A project that director/co-writer Barry Levinson had been working on for over a decade before it emerged in theaters in 1992—at one point, it had been planned as his directorial debut before he turned to Diner (1982) instead—Toys offered viewers a mélange of holiday sentiment, strident anti-war satire and the sometimes-unholy combination of schmaltz and schtick that marked the typical Robin Williams performance of the time, all produced on a budget high enough to outstrip the GNP of actual countries. There’s no reason on Earth to think that such a bizarre combination would have worked, and Toys’ eventual critical and commercial failure would seemingly confirm that it didn’t. And yet, while I concede that the film as a whole is a mess—it is an undeniably intriguing mess with just enough moments of genuine brilliance to help get through the rougher and clumsier passages, of which there are more than a few.
As the film opens, the staff of Zevo Toys, an elaborate toy factory that suggests what Willy Wonka’s workplace might have looked like before he decided to simplify, are staging their end-of-the-year Christmas pageant. At the same time, the benevolent owner Kenneth Zevo (Donald O’Connor), summons his estranged brother, Lt. Gen. Leland Zevo (Michael Gambon), for a talk. Kenneth is dying and fearing that neither his son, Leslie (Williams), nor daughter Alsatia (Joan Cusack), have what it takes to successfully run the company despite their evident love of toy making. Instead, Kenneth wants Leland to take over, assuming that by the time he chooses to retire, Leslie will finally be ready to take over. Before Leland can muster any objections, Kenneth’s heart gives out—and we learn that he had attached his pacemaker to the beanie hat that he wears. Why? “It’s whimsical,” Kenneth remarks before dropping dead, a moment many took to be unexpectedly prophetic, considering Toys’ eventual fate.
A military man, Leland has zero interest in running a toy factory and essentially cedes control of the day-to-day operations to Leslie and Alsatia; however, when he gets a load of the video games and war toys manufactured by other companies (though not by Zevo), he begins to contemplate the idea of creating toy-sized military armaments that could be produced far more cheaply than human-scale gear and which could be controlled remotely through video game-like interfaces. When military leaders dismiss his ideas as nonsense, Leland, aided by his son Patrick (L.L. Cool J), himself a soldier specializing in security and covert affairs, decides to do it on his own, first asking Leslie for a small area of the factory in which to work on his own thing and then expanding it wildly, displacing other departments and their workers as a result.
At first, the trusting Leslie is happy to let his uncle do his thing. But as Leland seizes more and more space and resources for his top-secret project and a sense of paranoia begins to hover over the once-happy factory, Leslie begins to suspect something is wrong. When he finally realizes what Leland is up to, he, Alsatia, Patrick, and Gwen (Robin Wright), a Zevo worker that Leslie is sweet on, decide that enough is enough. They sneak into the factory one night and end Leland’s takeover—leading to an over-the-top final battle in which Leland sets his array of hi-tech creations against Leslie’s army of gentler Zevo toys pressed into service to save the day.
After a while, the film feels like an inspired sketch idea stretched well beyond its breaking point.
After years of struggling to get the film made, Levinson finally found himself in the position where he could more or less get anything he wanted following a string of critical and commercial hits, including Tin Men (1986), Good Morning, Vietnam (1987), the Oscar-winning Rain Man (1988) and Avalon (1990) and elected to bring Toys to life at last. However, the elements that probably gave studio executives pause would seem to be there. Toys’ chief flaw is that Levinson never quite figures out the tone he wants, seesawing between sentiment and dark comedy without ever figuring out how to balance them. This is especially evident during the climactic battle—in which Leslie and Leland lead their troops into action, and viewers are presumably meant to first laugh at the mayhem and then be subsequently touched and horrified as the mechanized horror unfolds. Unfortunately, since Levinson and Valerie Curtin’s screenplay largely fails to establish any real dramatic or emotional stakes, we are left with a seemingly endless sequence of expensive doo-dads smashing into each other. After a while, the film feels like an inspired sketch idea stretched well beyond its breaking point.
Toys’ unfocused nature extends to its performances. As one of the many manic man-children that he would play throughout his career, Leslie allows Williams to indulge in his usual bag of tricks: riffing and scatting to his heart’s content, pausing only to deliver the occasional sentimental moment with the subtlety of a telethon host who wants to get serious for a moment. In his first significant role since his breakthrough in The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (1989), Gambon is a little better but never quite finds the right tone, at times too blustery and others too silly. As Leslie’s love interest, Wright is stuck with an ill-defined role that offers her little to do other than warmly beam at Leslie’s antics. Except for the delightful cameo from O’Connor (in what would be his final film), the best performance comes from Cusack, though one has to watch the entirety of Toys to understand why this is.
