Reviewed: Diana Vreeland by Amanda Mackenzie Stuart

Strike a pose.

Diana Vreeland: Empress of Fashion
Amanda Mackenzie Stuart
Thames & Hudson, 448pp, £19.95

A life that burns short and bright is one thing but in the case of Diana Vreeland, who was fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar and editor in- chief of American Vogue, life was not only bright but long. Amanda Mackenzie Stuart’s well-paced biography is an account of impressive self-invention by a woman from whom gravelly aperçus coiled like the endless smoke from her cigarette holder (she died from emphysema in 1989).

Through the pages of Vogue, Vreeland introduced America to Lauren Bacall, celebrated the Beatles, championed modernity and started or boosted many careers. She didn’t need to work and always gave the (false) impression that she fell into Bazaar in 1936 by accident after meeting the then editor, Carmel Snow, at a party. In reality, Snow had written about her in the society pages a decade earlier. Despite Vreeland’s stance of inadvertent amateurism, Richard Avedon called her the “most hard-working person he had ever known”.

Diana Dalziel was born rich in 1903 in Paris. The money came from her mother, Emily Hoffman, a Wharton-esque American heiress, who went to Paris at 25. Stuart shows how the young Diana’s Parisian origins permeated the rest of her life, both in a keen appreciation of European glamour and in her habit of making up whatever suited her story. She maintained that she had come to America at the age of 11, speaking only French; the truth is that she arrived in New York as a one-year-old baby.

At school, Diana was bright, imaginative and cut counter to convention: tall, skinny, beaky and squinty. Thought ugly by some, she retired to her adolescent diary to create the perfect “girl”, excitingly dressed and fascinating, who enslaves all around her. At 20, she married the handsome Reed Vreeland and they set off to Paris, then London.

When Vreeland was asked to work at Harper’s Bazaar, she leapt. She began a series of columns called “Why Don’t You?” that encouraged readers to enter a fantastic, upper-crust world: “Why don’t you rinse your blond child’s head in dead champagne to keep its gold, as they do in France?” She also cultivated the appearance that would last a lifetime: thinness, black hair, red lips and often black clothes, plus a “loping camel’s gait, with her long neck thrust forwards like an inquisitive tortoise”.

Promoted to American-fashion editor, Vreeland set about coercing Seventh Avenue manufacturers to compete with Paris and promoted American clothes alongside the reigning Parisian ones. War, which blockaded French imports, helped this.

As years passed and Vreeland became a powerful grande dame, her imperial foibles, satirised in films such as Funny Face (1957) and, much later, Factory Girl (2006), developed. She called all her assistants “Girl” and threw her coat at one of them. Yet, in 1957, when Carmel Snow was fired, the obvious successor was passed over. Later approached by Vogue, Vreeland quit Bazaar to start the most influential period of her life.

Vogue was caught in a 1950s girls-andpearls time warp whose clasp Vreeland violently snapped. Fit and slim herself, she promoted lithe bodies, bare skin, miniskirts, personal verve and sexuality. David Bailey, Jean Shrimpton, Nicholas Haslam, Andy Warhol and Mary Quant were all brought in to play. There were photo shoots of models perched on top of mountains, horses caparisoned in tinsel, the first black supermodel and Nijinsky dancing naked: heady stuff and part of the “youthquake” phenomenon that she named, applauded, packaged and sold.

Yet, Stuart notes, by 1970, the 67-year-old Vreeland missed how young women wanted to work and in easier clothes. With her vision of luxurious unreality, Vreeland, who felt that the Pill had given women all the freedom they needed, fell out of step. Accusing her of having too much power and her work of being “too daring for its time”, the Condé Nast supremo Alexander Liberman (who had brought her in) pushed her upstairs. At this point, most people would take to slippers and a pipe. Instead, Vreeland entered the third phase of her career, organising 12 blockbuster costume exhibitions at the Met in New York. Though they were unorthodox, often unhistorical and eventually lambasted, her shows were hits: her 1976 exhibition “The Glory of Russian Costume” broke box-office records.

Vreeland lived out her fantasies and for decades encouraged others to invent and imagine theirs. The fashion designer Bill Blass said that she combined “Twain’s reverence for the reinvented self with Barnum’s love of showmanship”. This vigorous biography offers a near-perfect example of the American dream.

Philippa Stockley is a writer and critic. Her most recent novel is “A Factory of Cunning” (Little, Brown, £19.95)

Diana Vreeland: the first lady of fashion. Photograph: Thomas Hoepker / Magnum Photos (Main)

This article first appeared in the 04 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The fall of Pistorius

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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit