A film about the world’s greatest living couturier would have to work overtime in order to not be beautiful, but Matt Tyrnauer’s Valentino: The Last Emperor manages to find a certain poetics behind the eye candy. Where Unzipped, to my mind the last great fashion documentary, was heavily invested in a kind of designer-as-tortured artist schematics that inevitably could only resolve themselves, competition doc-style, in a final runway show, Valentino is both a more surface-oriented portrait of a man and a deeper examination of the changing politics of the luxury industry.
Vanity Fair reporter Tynauer’s handheld camera follows the designer and his lover/business partner/constant companion Giancarlo Giammetti as they workshop and present a collection for Paris fashion week, then prepare for a three day celebration of Valentino’s 45th anniversary in fashion. All the while, Valentino the brand is being sold off to a corporate interest bit by bit, and if there wasn’t enough pressure on Valentino to design a collection befitting his 45th anniversary, the deafening buzz just out side his personal bubble contends that this line will be his last. Though age has not noticeably dulled his design instincts and acumen (nor his perfectionism, which usually takes the form of last minute accusations of sabotage directed at Giammetti), buzz grows that the new bosses want the old man to retire so they can bring in fresher (or, at least, younger) blood.
The personal toll of trying to hold on in the face of the incoming storm of fashion’s future is evident in the anxiety behind the eyes of both Valentino and Giammetti. Valentino offers a rarely-seen glimpse into the lives of two elderly gay men who have been together almost as long as they’ve been adults. Giammetti runs interference between Valentino, his money men and his countless employees. He absorbs his every complaint, and knows just what to ignore, when to snap back (usually in the form of minor but ultra-catty barbs about his boyfriend’s physical appearance), and when to jump into action to make a change. For the most part, it appears to be a thankless job, but then every now and then, the bitchy, prickly Valentino will drop his armor and show his true appreciation. If Valentino isn’t exactly a warts-and-all expose on Valentino (not that he seems likely to allow one to be made –– twice, during what seem like completely innocuous moments, the designer insists that the camera be turned off) it does humanize this impossibly talented man who seems like absolute torture to be with.
Valentino functions as a document of the final career phase of the last working designer trained in the old couture tradition (up until the end, Valentino’s dresses were made without a single machine in sight––down to last sequin, everything was sewn by hand). A lot has changed in 45 years. With haute couture now an unprofitable loss leader and most houses making most of their money on cosmetics, accessories and perfume, not only is Valentino’s single job in danger, and not only is an entire art form on the verge of extinction, but the impossibly glamorous jet-setting life-style led by top designers and their few couture consumers is threatened as well. What does a brand like Valentino really mean, when the market becomes geared toward the masses instead of just the super-rich? Valentino’s spectacular, no expense spared anniversary blow-out ends with couture-clad dancers suspended on wires in mid-air up against the night sky. It’s a fittingly bittersweet image of an aesthetic, a class and an ideal gently floating off into the ether.
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