Despite these and other flaws, I still have a stubborn fondness for Toys’ goofball glory. For starters, it is a stunner visually—with an evidently unlimited budget and a style that pays homage throughout to the art of Rene Magritte, Modernism, and Dadaism, legendary production designer Fernando Scarfotti creates a look so striking and memorable that one could turn off the soundtrack and just revel in the eye-popping treats. While big set pieces like the climactic battle don’t quite land, several smaller jokes throughout earn some nice laughs—I’m especially fond of a bit where Leslie demonstrates an all-too-literal smoking jacket. The offbeat opening sequence juxtaposing the meeting of the brothers with the incredibly elaborate holiday pageant—especially its deployment of “The Closing of the Year,” a song featuring the vocals of former Revolution members Wendy & Lisa that is lovely enough that it might have gone on to be a holiday perennial if the film had not bombed so badly—is similarly striking.
For all of Toys’ messiness and clumsiness, it has a weirdo charm that one rarely sees in films of this magnitude. It’s a charm that has endured over the three decades since its original release. Toys‘ may ultimately be only a movie of moments but the best of those moments are so glorious to behold that they will stick in the minds of those who see them for a long time afterward.
By Chris Morris
Director-writer David Lynch, who radicalized American film with with a dark, surrealistic artistic vision in films like “Blue Velvet” and “Mulholland Drive” and network television with “Twin Peaks,” has died. He was 78.
Lynch revealed in 2024 that he had been diagnosed with emphysema after a lifetime of smoking, and would likely not be able to leave his house to direct any longer. His family announced his death in a Facebook post, writing, “There’s a big hole in the world now that he’s no longer with us. But, as he would say, ‘Keep your eye on the donut and not on the hole.'”
The “Twin Peaks” TV show and films such as “Blue Velvet,” “Lost Highway” and “Mulholland Drive” melded elements of horror, film noir, the whodunit and classical European surrealism. Lynch wove tales, not unlike those of his Spanish predecessor Luis Bunuel, which proceeded with their own impenetrable logic.
A four-time Oscar nominee, Lynch received an honorary Oscar for lifetime achievement in 2020.
After years spent as a painter and a maker of short animated and live action films, Lynch burst onto the scene with his 1977 feature debut “Eraserhead,” a horrific, black-humored work that became a disturbing fixture on the midnight movie circuit. His outré and uncompromising style quickly won the attention of the Hollywood and international movie-making establishment.
He was hired by Mel Brooks’ production company to write and direct “The Elephant Man,” a deeply affecting drama about a horrifically deformed sideshow freak in Victorian England who became a national celebrity. The feature captured eight Academy Award nominations, including Lynch’s first for best director.
He found less success with his 1984 adaptation of Frank Herbert’s sprawling science fiction novel “Dune.” The production, made on a budget of $40 million during an arduous three-year shoot, was a colossal box office flop.
However, Lynch rebounded from the disaster with two films that defined his mature style: “Blue Velvet” (1986), a frightening hellride through the psychosexual underbelly of a small American town, and the sexed-up, violent road movie “Wild at Heart” (1990), which was honored with the Cannes Film Festival’s Palme d’Or.
In 1990, he revolutionized American episodic TV with “Twin Peaks,” a series he created with writer Mark Frost. With action springing from the investigation of a high school girl’s mysterious murder in a Washington lumber mill town, the weekly ABC show plumbed disquieting, theretofore taboo subject matter and made the inexplicable a fixture of modern narrative television.
A major hit in its first season, “Twin Peaks” lost its momentum and ultimately its audience in year two. However, it spawned a feature-length prequel, 1992’s over-the-top “Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me”; 25 years later, the ongoing affection of a loyal cult of viewers sparked a limited-run third season for Showtime that picked up where the second season left off.
Later in his career, in such features as “Lost Highway” (1997), “Mulholland Drive” (which won him the best director award at Cannes in 2001) and “Inland Empire” (2006), Lynch flexed a super-heated style that pivoted on plots emphasizing doubled personalities, unexplained transformations and shocking acts of violence. The quiet yet quirky “The Straight Story” (1999) harkened back to the more reserved emotional pull of “The Elephant Man.”
