next month. He has not had a breakout solo show at the Zach Feuer Gallery. He is not being wooed by Larry Gagosian. His prices at auction are nonexistent.

“I don’t even sell work,” he said with a laugh.

But in an art world growing jaded with such signifiers, Mr. Haeg, an architect by training and a landscaper by nature, may end up the surprise star of the Whitney show. Among the “homes” he designed for 12 “clients” are a beaver lodge and pond for the sculpture court, an eagle’s nest over the entry and other cribs around the museum for a mud turtle, mason bees, a flying squirrel, a bobcat and other critters that once lived on the Upper East Side.


Given that Madison Avenue is one of the world’s fanciest shopping streets, you would think Mr. Haeg is casting stones. In 2005, for his first nature-ruption series, “Edible Estates,” he replanted front lawns in places from Salina, Kan., to London, with vegetable gardens.

But his work is more than simple eco-commentary. From his Los Angeles home (a vintage geodesic dome), Mr. Haeg has carved out an intriguing niche within modern architecture, performance art and eco-activism.

This is clear even with his new “Animal Estates,” as the Whitney installation is called. The beaver lodge, for one, will be stained black. “It’s going to look as if Marcel Breuer had designed a beaver lodge,” he said.

Mr. Haeg grew up northwest of Minneapolis, near St. John’s University, with its buildings that, like the Whitney, Breuer designed in the 1960s. St. John’s, a Roman Catholic university run by Benedictine monks, made an impact on the young Mr. Haeg, whose father graduated from the school. “The Abbey Church there is burned into my subconscious,” he said.

Today, even as Mr. Haeg is putting his beloved geodome on the market and deaccessioning unnecessary objects, there is one thing he is hanging onto. That is a teapot made in the late 1990s by Richard Bresnahan, who since 1980 has run the St. John’s pottery program, working only with local materials, from clays and glazes to wood for the kiln.

“It’s one of the only things I’m keeping,” he said. He bought the pot, a traditional Japanese double-gourd shape, a few years ago on a return visit with his father to the campus. “The first time I visited Bresnahan’s studio, I was blown away,” he said. “This is a part of the art world that’s really been marginalized: handcrafts and the stories of how things are made. I don’t think many artists think about where their materials come from.”

The teapot meshes not only with his ideals equating art’s ends and means, but with his retro ’60s aesthetic, a blend of pop-kitsch and eco-sincere. “It reminds me of my geodesic dome a bit, the way it’s this sphere up on three feet,” he said. “And the glaze — it’s very hippie, like it’s still forming itself. And there’s a nice conversation between the light, handmade cane handle and this big orb that’s solid and made of clay.”

And despite the exalted pedigree of the piece, he uses it all the time. “I drink a lot of tea,” he said.

Though Mr. Haeg calls himself a lapsed Catholic, the teapot reminds him of his admiration for the integrated way of life observed by the Benedictines at St. John’s: praying, teaching, farming, hiring high-modern architects.

“They really believe that everything matters,” he said. “There’s something so simple and primitive in the best possible way of what the life at St. John’s is and what the clay pot represents. It’s sort of a reminder that design isn’t just about physical acquisitiveness. It can be a means to a more fulfilled life.”

If it doesn’t make you embrace the Benedictine creed, it at least makes you think about switching to tea.

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A Spoonful of Immunity?


By JENNIFER STEINHAUER
Published: February 17, 2008

LOS ANGELES

DR. TEA KNOWS BEST Mark Ukra prepares a tea blend in West Hollywood.
FIRST there was vegetarianism, which begot veganism, macrobiotic adherents, raw foodists and something known simply as “the cleanse.” Now make way for immunity-enhancement, via your chopped salad and salmon tartar.


California has long led the country in the creation and fortification of urban food ways. The state was on the forefront of restaurants devoted to raw food and was the birthplace of the organic produce movement. In Los Angeles, vegan restaurants are nearly as prevalent as hamburger joints.

Now, restaurant menus here are marrying the broader commercial movement of “functional” foods — those stuffed with heavy doses of vitamins and antioxidants — and a national fixation on immunity boosting (a fizzy gulp of Airborne is as much a part of the pre-flight experience as a baggage check).

In Beverly Hills, Crustacean, a modern Vietnamese restaurant, has attached an icon to the left side of several menu items letting diners know that those dishes supposedly boost immunity. At M Café de Chaya in Hollywood, a macrobiotic restaurant often dotted with celebrities, the chef, Shigefumi Tachibe, has “items that offer both immune boosting and healthful benefits for everybody,” said his spokeswoman, Cindy Choi.

Down Melrose Avenue a bit from M Café is Dr. Tea’s Tea Garden and Herbal Emporium, where immunity enhancement is always part of the menu, said Dr. Tea, a k a Mark Ukra. “We work a lot with cancer patients to bring their immunity up, and lots of people come in to get our tonics to get rid of the flu,” he said.

Foods that its makers claim enhance the immunity system have become increasingly mainstream over the last several years. Jamba Juice led the charge years ago, and has spawned many competitors serving juices sprinkled with supplements that claim to strengthen the body’s ability to prevent illnesses. Airborne, drinkable vitamin blends that claim to be armor against germ-filled environments, have flooded drug stores over the last several years.

There is supplement-infused Spava coffee, which offers an immunity formulation with rose hips and echinacea. Green Giant, the food manufacturer, has something in the marketplace called Immunity Boost, which are microwaveable frozen vegetables. Yoplait Essence Immunity Boost has “probiotics with zinc and iron,” also meant to charge up the system.

But in Los Angeles, the connubial relationship of farm and pharmacy in restaurants is on the march. The former unadulterated pleasure of simply dining has been replaced with the feeling of a very expensive clinic.

“People more and more are understanding the importance of good health, and how priceless it is,” said GT Dave, a former Beverly Hills High School student who started his company, Millennium Products, in his kitchen at age 16. He now distributes Kombucha juice, which claims to enhance immunity, in restaurants around Los Angeles and Whole Foods stores nationwide. “Previously, health foods and health products were a very niche product, like for Berkeley free-spirited tree-hugging people,” he said. “Now people realize that the immune system is the foundation of our lives.”

At Crustacean, immunity-enhancing menu items do not have supplements. Instead, the chef and owner, in consultation with a nutritionist, went through the existing menu and plucked out offerings that they believed were already naturally helpful.

Each item is marked on the menu by a little leaf representing a Vietnamese herb, just as one might see a heart icon next to an egg-white omelet at a diner, indicating that the meal is low in cholesterol. “The hope is that this system could be used by other restaurants,” said Ashley Koff, the nutritionist who consulted on the menu.

For example, there is the Buddha roll, which has shiitake mushrooms (which have iron and Vitamin C, Ms. Koff said), lemongrass mushroom soup (lemon grass has folate, zinc and iron) and wild salmon tartar, which features cucumbers (vitamin C, folate and vitamin A), wild salmon (omega 3, selenium), garlic (selenium, phytochemicals) and red onion (vitamin C and copper, among other things).

“What I looked for were ingredients that brought forward minerals and phytochemicals,” Ms. Koff said, referring to chemical compounds derived from edible plants and fruits that are believed to aid cancer prevention. So how did it taste to this reporter? The lemon grass soup has a nice bite, and the Buddha roll has a clean fresh flavor. The chicken roulade and roasted fillet of sole were dull to this tongue; all was far more delicious than standard health-food fare.

The immunity enhancement does not end at the table — you can sit at the bar and pickle yourself while ostensibly warding off disease and calamity. There are martinis made with vodka and goji berries (antioxidants) or cucumbers. Taste note: both have a strong vodka top and fruity finish.

Experts on microbiology are decidedly mixed on the value of such menu designations. Michael Starnbach, an associate professor of microbiology and molecular genetics at Harvard Medical School, said the heart icon might help diners, because it would warn of foods proven to be bad for your cardiovascular system.

But, he said, there is not enough hard evidence to prove that any food can enhance the immune system. “There is no doubt these menu items have these nutrients,” Mr. Starnbach said. “But that is different from the claim being made on the menu.” Unlike many health-food restaurants, Crustacean, a family business, started out as a Vietnamese restaurant, without overt health claims. The An family’s first restaurant, Thanh Long, opened in San Francisco in the ’70s in an old deli purchased by the family, still in Vietnam at that time, as a foothold into the United States. The restaurant remains there today.

The An sisters, eager for a hipper place to go with their friends in the city (four out of five girls are in the business) pushed for Crustacean, which opened in 1991. Then came the Beverly Hills outpost in 1997.

The Ans were always health conscious. “I was born into a family where we care about health,” said Helen An, the matriarch of the family, who is also head chef. “I learned Eastern medicine from my grandparents.”

Whether the immunity-marking trend has legs remains to be seen, but given the packed scene at M Café every lunch hour eating “the big macro burger,” and kale salad with peanut dressing, it certainly is hot.

Whether patrons are warding off illness will remain a subject of debate. “I would have a positive reaction to seeing that menu,” said Linda Gooding, a professor of microbiology and immunology at the Emory University School of Medicine. “But as a scientist I would say that’s a personal preference. That’s not a scientific fact. Eating is a lifelong experiment. I think that’s all you can do.”

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Dog Running: Easier Does It


By SARAH TUFF
Published: February 14, 2008

FOR those who run with their dogs, trying to stay fleet of foot with a dog on a leash can be an exercise in futility. While the two-legged jogger aims for an even pace, the four-legged set sniffs, pulls, doubles back and dashes forward, yanking the shoulder socket. Regular leashes can also cause gait problems for serious runners, said Kelly Liljeblad, a dog owner and marathoner from Boulder, Colo. “If you run with the leash in the left hand, you’ll naturally bend to the left,” she explained.

In the last few years, some entrepreneurs and pet-gear companies have introduced hands-free systems, which loop a belt, attached to leash, around the runner’s waist. Recent innovations include swiveling mechanisms for tangle-free runs, quick-release buckles, fixtures for multiple dogs, reflective trim and pouches for personal items.





While recovering from a 2:47:13 finish (the women’s winning time) at the Miami Marathon last month, Ms. Liljeblad tested five sets of hands-free leashes on 20- to 30-minute runs around the Boulder Reservoir. Her co-testers were her yellow Labradors, Aggie and Pre.

LARZ PET GEAR Z-HANDS FREE LEASH $56 ($85 and up for multiple dogs), www.larzpetgear.com. At first, Ms. Liljeblad said, she found the modular attachments “overwhelming” but added that “it is nice to have options.” She rated this system her second favorite. She said, “This swivel mechanism was the best out of all the leashes” and “the padding is great on the belt if your dog pulls a little.” Because of the variety of attachments, “you can basically design your own belt.”

THE BUDDY SYSTEM $26, ($20 for smaller dogs); Lunge Buster, $12.50, www.buddysys.com. A “lightweight, easy-to-use and nonbulky” design earned this “simple” leash best-in-show for Ms. Liljeblad. She liked how it slid around the belt as she ran with Aggie. Also “nice” was the “bungee like” Lunge Buster (the Buddy System has a regular leash). “It was a perfect stiffness and length because it didn’t jerk me around,” Ms. Liljeblad said.

CARDIO CANINE $55, www.cardiocanine.com. Ms. Liljeblad appreciated the water-bottle holder and pocket on the back of this system, modeled after a rock-climbing belt. “This would be great for a long run or even a hike,” said Ms. Liljeblad, who also used the leash’s shortened loop to help steer Aggie. But the “metal latches were bulky and heavy” and she missed the bungee leash and swivel action of some other systems. Pre and Aggie, top, fight over the Cardio Canine.

RUNNING DAWG $21.95, www.runningdawg.com. “This is a nice, simple leash,” said Ms. Liljeblad, who thought the nylon belt pack was very useful. But the bungee-type leash was “a little too soft and flexible” for Ms. Liljeblad and Pre, who “kept forgetting he was on the leash.” She also wished it had a swivel system, and she had concerns about chafing. “The belt strap wasn’t that comfortable,” Ms. Liljeblad said. “But I like the simplicity.”

DOGMATIC FREELEASH PRO $24.99, www.dogmaticproducts.com. New this month, the updated Freeleash Pro has a buckle system designed to withstand 500 pounds of force, but after using it on Pre, Ms. Liljeblad said she “wasn’t crazy about the heavy metal latches.” She did like the quick-release system and the anti-tangle swivel, though it got caught on her jacket a few times. She gave a thumbs-up to the simple design and lightweight, reflective strap.

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A Long-Running Mystery, the Common Cramp


By GINA KOLATA
Published: February 14, 2008

IT can happen for no reason, it seems, taking you completely by surprise. And it can be excruciating. Suddenly, a muscle contracts violently, as if it had been prodded with a jolt of electricity. And it remains balled in a tight knot as painful second after painful second drags on.

A seized calf muscle or a hamstring can be frightening. Swimmers fear they will drown. Cyclists nearly fall off their bikes. Runners drop to the ground, grimacing, gritting their teeth.

The contraction is so strong that you could not will yourself to ball your muscle that tightly. And your muscle is likely to feel sore the next day.



You have had a cramp, an experience so common among endurance athletes, researchers say, that almost everyone who has tried endurance sports has had a muscle cramp or has a friend who has had one.

Cramps afflict 39 percent of marathon runners, 79 percent of triathletes, and 60 percent of cyclists at one time or another, said Dr. Martin P. Schwellnus, a professor of sports medicine at the University of Cape Town.

Cramps can occur during exercise, immediately after, or he said, as long as six hours later.

Yet common as they are and terrible as they can be, no one really understands cramps. They are a medical mystery.

“I would say, bottom line, there is no really convincing biological explanation for muscle cramps,” said Dr. Andrew Marks, a muscle researcher and chairman of the department of physiology and cellular biophysics at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons.

Medical textbooks skirt the topic, he added, often avoiding any explanation. And few scientists have studied cramps.

