Designer Duds

If the Shoe Fits (1991)

"Not since Mahogany!" That's how movie theater ads for If the Shoe Fits would have read if the film had ever made it into movie theaters. One of several jaw-dropping, ever-heard-of-'em? clunkers Rob Lowe made in the wake of his impromptu move into the home video porno market, If the Shoe Fits is every bit as hilariously inept as Mahogany, and Lowe surpasses Diana Ross to become the least-believable person to ever play a fashion designer. A preening runway model, maybe, an inanimate dress mannequin, yes indeed, but a person capable of running a billion-dollar French couturier empire? How you say... mais non. It must have been some consolation to Lowe--if not the audience--that he is not the only stupendously miscast performer in this lamebrained retooling of Cinderella; co-star Jennifer Grey is only half-equipped to play an ugly duckling transformed into a swan.

The plot kicks in when Paris's celebrated, influential, "genius" designer--Lowe, as the movie's self-enchanted Prince Charming-- bids his minions to "scour the city" and find a gorgeous new face to launch his next collection. Lowe's own remarks about the women paraded before him as possible new faces serve as a running commentary on his own mannered and decidedly effete performance: "No soul! Shallow! I'm finished!"; "Only a miracle could save me now!"; and--no doubt the very words that the likes of Kurt Russell, Andrew McCarthy and Richard Grieco presumably uttered when this part was offered to them before Lowe--"No! No! No!

Wandering the streets of Paris, starving shoe designer Jennifer Grey is the only person who stops to help a homeless lost soul. The old bat turns out to have magic powers and casts a spell over a pair of shoes Grey has designed, saying, "With wings on your feet, dreams can come true." You could put B-57s on Grey's feet and she still wouldn't be a stunning beauty when she steps into the glittery pumps to make her entrance at the grand ball Lowe has thrown in a last-ditch effort to find his dream girl. As part of a hopeless attempt to put Grey over as a dazzler, the other women present are Fellini-esque Euro-uglies, but when Lowe, who, we suspect, would rather be searching for a man to don his creations anyway, eyes Grey and gasps, "Bella! You are a miracle," Grey voices our thoughts exactly: "I am?" It's mind-bending that Lowe doesn't recognize Grey for they'd met when she worked as a dresser backstage at his fashion show; after all, the only difference between the plain Grey and the "bella" Grey is some mousse in her hair. As the two of them take to the dance floor, and we see Lowe's chiseled good looks next to Grey's implacable plainness, the movie seems less a retelling of Cinderella than an inversion of Beauty and the Beast. In fact, when Grey flees the ball, one assumes she's just seen the dailies. Then again, maybe she's shocked by what Lowe has just whispered: "I'm only half a man without you." We certainly are. Indeed, when Lowe--whose own outfit suggests he is Michael Jackson's favorite designer--comes upon Cinderella's pump, we expect him to put it on.

Grey eventually figures out that to ever get her big break designing shoes for Lowe, she must return, put on those magic heels and accept her fate as his new traffic-stopping supermodel. Because she is beautiful but empty with those heels on and unattractive but gifted without, she is run ragged pretending to be Lowe's muse--posing in his couture--as well as being an invaluable aide with constructive criticism when she's shoeless. Grey, exhausted by the endless changes back and forth, wails to a pal who's helping with the deception, "We've created a Frankenstein"--a remark we'll let pass without comment.

Her nerves frayed, Grey wants to be loved for her ugly "real" self, and insists Lowe choose between her and, well, her: who does he want to work with, the bitchy beauty or the talented shoemaker? Lowe selects the ratty Grey, natch, and though this pretty boy and his plain gal kiss happily at fade-out, they must have been wondering if they would ever work again. The moral of the film seems to be: be nice to homeless strangers--you never know who they could turn out to be. We say, be nice to homeless strangers--after making movies like if the Shoe Fits, they could easily turn out to be Rob Lowe or Jennifer Grey.