The director himself was consistently reticent about sorting the meaning of his work for his viewers. In the book-length collection of interviews “Lynch On Lynch” (2005), he addressed the enigmatic core of his work with writer Chris Rodley.
“Well,” Lynch said, “imagine if you did find a book of riddles, and you could start unraveling them, but they were really complicated. Mysteries would become apparent and thrill you. We all find this book of riddles and it’s just what’s going on. And you can figure them out. The problem is, you figure them out inside yourself, and even if you told somebody, they wouldn’t believe you or understand it in the same way you do.”
In addition to his honorary Oscar, Lynch’s one-of-a-kind career was acknowledged by a special award (shared with his frequent star Laura Dern) at the 2007 Independent Spirit Awards and a Golden Lion at the 2006 Venice Film Festival.
He was born Jan. 20, 1946, in Missoula, Montana. His father was a research scientist for the Department of Agriculture, and his peripatetic family lived in the plains states, the Pacific Northwest and the Southeast before settling in Alexandria, Virginia, where Lynch attended high school.
An indifferent student, Lynch focused on painting. A one-year stay at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and an abortive trip to Europe with his friend Jack Fisk (later a noted Hollywood production designer) were succeeded by his enrollment at Philadelphia’s Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in 1965.
Living in a forbidding Philly neighborhood with his first wife and infant daughter Jennifer (later a director herself), Lynch began to dabble in film, directing the animated shorts “Six Men Getting Sick (Six Times)” and “The Alphabet” (1968).
“The Grandmother” (1970), a combination of animation and live action, was filmed with money obtained from a grant by the newly founded American Film Institute. In 1971, Lynch moved to Los Angeles to study filmmaking at the AFI’s Conservatory for Advanced Film Studies, headquartered in the former Doheny mansion in Beverly Hills.
Beginning in 1972, Lynch began work on a feature at the AFI. Inspired by his bleak years as a print engraver and struggling artist in Philadelphia, a 21-page initial script began to take shape; Lynch would later say he had no memory of writing it. Over the course of the next five years, he made the film with several collaborators who would remain constants in his career, including sound designer Alan Splet, cinematographer Frederick Elmes and actor Jack Nance.
Shot laboriously, cheaply and on the fly for five years, “Eraserhead” was released by indie distributor Libra Films International in 1977. The disquieting black-and-white film followed the psychological descent of its maladroit hero Henry Spencer (Nance) after the birth of his monstrously malformed baby.
Critics were decidedly alarmed by the picture when it premiered at L.A.’s Filmex in 1977, but it took on a commercial life of its own when Libra opened the picture at midnight screenings in New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles. Lynch would frequently appear at L.A. screenings, admonishing his mystified audiences, “Don’t ask about the baby.”
One enthusiastic viewer at a midnight show at L.A.’s Nuart Theatre was Stuart Cornfeld, a producer at Mel Brooks’ Brooksfilms. He urged Brooks to employ Lynch, and, after viewing “Eraserhead,” Brooks offered the director a job.
For his project, Lynch took on the story of John Merrick, whose sensational life story had already inspired Bernard Pomerance’s hit 1977 play. The film version of “The Elephant Man” was an entirely new enterprise, co-written by Lynch and starring a heavily made-up John Hurt as the sensitive Merrick, Anthony Hopkins as the London Hospital surgeon who became his guardian, and Brooks’ wife Anne Bancroft as a sympathetic West End stage star.
“The Elephant Man” had a powerful emotional impact, and became a box office and critical hit; Lynch received Oscar nods as best director and for best adapted screenplay, with the film also taking a nomination for best picture. The triumph led to a multiple-picture deal with Dino Di Laurentiis.
The sprawling space opera “Dune,” about galactic family dynasties warring over possession of a space-travel “spice” mined on a desert planet, had already defeated projected adaptations by Alejandro Jodorowsky and Ridley Scott when Lynch took on the material.
Filmed laboriously on Mexican soundstages with an enormous international cast, “Dune” sported an unusual Flash Gordon-meets-Antonio Gaudi production design, a memorable gallery of demented Lynchian villains and the director’s trademark amniotic visuals.
The picture satisfied no one: Both audiences attuned to the boisterous heroics of “Star Wars” and impatient critics rejected Lynch’s contorted, confusing and harshly digested reading of Herbert’s novel, and the film tanked on arrival. Lynch later told Chris Rodley that at the conclusion of the ordeal, “I was almost dead. Almost dead!”
