The price of an Oscar frock-up
March 26, 2002

Lisa Armstrong, Fashion Editor

A bad look on Oscar night could spell the end of a Hollywood career. So watch out Uma, J-Lo and Cameron

Well, well, well, Russell Crowe didn’t get the Best Actor Oscar after all. This despite the fact that 1) until recently he was considered a shoo-in; 2) everyone else connected with A Beautiful Mind seemed to get one.

Anyone who has watched the Academy Awards over the years with an eye to how everyone looks (and what other reason is there for tuning in?) could have foretold this ages ago. Did you see Crowe at last year’s ceremony in that shoelace tie and Tintin quiff — an ensemble so appalling that Crowe fans are still in denial about it.

Isn’t it delicious, by the way, that the new Oscar auditorium is located over a shopping mall? Valentino estimated that Julia Roberts’s appearance in one of his designs last year generated some $25 million worth of free publicity. You bet the dress really, really matters.

Which is why you just knew things weren’t going to pan out for Nicole Kidman from the moment she confessed, in frilly pink Chanel couture, that she was having, ahem, sweat problems. You don’t do this at the Academy Awards, even if you are Australian.

You don’t talk about the difficulties of needing to pee in a boned dress either, which is what our own little Kate Winslet did. What you do is glide regally and then sob a lot when your name is called out. Respect to Oscar above all. And for heaven’s sake, ladies, keep your personal agonies on the corsetry front private.

Anyway, as if Nicole didn’t have enough to contend with, what with the sweat circles, along came Tom. Everyone said Cruise was going to back off from the Oscars this year because it was Nicole’s night. But there he was, practically opening the show with a speech and some designer stubble that managed to be both earnest and boring. The speech and the stubble, that is — quite a feat.

Things went rapidly downhill for Kidman after that. It wasn’t that her dress was a shocker — and at least, post-Tom, she can wear heels. But one couldn’t help feeling that this fashion icon, with the design world falling over its pinking shears to dress her, could have done slightly better than a few anaemic flounces.

But then, what a very dreary evening it was all round. It began well enough, with lots of show from feisty independents (Ben de Lisi, Elie Saab and Juergen Simonsen), a few B-movie classics (vintage Beverly Burke on Jada Pinkett Smith) and the occasional showing from those who give off a dangerous whiff of being outside the studio system (porridge-coloured Nicolas Ghesquière at Balenciaga for Jennifer Connelly, who would probably have looked better in the carrier bag). But where were Björk and her Marjan Djodjov Pejoski swan dress when you needed them? Alas, they don’t make psychologically damaging statements like that any more.

And so it came down to the big boys — Valentino (Reese Witherspoon, Sandra Bullock, Kate Beckinsale); Armani (Dame Maggie Smith, Jodie Foster, Julia Roberts); Gucci (Helen Hunt) and Escada (Dame Judi Dench and Joan Rivers). And lots and lots of post-9/11 black — the frock equivalent of Cruise’s earnest and dull stage-turn. Most of the above looked perfectly nice. Reese Witherspoon looked positively angelic in black chantilly lace and a halo of platinum flick-ups. Helen Mirren, in off-the-shoulder ivory satin, and, in the jewellery department, most of the Fred Leightons looked fabulous too.

Actually, the key fiftysomethings looked terrific. Ali McGraw in white silk shirt and black calf-length jewelled clasp skirt was stunning. Sissy Spacek in her Maggie Norris (white, buttoned-up silk jacket and black trousers) looked glamorous — even if she seemed a little fazed by the whole gaudy circus. But who could blame her? The last time she was up — for Coal Miner’s Daughter in 1980 — nominees were duty bound to look atrocious. To be a serious actress circa early Eighties you had to wear boilersuits. Now you have to know the difference between real couture and the pretend stuff.

On the whole, fashion-wise the 74th annual awards were a monument to good taste and political correctness, which is why, presumably, the cameras were reduced to the guerrilla-warfare tactics of zooming in on Uma Thurman’s astonishing cleavage during moments of longueur.

As for the men — clearly they had all taken Russell Crowe’s bootlace faux pas to heart. Either that or they were worried about being mistaken for extras from Gosford Park. There wasn’t a bow tie to be seen. Instead they all appeared to have been handed the same colour silk tie at the door — which made them look like a convention of accountants on the annual office outing.

One sympathises fractionally. A bad outfit on Oscar night, in these designer-frock literate days, has become what a toe-curling speech was in the past — Major Career Hiccup. Who will ever, ever forget how Sally Field made a billion people simultaneously come over vomitous with her “Now I know you really love me” rap? One day they’ll form a survivor’s group for the people who watched that speech in full. In the meantime, those 45 seconds of self-therapy effectively killed her career for years. Then there was Cher’s jokey (I think it was tongue-in-cheek) transparent Bob Mackie Kiss of the Spiderwoman dress — the one that made Liza Minnelli’s wedding look understated. Cher didn’t get an acting job for half a decade after that, despite winning the Oscar.

No wonder no one takes many chances any more. Kate Winslet took the precaution of hiring not one but two stylists — Jessica Paster, one of the Oberführers of the Hollywood stylist brigade; and Cheryl Konteh, of British In-Style magazine. Reckless — given the way that these stylists all seem to hate one another and the dastardly stunts they pull to ensure their client gets the best dress — but it paid off.

Winslet’s red crepe dress, sourced by Konteh, with its twist of silk flowers snaking over one shoulder, looked perfect — classically alluring, not stiff and over-constructed like that hideous green Givenchy thing she wore a few years back, which covered her arms, back and most of her front.

But that was Plump Kate. Now we’re on to Slimmed­down-post-Jim Kate, which her cunningly corseted de Lisi showed off beautifully.

Just as Dame Judi’s black décollétage revealed Sexy Judi; Julia Robert’s plain black (with the odd slash) Armani revealed Relaxed-I’m-way-above-this-now Julia; Sharon Stone’s black gown and fabulous face revealed I’m-not-really-middle­aged-Sharon and Halle Berry’s Elie Saab embroidered net and silk taffeta ball skirt revealed Intriguing-sexy-but-serious-Halle.

With the dresses largely predictable and low-key, one was forced to seek entertainment in necklaces, which were frankly mad and obviously designed to conceal all surgical scars known to humankind.

And let’s not forget the hair. Who was it who convinced Jennifer Lopez that wearing a do larger than most semi-detached houses was a good idea? Who told Cameron Diaz (great in her Ungaro couture kimono-dress but sadly let down by insane follicle activity) and Uma Thurman that when fashion editors talked about the return of deconstruction, they weren’t talking about clothes, but hair?

Both women looked as though they had been through a car wash and subsequently subjected to the same drying techniques as Peking duck. And Uma’s hair ought to have been fined for overacting. And, by the way, who suggested Gwyneth Paltrow’s Heidi plaits?

We may never know, but one feels honour bound to thank God for all those hairdressers with Hitleresque tendencies. Without them, the Oscars would have been no fun at all.

Source: The Times