wonderfully grim.
vintage, tasteful, still.
that's how i'd sum up tom ford's debut piece.
perhaps it was the distractingly beautiful threads featured in every scene, the protagonist's exquisite taste in anything from his cartier gold shaver and bleeding mont blanc fountain pen to his well-pressed and fitting (possibly gucci/hugo boss?) suits and immaculately matching shoes to his vintage merc with mahogany dashboard.
it just seemed like an extended spread of GQ with stilted flashbacks in charming mediterranean backdrop to well-furnished interiors of 60s domestic opulence. and that dial phone haha now this century can finally make sense of the origins of the phrase 'dial tone'.
i guess what we went away with was the inadvertent message of homophobia and how that can destroy a person inside. the poignance of isolation also resonates throughout this celluloid presentation of existential ennui, captured appropriately in hues reminiscent of a more jaundiced austin poweresque set.
and colin-quitessentially-darcy-firth did a stellar job doing little else than to move the audience with his sublime aching through his intensely sad eyes. lord knows everytime he cried, we reached for tissues. much credit also to julianne moore for her portrayal of the long suffering universal fag-hag who constantly loves in vain.
ultimately this is a bold offering from an ex-gucci top designer and his signature is peppered throughout in the almost anal-perfect fashion magazine/ coffee table landscaped art-film only expected of any respectable gay man.
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& speaking of julianne moore, she plays part of gay married with annette bening in another must-see around the bend
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