However, Lynch’s second film for De Laurentiis defined the contours of his mature style. “Blue Velvet” starred Kyle McLachlan, who had played the messianic hero of “Dune,” as a small-town boy who is plunged into a whirlpool of sexual violence, murder and sadomasochism.
Featuring a potent cast that included Isabella Rossellini (with whom Lynch became involved romantically), Laura Dern, Dean Stockwell and, most notably, Dennis Hopper as its deranged, out-of-control villain, “Blue Velvet” polarized critics, but it cemented Lynch’s reputation as a fearless and daring film author. The film was the start of his collaboration with composer Angelo Badalamenti.
Four years later, the Lynch style was brought to the small screen with “Twin Peaks.” Starring McLachlan as eccentric FBI agent Dale Cooper, the series used the investigation of the murder of homecoming queen Laura Palmer as a springboard into a swirling narrative vortex involving sexual intrigue, drug addiction, prostitution, madness and demonic possession. TV audiences tuned in to track the mystery and remained for the series’ complexly interwoven characters and perverse, at times supernatural plot twists.
The show’s first season scored 14 Emmy nominations, including nods for Lynch for writing and directing the pilot, but declining ratings after the drawn-out revelation of Palmer’s killer and Lynch’s diminishing participation due to production of a new feature led to a cliffhanging wrap-up at the end of season two.
However, the “Twin Peaks” saga had legs. Actress Sheryl Lee was brought back from the dead to play Laura Palmer in “Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me,” which tracked the fateful last week of Palmer’s life in lurid, screaming detail. And Showtime cable audiences were baffled anew by 2017’s much-belated third season, which reunited McLachlan and several members of the original cast.
The truest legacy of “Twin Peaks” may have been its impact on the development of unusual long-form episodic series. Successors ranging from “Wild Palms” to “True Detective” all bore Lynch’s distinctive stylistic fingerprints.
Lynch’s first feature after “Twin Peaks,” 1990’s “Wild at Heart,” was an oddball exodus, based on a novel by Barry Gifford, in which an Elvis-fixated ex-con (Nicolas Cage) and his hot-to-trot girlfriend (Laura Dern) are pursued by the murderous minions of the girl’s jealous mother (Dern’s own mother Diane Ladd). Domestic reaction was mixed to the gory, sexually frank mix of “Detour” and “The Wizard of Oz,” but the Cannes jury was wowed.
Lynch’s association with Gifford continued with “Lost Highway,” for which the two collaborated on an original screenplay. A doppelganger murder mystery that foreshadowed “Mulholland Drive,” the disquieting, brutally effective thriller starred Bill Pullman, Balthazar Getty and Patricia Arquette as the players in a homicidal foursome.
After spending most of the decade on the far side of narrative coherence, Lynch came back down to earth with “The Straight Story,” the first feature in which he took no hand in writing. In the incongruously Disney-distributed picture, based on a true story, Richard Farnsworth starred as an Iowa man who drives from Iowa to Wisconsin on a power mower to visit his seriously ill brother.
Though not a major hit, the film was critically well received, and proved to Lynch’s naysayers that he was capable of bringing life to material that was not extravagantly outrageous. Farnsworth received an Oscar nomination for his performance; the veteran actor and stunt man, who was suffering from terminal prostate cancer during the production of the film, died by suicide in 2000.
An enlarged version of a prospective pilot for a new TV series became what may have been Lynch’s most widely acclaimed film, and a defining summation of the filmmaker’s themes and narrative obsessions.
“Mulholland Drive” served a darkly satirical comment on the ways of Hollywood in the story of a young actress (Naomi Watts) whose relationship with an amnesiac stranger (Laura Elena Harring) becomes a hall-of-mirrors story of manipulation, betrayal and suicide. Lynch was nominated for a 2002 best director Oscar.
Some of the same themes came to the fore in “Inland Empire,” Lynch’s first film to be shot entirely on digital video, with Laura Dern starring as an on-the-skids actress involved in typical Lynchian psychic disorder. Owing to its format, still a relative rarity theatrically in 2007, the three-hour feature was little seen after its 2007 premiere at the Venice Film Festival.
In 2022, he appeared as John Ford in Steven Spielberg’s “The Fablemans,” and also provided the voice of the mad scientist in “Robot Chicken.”
Beyond his work in film and TV, Lynch exhibited his paintings internationally and issued many solo and collaborative albums of music. He contributed a weekly comic strip, “The Angriest Dog in the World,” to the alternative weekly the Los Angeles Reader for eight years. His wry, deadpan weather reports were aired daily on the L.A. rock station Indie 103.1 for several years and continued on social media.
