DIARY
PETRONELLA WYATT Last week Alexander McQueen, the British designer, showed his first collection for Givenchy — the house that dressed Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. This was followed by the debut of his corn- patriot, John Galliano, at Christian Dior. The British newspapers promptly went into a state of hypostatic ecstasy, sacrificing and burning incense to Messrs McQueen and Galliano, while a chorus of fashion priests and acolytes shouted near-universal hosan- nas. The haute couture designs of Mr McQueen were 'triumphant', 'beautiful' and 'very wearable'. Alexandra Shulman, the usually circumspect editor of Vogue, called his collection 'a magnificent show of craftsmanship'. As for Mr Galliano, com- mentators declared that he had 'evoked the spirit of Dior for the new millennium'. What piffle. Consider Mr McQueen first. I '1.o not deny that he is innovative. He has invented a style that is less haute couture, More prole couture. His outfits are a horri- ble miasma of cheap colours and pan- tomime contours — giant nose-rings, corsets sprouting wings, Oxfam maharanis in gold winding-sheets; less breakfast at T, iffany's, perhaps, than dinner at Stringfel- 'Ws. Mr Galliano, meanwhile, sent out his models dressed like painted Masai leading a tribal dance. Are we really to believe that this was a 'reinterpretation of the original Dior designs'? Once, while in Paris, I had a chance to study Christian Dior's original work. Mr Galliano's clothes are a travesty of Dior. He has not reinterpreted the designs, he has sat on them like a pig. I sup- Pose fashion editors like Miss Shulman feel Obliged to encourage British couturiers. Very commendable, no doubt, but there is no reason for the rest of us to continue with this absurd conspiracy. British fashion designers are as overpromoted as the wretched Anthea Turner, and with less rea- son. If Karl Lagerfeld had produced such clothes, an angry mob would have gathered in the Place de la Concorde. But Mr McQueen is an East End cabbie's son and Mr Galliano is a former plumber, so we must k„ McQueen our silence. Well, I won't do it, Mr ivkQueen is a self-proclaimed offensive yob and it shows. Clothes should be like the best kind of conversation: witty without being Coarse. These designers cut as they speak, with a pint of beer hovering in the back- ground and a brand of camp that ought to be dernode. Or perhaps this impulse for ugliness Was best explained by the late Danny Kaye, who had a song about an Englishman who sets himself up as French couturier: 'I'm Anatole of Parisll shriek with chic./My dress of the week caused six divorces,/three run- away horses./And why do I sew/each new chapeau/ with a style they must look positive- 2' gran in?/Strictly between us,/entre nous,11 hate women: The proof is in the wearing. Before her divorce, Diana, Princess of Wales, wore English designers as if their clothes had been sewed onto her skin. That this was chiefly out of duty became obvious after her separation. The Princess skipped off to Versace — her first act of sanity for ten years. Not that we should expect our designers to be better than they are (the only one of distinction is Bruce Oldfield, who has a Continental temperament). The English, historically, care little for aesthet- ics, except with regard to houses, which may explain why Mr McQueen puts them on people's heads. Is that a hat or a two- room flat? Doubtless Mr Galliano will shortly 'return to his roots' and introduce bathtubs as the smart accessory. This English disregard for the bella figura does, of course, have its advantages. Signor Ver- sace makes superlative suits, but could he fix my taps? Though I suppose even this does not matter very much as long as I am not obliged to dangle them from my ears.
Ihave just returned from a few days in Salzburg. The Austrians have no great cou- turiers either (M. Lagerfeld is a naturalised Frenchman), proving my point that the more Teutonic you are the more tasteless your clothes. Proving my other point, how- ever, the Austrians are adepts at architec- ture. Salzburg is a riot of baroque appropri- ately tempered by an austere mountain fortress, one of the oldest castles in Europe. This fortress was built in 1077 by the Archbishop of Salzburg, whose life was in danger from the then emperor. In the 16th century, under the archbishopric of
`You spoil that mouse.' Mattias Lang, the castle was besieged by revolting villagers. Lang retaliated by for- bidding all peasants to wear silk and velvet. One wonders how such an approach would work with the more mutinous foot-soldiers of New Labour. With a bit of luck, Mr Blair might ban them from wearing Galliano.
It is odd how in France everyone's grand- father seems to have fought with de Gaulle, and how in Holland the entire population tried to save Anne Frank (it must have been quite a crush in that attic). In Aus- tria, however, the only known resistance comprised nine people — that crack squad of doh-re-mi parasingers, the von Trapp family. This international SAS skipping team lived on the outskirts of Salzburg, as anyone who has seen The Sound of Music will remember. One palely lit afternoon I visited Schloss Leopoldkron, where much of the story was filmed. During the 1930s, Leopoldkron belonged to Max Reinhardt, one of the founders of the Salzburg music festival (Reinhardt is 'Uncle Max' in the film). The most remarkable room in the schloss is his library. A more perfect sym- pathy of architecture for repose can scarce- ly be imagined. Schloss LeopoldkrOn, alas, was confiscated by the Nazis in 1938. After the war, the Austrian state refused to restore it to Reinhardt's children. For some time now it has been a site for conferences, the purpose of which, I quote from a brochure, is 'to promote better communica- tion between international peoples'. The library which once nurtured first editions of Voltaire and Mozart is now defiled by such titles as Understanding the Mediterranean Municipal System by Dr Tutti Ignoramus all 'displayed' in those horrible plastic cov- ers. The schloss already has that institution- alised smell of boiled cabbage and boiled intellects. What a terrible end for so lovely a baroque jewel.
It was a sad fate, too, for most of the von Trapp family. At the close of The Sound of Music the entire nine of them escape over the Alps into neutral Switzerland. But what happened after? The von Trapps eventually moved to America, where they built a mock-Austrian chalet in Vermont. The genuine Captain von Trapp and the real Maria bore little physical resemblance to Christopher Plummer and Julie Andrews. Indeed, they were remarkably ugly. The five girls, tragically, remained spinsters (one of them, also called Maria von Trapp, is still alive and plaiting her hair). They were indeed, as the song goes, totally unprepared to face a world of men. Though I suppose the uncharitable would say it was the other way round.
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