Last night I watched Rodolphe Marconi’s film “Lagerfeld Confidential”, a documentary (released in the UK last year) following the comings and goings of one of the most enigmatic and iconic fashion personalities in the industry today. With unprecedented access into the designer’s home, studio and general everyday life, Marconi’s film gives a fascinating insight into the world of “the man behind the image”. As Lagerfeld describes himself as “An apparition”, (which rings especially true considering the cardboard cut outs of the designer that are dotted around the temporary Chanel outlet at Dover Street Market), a prolonged glimpse into his routine was a chance I couldn’t pass up. And I didn’t want to watch France v. Italy.
Undoubtedly this film is not everybody’s cup of tea: not just because of the subject matter but also because of the way the documentary is itself filmed. A few minute sequence of waves crashing against rocks to a soundtrack of The Lightning Seeds (I think, but don’t quote me on that. It was pretty lame whatever it was) made me feel slightly queasy, and not because I suffer from seasickness. Although some scenes were cringe inducing, this is not to say that I didn’t bloody love it. Lagerfeld has always creeped me out while simultaneously leaving me awestruck and Marconi’s documentary validated the way I feel towards him. Which I don’t see as a bad thing.
The film begins with Marconi’s camera peering around what appears to be Lagerfeld’s bedroom (well, there’s a bed in it at least). The room is floor to ceiling books. On every surface lies a notepad, sketchbook or magazine. For some reason I was surprised at this chaotic scene, although as it transpires, Lagerfeld has an astonishing ability to remember where everything is, or should, go. Perhaps it is his constant, unchanging and unmoving appearance that gives the illusion of serenity and minimalism when the reality is the opposite. There was definitely something slightly unnerving about the sheer amount of stuff Lagerfeld is surrounded by, I half expected a dozen scraggly cats to reveal themsleves under a heap of old Vogue’s. This image was only compounded by watching Lagerfeld rifle through hundreds of similar looking rings and drawers full of identical white shirt collars. I’m also pretty sure Freud would have a field day over the comments made about Mutter Lagerfeld and the way her son still carries around his comfort blanket (now kept safely in a bag because it is falling part). But, for now, I will spare Karl the text book psychoanalysis.
The one thing that I hoped would come through in the documentary, and which did, was humour. Although Lagerfeld takes himself seriously in the sense that he is hard-working and has an image to maintain, his answers were candid and signs placed in toliets reading “Pissing Everywhere is not very Chanel”, demonstrate his wry sense of humour. He also calls models “brats” which is quite funny. In a mean kind of way.
Obviously the level of this designer’s talent is unquestionable. Watching over Lagerfeld’s shoulder as he sketches a design, in a rare moment of solitude and free of his trademark sunglasses, is quite a sight to behold and one which any Fashion buff should see.
