Emma is promoting a short film called Bleat — by the director of The Favourite — which has a frankly unappealing title and is described by the AP thusly: “a Greek silent movie with surreal and disturbing scenes of sex, death, and resurrection.” I’m sure she’s great in it, but alas I will never find out for sure, because: no thanks. (The eventual plot description in that same piece is… unusual. I do not want to know what constitutes “a moment of ecstasy” with a dead body, as there is little to no chance that this means she took actual Ecstasy.)
The screening was in Athens, so Louis Vuitton drew up something evocative for her to wear — it’s not a straight-up toga, but it does feel like something you might have seen on someone drifting through the Acropolis, hoping you will ask her where she bought it, and maybe surreptitiously handing out pamphlets suggesting that philosophy is a patriarchy. However, my niece Intern C correctly expressed some concern that there is a lot going on here, and she’s right. The seemingly random red belt is sitting underneath bolts of fabric that look like drapes being pinned back from a window, and we have bronze-looking patches resembling giant dead skin flakes. How would you unfug it? Imagine if the red belt were gone, and the cuffs holding the material in the front were repurposed into a new waist detail. Is that better? Intern C passed on the opportunity and said she would very much rather throw a fashion show on her Animal Crossing island. She’s got a point.
