Judging Lindsay Lohan's Judging On Project Runway
By Noah Michelson
There’s good design and then there’s good television. Remember Victor and Angela, Runway? Do you? I do. Those clowns kept their season going with stunningly dumb antics and horrible clothes and fantasy excursions to Jubilee Jumbles, a place in France that I still think of fondly. Don’t, in an effort to remind us that you’ve still got good taste now that you’ve jumped cable networks, bore us all with elegance and craftsmanship. This show comes on a good hour past my bedtime. I need it to be exciting or I’ll get sleepy.
And to that end, we’ve already got a jolting intro to a guy named Johnny who apparently lives in my neighborhood. He’s a stocky little fellow who used to do a shitload of crystal meth. Which must make being around a fellow designer who calls herself Qrystal (sic) very difficult. Anyway, he’s already sobbing 10 minutes into the show, which is more awkward than moving because I don’t know him well enough to care about his anxiety attacks. Not his fault. I blame the editors for just throwing his whole plate of spaghetti against the wall too quickly.
Meanwhile, my first favorite person of the new season, now that Planet Claire is already out of the picture, is Malvin with the Haysi Fantayzee hair. He says shit like “my design is ineffable” and that “there’s not a vocab for it yet.” He’s so far into the future there’s no known language developed that can adequately communicate his fashion brilliance. Maybe by the end of the season some really chic aliens will land and teach us all how to see and speak of Malvin’s work with the garbled respect it deserves. I want to believe.
-- DAVE WHITE
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