A devotee of transcendental meditation from the 1970s on, he established his David Lynch Foundation to promote the Eastern practice, and enlisted such stars as Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr and Donovan for fund-raising concerts.
Despite persistent rumors of new feature and TV projects after “Twin Peaks” came to an end in 2017, Lynch focused on making music videos and composing music with collaborators including Christabell. He offered his name to the David Lynch Graduate School of Cinematic Arts at Maharishi University and a line of coffee beans and designed Silencio nightclubs in Paris and New York.
Lynch was married four times. He is survived by two daughters and two sons.
Talking to Derek Guy, the oddly private fashion hobbyist with a million followers, about the vacuity of trends, why it’s hard to find good jeans, and the stratification of luxury and fast fashion.
by Lauren Sherman
Fashion is a bigger part of popular culture than ever, and yet the majority of people dress poorly. Why? Derek Guy, a writer who has become ultra-famous on Twitter over the past two years thanks to his menswear explainer threads under the handle @dieworkwear, has ideas. They have to do with capitalism, greed, and the downfall of mainstream fashion media. And he disseminates them regularly to his 1 million followers.
Earlier this week, amid the men’s shows, I hopped on Skype with Derek—yes, Skype, he only uses Skype—to talk Big Luxury, Elon, skinny jeans, and being nice to people who wear Allbirds. Even if you completely disagree with his position, the ultra-secretive, never-photographed Guy (he swears that’s his real name) will at least help you synthesize your own.
Lauren Sherman: Do you think of yourself as a cultural anthropologist?
Derek Guy: Cultural anthropologist sounds very haughty.
What would you call yourself?
I’m just a guy who’s interested in clothes. I can’t afford a $10,000 coat. It doesn’t feel relevant to my life. I don’t live in New York City, I don’t go to fashion shows, I don’t hang out with fashion people. I don’t read that many fashion stories because they feel so removed from my life. I would be more interested in reading a story about why pajamas died. I don’t want to seem like one of those guys who says, I don’t watch TV. I don’t like football.
There are many people who wear designer clothes. Why aren’t you interested in why they want those clothes?
It often feels like a trend is happening, and then everyone buys a ton of the trend, and then they say the trend is no longer happening. To me, that just doesn’t feel very interesting. It just seems fake.
Where does your expertise come from? Have you worked in the industry?
I’ve been writing about the industry since 2011, but I’ve never worked for a clothing company. And I don’t know what it means to work in the industry. I’ve used a bunch of bespoke tailors, and that’s where my information about tailoring comes from. I talk to some of the leading dry cleaners, people that manage factories, that’s basically it.
Did you have a job before you started writing?
I like to keep that private.
Why?
I’m just a private person.
Is Derek Guy your real name?
Yes.
When you started writing about clothing around 2011, was that for publications? Or Tumblr?
Yes, Tumblr, blog, forums. I was a hobbyist. I don’t think that it’s really even that unusual.
No, but it is unusual that you’ve made such a career out of it. Eugene Rabkin was the forum. Susie Bubble, who was on theFashionSpot a lot, became a famous influencer. The career you’ve built is pretty singular.
It’s not like Twitter pays me five figures a month—which someone suggested and I thought that was hilarious.
I can’t imagine you get paid much at all from posting on Twitter, but you probably get a lot of jobs because you’re now seen as an expert, right?
After the Twitter thing, I’ve gotten a few more jobs from some mainstream publications, but it hasn’t made a huge impact on my income. I do get some money from Twitter Blue. Mr. Porter pays me to write a monthly column. I turn down a lot of stuff because I don’t want to partner with brands. I have a very limited scope of what I feel comfortable monetizing.
You make income outside of writing?
Yes.
Back to Twitter. I have this image in my head of you, early in the Elon administration, getting called into a room with him. You were active on Twitter before, but your online influence really took off after Elon took charge. What happened?
In the fall of 2022, [Barstool Sports founder] Dave Portnoy came out with a watch company. From 2011 up until that month, I was only really tweeting to enthusiasts, and making in-group jokes about brands like Kapital and Engineered Garments. I thought Portnoy’s watch thing was a huge ripoff. I don’t remember the price, but pieces were somewhere north of $2,000 and I said, I can’t believe that somebody would charge their fans like two Gs for a $40 quartz movement. I wouldn’t even do that to my enemy, because I think it’s so dishonest. Those tweets went viral. And then Dave Portnoy made a video where he complained about me.