But as anyone who has ever complained of cramps will attest, lots of advice is circulating on how to avoid them and lots of people — friends, coaches, doctors — think they have a solution.

Take a multivitamin pill to get zinc and magnesium. Massage the muscles. Drink plenty of water. Be sure to get enough electrolytes like sodium and potassium. Stretch before you start to exercise. No, stretch as soon as you finish. See a nutritionist to correct imbalances in your diet. See a trainer to be sure you are moving correctly.

Of course, Dr. Marks said, medical conditions can lead to cramps, including narrowed blood vessels, usually from atherosclerosis, or compression of a nerve, as happens in spinal stenosis. Cramps also can arise from hypothyroidism. And they can be a side effect of medications like diuretics, used to lower blood pressure, which can lead to a potassium deficiency that can cause cramps.

But, he and others said, those conditions do not explain the vast majority of cramps.

“You are left with the fact that cramping usually occurs in healthy people without any underlying disease,” Dr. Marks said.

There are three leading hypotheses about how to treat cramps and how to prevent them.

There’s the dehydration proposal: you just need more fluid. But, Dr. Schwellnus said, he studied athletes who cramped and found that they were no more dehydrated before or after a race than those who did not have cramps.

Then there’s the electrolyte hypothesis: what you really need is sodium and potassium.

Michael F. Bergeron, who directs the environmental physiology laboratory at the Medical College of Georgia, said the electrolyte hypothesis applies to a specific type of cramp that is related to excessive sweating. It occurs, he said, when the fluid that bathes the connection between muscle and nerve is depleted of sodium and potassium, which was lost through sweat. The nerve then becomes hypersensitive, Dr. Bergeron said.

“Usually you feel little twitches first,” he explained. “They last for 20 to 30 minutes and if you don’t do anything you can be in full-blown cramps.” Those cramps, he continued can move from place to place on your body, from one leg to the next, to your arms, stomach, even your fingers or your face.

The solution, Dr. Bergeron said, is to drink salty fluids like Gatorade (the company sponsors his research). He said he had prevented cramps in tennis players this way.

But asked whether there are any rigorous studies to confirm this hypothesis, he said no. “We haven’t done the study yet,” he said. “We’re at the point of kind of connecting the dots.”

The third hypothesis is advanced by Dr. Schwellnus. He questions the electrolyte hypothesis because his studies of Ironman-distance triathletes as well as other studies of endurance athletes found no difference in electrolyte levels between those who suffered cramps and those who did not.

DR. SCHWELLNUS proposes that the real cause of cramping is an imbalance between nerve signals that excite a muscle and those that inhibit its contractions. And that imbalance, he said, occurs when a muscle is growing fatigued.

His solutions for cramps are to exercise less intensely and for shorter times, to be sure you had enough carbohydrates to fuel your muscles, to train sufficiently and to regularly stretch the muscles that give you problems. These recommendations are based on his recent study of Ironman triathletes, Dr. Schwellnus said.

But while he advocates those practices, he said, they have not been proved in a rigorous study.

In the meantime, some doctors have resorted to experimenting on themselves, devising their own explanations and cures.

Dr. Charles van der Horst, an AIDS researcher at the University of North Carolina, said he was stunned when his calf started to cramp without warning when he was running. The pain was almost unbearable, he said, and even when the muscle finally relaxed, it cramped again when he resumed running.

“I started carrying a cellphone with me on long runs,” Dr. van der Horst said. When a cramp struck, he called his wife to ask her to drive out and get him.

“I think I was getting calcium deposits or something,” Dr. van der Horst said.

His solution was to massage his calves at all hours, pushing deep into the muscle. This seems to work, he said, explaining that it’s been a year now since he had a cramp.

Dr. Stephen Liggett, a professor of medicine and physiology at the University of Maryland, has a different solution. He got terrible cramps in his calf during yoga. The culprit, he decided, was the drugs he takes for asthma, which can diminish the body’s supply of potassium. He knew that potassium is sold over the counter. But because high levels of potassium can be dangerous, store-bought potassium supplements are not very strong.

Dr. Liggett’s solution is not one anyone who is not a doctor should try at home. Before he does yoga, he measures the potassium levels in his blood before and after taking what he describes as a hefty dose of over-the-counter supplement. Then he calculates how much additional potassium he thinks he needs, securing it from concentrated potassium tablets from his research lab — how much he declined to say.

“I didn’t want to drink two gallons of Gatorade,” Dr. Liggett explained. He hasn’t had cramps since he began “preloading,” as he calls it, with potassium. But, he said, “I haven’t done a controlled trial.”

Dr. Marks, for one, is not convinced by the evidence for any of the hypotheses, nor by any of the proposed remedies.

What causes cramps?

“I would say the answer to that question is still open to investigation,” he said. And, he added, he hopes someone takes it up.

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