Hi, ‘Gasmi!! Bedbug here, checking in with the briefest, daintiest of recaps that will just graze the surface of the debut episode of the overproduced and overly dramatic craptacular known as Fashion Star. This minicap is wafer-thin, but I hope it whets your appetite for the extravaganza of bullshit, histrionics, drama, condescending criticism, defensiveness and fugly clothes that Fash Star promises to be.
I’m gonna say it right up front: this show has a lot of potential for hilarity. For one thing, one of the Mentors is Jessica Simpson, the intellectual who spent a lot of time pondering whether Chicken of the Sea is marine poultry or terrestrial fish. It also features Nicole Richie, John Varvatos, a trio of buyers from Saks, Macy’s and H and M — who can decide, if the spirit moves them, to purchase the clothing then and there– and over-rated model and gasbag Elle MacPherson as Host.
The show starts with a tribute to her underwear line, believe it or not, and it features big, shiny motorcycles, clouds of smoke, glittery crap flying through the air and masked models prancing around in their panties. It’s a bad sign when the models are so reluctant to be identified with your crappy product that they hide their identities, but EM is unfazed and goes on to say, essentially, that she’s reached the pinnacle of human achievement with her multimillion-dollar underwear empire. As for the 14 trembling designers backstage, the whole meaning of their lives is based on whether or not they can duplicate her feat. I mean, forget the accomplishments of science, art and medicine, forget the difficulty of sequencing the human genome, forget the miracle of childbirth and the satisfaction of parenting. Elle MacPherson has designed thongs that cuddle up against premium poontang and bras that cradle some expensive silicon funbags, so all you Nobel and Pulitzer prize winners can just suck it.
It gets even more absurd from there, as we are exposed to Oscar, a capering, trilling, be-hatted dwarf who manhandles his dog into flamenco dancing on countertops to the tune of “La Cucaracha,” as well as Orly Shani, a bartender and pauper who designs clothes for broke-asses — I like this girl, and I’m also her target market — a real dick and ex-model called Nicholas who pisses off the female judges (and buyers), and a studious-looking, embittered, grind named Nikki Poulos who makes comfortable, colorful clothes that she calls Rehab Wear. Or was that Resort Wear? Personally, I thought the diaphanous white gown she made was perfect for trailing down the hallways of New Horizons at 2 in the ayem to bug the night nurse for more meds. But that’s just me. Sorry, I’m a fashion idiot — as well as a fashion victim — who probably has no business covering a fashion show. But in an effort to learn, I’ve googled terms like “horehound” and “chiffon” — that has to count for something!
So join me for a more detailed recap later!