Lucy Gallant (1955)

Movies about fashion designers are usually set where you'd expect to find these exotic creatures: Paris, Milan. London, Manhattan. Hollywood. Refreshingly, Lucy Gallant shows how a couture queen survives in the wilds of uncivilized Texas in the '40s. The art underneath the titles--a cowboy boot decorated with a camellia blossom--pretty much sums up the plot: anything, even Texas, can be accessorized correctly.

Stars Charlton Heston and Jane Wyman meet when the thirtyish hunk catches sight of the fortyish matron aboard her stranded-in-the-middle-of-nowhere train, and he climbs aboard to introduce himself: "I just wanted a chance to look at something pretty for a change." Now, we know how arid Texas was back then, but surely even a man dying of thirst would know the difference between champagne and a glass of tap water, Wyman "pretty"? As if aware of what we're thinking, the filmmakers present us with fiftyish Thelma Ritter, who calls Wyman a "girl." No dice--even a plain-Jane like Ritter cannot make plain Jane Wyman look young or "pretty."

Nevertheless, Wyman no sooner lets Heston escort her into a nearby boomtown than strangers assume she's a hooker come to work in the local whorehouse. Other townspeople merely eye Wyman's demented getup--a tailored suit, white boots, a furry mink hat, and a matching mink purse that's the size of a briefcase--and ask, "Where'd those clothes come from?" as well as our question, "Where'd she come from?"

Justifying her existence. Wyman explains to these nouveau riche hicks, "Women can't wear derricks!" and makes a bundle selling off her own wardrobe to local ladies. Concluding that what the Wild West needs is a luxe dress emporium, Wyman decides to open one. Soon she's sizing up Heston's fashion faux pas: "If you must wear boots." she comments disdainfully, "wear black with dark gray, not that color. It's just not done!" When he mentions he owns a little ranch. Wyman says, "I didn't know there was anything little in Texas" and he replies, meaningfully, "I guess we do talk sorta big--mostly true, too." With a come-on like that, Wyman hurries over for a visit (wouldn't you?). Ever accessorizing the world around her, she views the oil derricks on the horizon of Heston's spread and remarks, "You know, I could see one right about here--trimmed in chintz!" Daydreaming aloud about how fabulously wealthy Heston will be when he starts drilling his land. Wyman fingers a large thermos bottle and sighs, "You've got it made." Daydreaming about other kinds of drilling, Heston replies, "Not quite, Lucy."

Despite their difference in age, relative attractiveness and cultural background, it's clear these two are meant for one another, but because the film would only be a half-hour long if they got together at this point, they're soon torn asunder. Heston wants a traditional wife while Wyman wants to be a career gal. The remainder of Lucy Gallant asks the question, "Can a woman have it all?" and then answers, as movies back in 1955 did, "No, no, a thousand times no!" Heston returns from WWII to Find Wyman's chichi store a giant success yet, when he proposes marriage, he's galled that she plans to go on working after their honeymoon. "You can't ask me to throw the store out the window!" argues Wyman, but Heston storms off, determined to forget her. In Paris, Heston views the Eiffel Tower--and we can't help thinking it looks exactly like another oil derrick in need of Wyman's chintz trim!

It all ends, as you'd hoped it might, not with a wedding, but with a big fashion show for which legendary Tinseltown costume designer Edith Head--who actually created the appalling clothes on display in Lucy Gallant--introduces the fashions supposedly whipped up by Wyman. Watching Wyman view the parade of gowns, you'd never guess she's meant to be the couturiere--as usual, she looks like a frumpy, middle-aged housewife. As the show ends, Heston happens by to propose wedlock again, and because the movie's over, Wyman says yes. Just so we'll know she's no longer interested in her career, when Heston asks, "Who'll mind the store?" Wyman replies, "What store?"

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Virginia Campbell and Edward Margulies are the executive editors of Movieline.

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