It just seems so crazy, that someone with his success would even notice something I said. And then, after that video, I did a thread. In October, I had maybe 50,000 followers. By the end of the year, that probably doubled. Suddenly, it didn’t feel right to make jokes about Kapital and Engineered Garments, or make fun of Allbirds, because now I had a following of people who earnestly like and wear Allbirds. I found that people liked informational threads. I am totally confused by why people enjoy hearing my thoughts. I don’t really have any explanation for it.
I’m not confused by it. I am confused by the Twitter algorithm promoting you so heavily. You have almost 1 million followers. Have you ever been approached by Musk or his team?
Someone emailed me once: I don’t know if I want to say that because, partly because, I don’t want people to know that I have an email address, and I don’t want people emailing me. Let’s just say that sometimes people ask me questions. Once, someone asked me, How do I get a dinner suit? And what do I wear with it? I answered the question. And then the person said, Thank you. I appreciate the advice. A lot of us over at Twitter appreciate your work. Then I looked at the name, and they worked at Twitter on some high level. I don’t know the exact position. I’ve never spoken to Elon Musk.
There are a lot of different types of people who follow you: right wing, left wing, neoconservatives, Allbirds wearers. You are unafraid of engaging politically, using clothing as the context. Have you created certain guardrails around what you’re comfortable discussing?
There are certain things that are important to me, like immigration, and mass shootings. If you love clothes, it’s weird to me if you’re anti-immigrant, because those are the people who make your clothes. If you’re xenophobic, that’s a weird disconnect. I don’t like the question, because I don’t think about what is a kosher post.
Do you think it’s a race to the bottom to make cheap things? A pair of jeans that cost $20 in 1950 might still cost $20 today, so of course the quality has diminished.
Quality is a very nuanced concept. Unless you’re buying Shein, most clothes are fine in terms of wear. Some stuff wears out very quickly because people buy, like, really tight clothes, and they’re putting more strain on those clothes. If you buy looser clothes and you wear them for a long time and you repair them, I don’t think the quality is so bad, at least on the men’s side. If you buy a J.Crew shirt, and you don’t buy it super tight, it will last a long time. To me, the biggest problem with durability nowadays is not the make of the clothes, but the design.
Why do people buy clothes that are too tight? Is it trend-based, or is it because we’re an overweight society and people are trying to squeeze into a smaller size, or both?
In the early 2000s, designers made slim-fit clothes as a reaction to the oversize fits of like, Armani, in the 1990s. Over time, the slim silhouette became popular in mainstream stores, and now every guy squeezes into these really tight clothes.
That’s changing now, right? Everything is moving toward a bigger silhouette.
You have to pay a lot of money. I was talking to somebody who runs a denim company and asked why they don’t introduce a looser fit. If you’re a guy and you’re looking for a looser fit in denim, you have to pay $250 to all these designer brands—$250 and up.
I’m in Oslo right now, and pretty much everyone is dressed badly. [Note: Except for the people at Kafeteria August.] In most big European cities, in Milan and Paris, and even in London, they try. Here, I might as well be in Podunk, U.S.A. The clothes don’t fit. There isn’t a sense of fashion, nothing. Do you think there’s any chance that we can collectively go back to wanting to look nice?
Most people don’t have very much interest in clothes, and the market is confusing. There’s a hollowing out of the middle; there is either fast fashion, crappy clothes, or a $300 pair of jeans—sometimes even a $1,000 pair of jeans, which is insane for most people. Then, there’s just more cultural language to deal with. There are hundreds of aesthetics, and there are no simple guides. You have to figure your way into some TikTok stream or into a Discord, or the right Instagram account.
Stores are worse now, too. There are fewer good stores, fewer skilled sales associates. You go into a store and everyone’s just kind of shoving some crappy thing into your hand.
If you were sitting in a room with a luxury brand—or a fast fashion brand, actually—as a paid consultant, what would you tell them to do?
I don’t have any views on what I think they should do, but I think the fashion media should be better at telling people about clothes and how to choose clothes and stop caring so much about celebrities and trends.
Well, it depends on if you consider yourself a service journalist or a news journalist. It became less important to those publications to do service journalism when you can go on YouTube and find an explanation of how to tie a tie.
I don’t want to sound like a hippie, but these big media organizations and big brands would be better if they were just small operations without huge bills.
What keeps you caring about this stuff?
I’m a hobbyist. Why do people build little, tiny model trains?
I truly don’t know.