Forgive me for qualifying this with “worst CANNES outfit,” because it might well BE one of the worst outfits PERIOD in fashion’s long, iffy history. But Cannes is a place where, over time, nudity of the pseudo and actual variety have become common enough that it’s still REALLY SOMETHING when a person busts out something this heinous. It is a Cannesmergency. No, Cannestastrophe. She looks like the assistant for a magician/bullfighter’s big Vegas show, attending his inevitable funeral. It’s so hideous. There are about forty points during the design process alone when I would have rethought this, but even after it gets past that hurdle, there are equally as many junctures in the get-dressed process where she could have taken an exit ramp. “Okay, one leg into itchy see-through catsuit. Then the other. Whoops, it gets caught… gently, gently, tug it up, don’t catch it on your ring, plenty of time to rethink this… nope, okay, pressing on then, let’s spend five minutes wriggling this into place like a set of nylons… no snagging… okay, now one arm, the the other, then find someone to zip it up and tape it on, aw, shit, my boob tape sucks, let’s find the Scotch tape… okay, now the skirt… now let’s pop that collarbone tulle like a goddamn Polo shirt…”
All that, for a bisected crotch and some boob pancakes.