Sorry for the delay - another whirlwind travel day, and I'm back blogging at my desk in Boston.
Last night Jennifer and I caught Lagerfeld Confidential, a new documentary on the master of fashion, "Kaiser" 
Karl Lagerfeld. Lagerfeld, a German-born designer who initially came to prominence in the seventies, has become quite possibly the fashion world's nerve center. From his perch at Chanel, Lagerfeld reaches into all elements of the fashion world - designing additional collections for Fendi and his own name, photographing Chanel's ads and other fashion editorial, and serving as impromptu advisor to editors and others. Jennifer, with her love of all things Chanel, of course worships the man (if we can call him a man - demigod may be more accurate). I tend to agree that he's a genius, if certainly rather odd. But then, Jennifer and I also had the opportunity to see him speak at a New York Times event last year, and he comes off in person as surprisingly normal and of the world.
And Jennifer and I agreed: if the purpose of reviewing Lagerfeld Confidential were about reviewing Lagerfeld then we'd both be raving - Lagerfeld, what we see of him, is constantly on the go, always thinking and creating, and quite fascinating. However, what we're reviewing is a film, and the film, sadly, is a bust: despite his fairly unprecedented access, director Rodolphe Marconi squanders virtually every opportunity to really help us find something within Lagerfeld. His camera looks without seeing; he probes without understanding, and in the process, an already opaque fashion master becomes even more so.
Taking place over an indeterminate time span - it could be one week or several - we watch Lagerfeld careen around the globe, from fabulous location (Paris, Nice) to fabulous location (his country chateaus, New York), doing this or that bit of mostly Chanel related activity. One of the more interesting elements is that wherever he goes, gift bags seem to follow Lagerfeld like tribbles. Bags and bags of carefully wrapped Chanel hang out with him in Paris and Nice; at his chateau the gift bags are for him, after presumably a successful presentation of Chanel Ready to Wear (what looks like Spring 2006, possibly). Lagerfeld divides his time between dreaming up new Chanel designs (watching him draw is one of the film's real highlights), and his work in photography, where we spend an awfully long time lingering over the beauty of the models he's shooting, especially the
men.
Some critics complained about the film - or Lagerfeld - downplaying his sexuality; that, I can cheerfully say, is absurd. Lagerfeld is incredibly frank in his interviews (his first experiences apparently came at age 13 or so), and the camera clears up any lingering doubts - Lagerfeld is surrounded, almost constantly, by a small retinue of beautiful men (one of whom, a model, is implied to be his companion).
But Marconi can't seem to make heads or tails of any of it. The camera follows Lagerfeld from openings to parties, to private jets and hired cars, and never, ever gets close enough to really reveal who Lagerfeld is. And his interview with Karl is just dense - even Karl has no patience for the string of mind-numbing banal inquiries into his past, his love life... anything, really, but what really makes him tick.
And so, frustratingly, what can be gleaned exists in the details - watching Lagerfeld pay surprisingly close attention to composition and lighting in his photos, seeing the 10-12 iPod he keeps in his apartment that give a glimpse into Lagerfeld's passion for the modern, and his obsessions with what's of the moment. Lagerfeld gives Vreeland-like epigrams on the state of the world and What Really Matters, but that stuff is like air to fashion folk; we are all about The Pronouncement. what would be useful is to see how Karl finds these things, and we get nothing on that score.
Still, I can't dismiss Lagerfeld Confidential completely. Frustrating (and tiring - it felt overlong) as it was, there are things here we may never see again - childhood photos, and evidence of Karl's early life in Paris (and as a model, which I hadn't realized) that are, in their way illuminating. The film could use far more of it, as well as greater access into those moments where Karl whispered mischeviously to Nicole Kidman (or others), causing them both to smile. At once intimate and distancing, Lagerfeld Confidential is a frustrating, incomplete portrait, all the more so because it seems to look without seeing. How dreadfully revolting, as Madam might say.
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