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A Blackwellian nightmare | page 1, 2
Or, on the day JFK was shot (Blackwell was scheduled to host a fashion show in Tampa), "I couldn't help but think, how could a beaded bodice possibly make a difference in these troubled, deadly times?" Star-struck since childhood, Blackwell moved to Hollywood and landed several bit parts at Universal Studios in the 1930s. Although his on-screen talent carried him only so far, his talents on the casting couch were appreciated by some of the biggest names in the biz, including, he claimed, Tyrone Power ("the attraction between us was instantaneous, electric, unforgettable"), Cary Grant and Randolph Scott. ("Neither man was possessive, and I had wonderful relationships with both of them.") He once auditioned for a bit part on Broadway by performing a sultry striptease for Mae West ("I felt Mae's eyes scan my body, sliding down my thighs"). He also moonlighted as a male escort ("I became a human vacuum, as empty as the women I slept with"). In the 1950s, he got his start in the fashion biz with a short-lived job designing elaborate toilet-seat covers. (Customers returned them in droves when the ill-placed rhinestones proved uncomfortable.) Still craving stardom, Blackwell decided he might as well script himself a role to play in real life: the part of a flashy, loud-mouthed designer so outrageous he'd be impossible to ignore. To that end, he began wearing tight pants and loud silk shirts unbuttoned to the waist. (He later concluded that his hairy chest projected too much "truck driver virility," so he switched to turtlenecks with gold chains and scarves.) Blackwell began consciously modulating his speech, running words together like "warm, melting caramels" -- all the better to craft a persona that would be "the ultimate mix of madness, marketing, and media attention." In 1960, a weekly magazine asked Blackwell for a list of the year's top 10 couture catastrophes. He obliged with a few caustic comments and promptly forgot about it. When another magazine called to see who'd made his list the following year, Blackwell knew he'd found the gimmick that would make him a household name. As we finished our sandwiches, Blackwell assured me that he never meant the list to be "mean," adding that he was always careful to include only women he genuinely admired. (Just because he once dubbed Madonna the "Bare-Bottomed Bore of Babylon" and dissed Roseanne -- "Clothes by Michelin, Body by Sara Lee" -- doesn't mean he doesn't like them.) In fact, Blackwell said, he abhorred the idea of being remembered for something "so negative." He claimed to loathe the character he'd created for himself, which had come to overshadow his fashion career. He called it, with typical modesty, "my crown of thorns." At this point, Spencer suggested they'd better get going. I tagged along, thoroughly confused as to whether the character of "Mr. Blackwell" was a case of the actor becoming his role or pure typecasting. We stepped out onto the mall where we were besieged by yet another wave of armies of garbage. To distract him from this fashion armageddon, I asked Blackwell about his own attire. The tassled loafers and plaid shirt: Armani. The suit: Hugo Boss. The neon red socks: Sears, Roebuck ("No, really, Sears, Roebuck"). In his lapel, a tacky jeweled pin spelled out "Big Mouth" -- a gift from Worst-Dressed Listee Barbara Mandrell. In his left ear he sported a huge diamond. Nearing the bookstore, he cheerfully confirmed that he'd had four facelifts. Then another letdown: The part of the bookstore where he'd be autographing books was empty except for a huge public address system. Blackwell immediately started fiddling with the mike and complaining about the sound. Thankfully, one of his longtime models arrived wearing a Blackwell creation -– a strapless, rhinestone-sprinkled black evening dress with elbow-length black gloves. He'd enlisted her to hold up a copy of his book while he addressed the as yet nonexistent crowd. Slowly, a few fans began to appear: Two white-haired groupies, a youngish man, a large woman in a tight black pantsuit. Others straggled in as Blackwell took the mike, and in a gravelly purr, started in on his favorite subject: "I was born in a ghetto ..." Just as he had over dinner, he described hustling in Central Park and related a story about the time he was briefly imprisoned by the Perón regime for inciting a labor strike in Argentina. Hitting his stride, he relived his career as a Hollywood designer, dropping names like so many sequins from a cheap gown. More than once, gauging the lukewarm reaction of his handful of listeners, he apologized, "Well, some of you might not remember her, but ..." His soothing patter was a mesmerizing mix of stale Hollywood gossip, talk-show confessional, New Age psychobabble and the rambling reminiscences of a kindly old uncle. His book, he emoted, was about "standing naked in front of you, totally exposing myself and the truth, so that other people who have the same problems won't believe they're alone. I want them to know they don't have to commit suicide." An attractive young woman who arrived alone piped up adoringly then. "I saw you on Howard Stern, and I just had to come and tell you I thought you were so cool!" she gushed. "You were so warm and honest and sincere. I didn't give a hoot about the Worst Dressed List, but what you said actually gave me a lot of love as a person." Blackwell beamed. Then a store employee who needed the microphone for a guitarist about to perform in the coffee shop downstairs broke up the brief lovefest. Flustered, Blackwell quickly wrapped up his talk, signed a couple of books and collapsed into a chair, still fuming about his hijacked sound system. At last, he looked up at me wearily. "So," he said gently, "maybe after this you have a different viewpoint? I think you understand me now. This is the real me." He invited me to join them for breakfast at home the following morning ("C'mon, I'll make you oatmeal"). Later that night, Spencer would call me to cancel. The sparse attendance had left Blackwell too despondent to bear the thought of company. But as I asked about his long-range plans, Blackwell momentarily perked up. "I want to tell the story about this man. You saw me," he says, gesturing at the empty chairs around him. "I could talk three hours with no trouble! Have some screens, project pictures ..." Wait, I said. You mean you're planning a one-man show about yourself, starring yourself? He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. "It will be a wonderful day," he sighed, smiling beatifically, "the day I do this on Broadway."
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