Runway Jury: The Long Arm(s) of Santino

August 15, 2024

Express’ Arion Berger continues her weekly series analyzing the latest episode of Bravo’s “Project Runway.”

Ah, Paris! The remaining designers (and for the record, Angela was not asked to turn around and go home; she had a night and a day to contemplate the whicketyness of her whack before slinking back off the grid) are bustled together and pretty much immediately instructed of their next challenge: Make a couture gown. Two days, 300 Euros, French models. Ooh, French models!

Hand-sewing, hand-draping, hand-ruching, hand-embroidering. The designers are stressed and it shows. (Speaking of showing, Vincent has lost his clothing again. “Put some pants on!,” yells My Heterosexual Viewing Companion. “We call you Nutty Old Vincent, not Nutsy Old Vincent.”) Tim Gunn looks concerned with Michael’s ambition, given the time constraints, and he looks downright pained at Kayne’s boning. Shut up; that’s what it’s called — look. Mystery Hand Sewing Theater is more refined this week, as only the grown-ups (and a manchild) are left. Despicable Jeffrey has the nerve to be almost charming when he says, “That’s like saying, ‘OK, you have two days — make an atom bomb.'” And speaking of nerve, Vincent gives unsolicited advice to Michael! Is Michael gay?

And here’s an interesting thing. The gayness of the show, of which more next week, is shaping up to be mere subtext this season. My Heterosexual Viewing Companion maintains that it’s a class war, not one of orientation. If Vincent is Norman Bates and Kayne is the Gay Joe Dirt and Jeffrey is Stiv Bators, this is actually a white-trash duel. That, he adds triumphantly, is why Michael will win. A compelling theory …

… OK, but is he gay? I have to know.

And it’s bam — out to the runway. The guest judge is Richard Tyler! Y’all, I am over the moon. The first (and, OK, only) fashion show I attended was a Richard Tyler one, about 200 years ago when he still had a little shop on Beverly Boulevard in Los Angeles. My friend Steven was enamoured of Tyler and had a couple of his gorgeous handmade suits. So we went to this show, right? And Tyler was doing these sharp, witty little women’s suits with stylized harlequin designs. And it was all very decorous, when right at the end, the music switches to “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” really loud, and those models came stomping out to the beat of the chorus, and people, it was explosive. Afterward, we waited in the valet line as Mercedeses and Jags came rolling out, and Steven was so embarrassed to be seen getting into my crummy little Honda that he chose to walk home. Good times.

Anyway, the dresses. The sublime: Michael‘s, although not a favorite with the judges, I think is gorgeous. It’s a divine blue ruched within an inch of its life and Nazri works it like a rock star. The judges think it’s poorly made, which is hard to tell, and Michael Kors makes him tuck the little pokey-out swirls into Nazri’s bodice like chicken cutlets. It is much better, but still. Uli’s made a cloud-gray gown with braided strappage, and it’s just Uli again, busting out by showing she can work with one color. Lovely, but not couture. Jeffrey, that jerk, has rucked and tucked this crazy plaid into a very Gaultier-looking beastie, and it’s utterly couture, except for the crotch-high slit. I hate myself for loving it.

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The ridiculous: Laura, sweetums, get a grip. Her gown is simple and black with long sleeves and berserk white ruffles at the – all together, now – collar and cuffs. She should call her design firm Collar ‘n’ Cuffs. Do. Something. Else. Vincent is experimenting with those weird wingy short sleeves again, and while I applaud the idea of a hot couture gown with short sleeves – so modern – they’re badly sewn and kind of insane. Plus, the model is otherwise topless. The less said about the skirt, which has been glued into place by Mr. I-Trained-in-Couture, the better.

The Kayne: The boy can sew. This multi-layered skirt in golds with a sheer black overlay flows exquisitely; the sparkly gold corset is just beautiful, with a torqued line up the back. But there are velvet straps of some sort on it, and it’s also slit too high and, to paraphrase Joanie from America’s Next Top Model, I look at Kayne’s dress and all I smell is pageant.

So to reiterate: twisted, braided straps; torqued corset laces; cloudy fabrics; wafty layers, many of which you can see here. Santino Rice may not have won Season Two, but the man was the future of fashion. His influence is everywhere, which goes to show that whatever you think of his personality, dude was robbed. Those old school, Old World techniques he cited are the word on the street. Eastern Europe is the new Paris. Albania wins!

Jeffrey wins ungracefully. Michael congratulates him. God, he’s a prince. Vincent is out. Our long national nightmare is over.

Losers’ Poetry Corner: Epic Edition
Vincent Inviticus!
Toothy spectre of fashion long past
Whose gowns are bound by sacred glew
And sleeves billow in the Zephyr breath
Of the winged flight of your 401k

Noble man of no pants!
The gods will sing your name
The day they agree
That it is indeed ”walking art„
And not a toilet-paper roll covered in lint

Oh, cruel Gallic fate!
To judge with thusly pith,
The effort of your shaking hands,
“No. No, no, no.”
At least it got you off … the show.

Next week: Two, count ’em, two special guests. Laura subjects little Sixth on the Pile to his or her first taste of champagne. The French models from this week are all, “Right on, sister!”

Photos courtesy Bravo

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