Project Runway Recap: Are We 'In' or 'Out'?

Project Runway, our first real boyfriend, returned last night. He's nearly recovered from his abusive L.A. days, and he's promising 90-minute stamina and a bit more style, and he's even ditching his annoying wingman Models of the Runway. But do we care? Join us for some stray observations of the first episode and an answer to the unholy question, "Will we keep watching?"

Let's debunk lesser mysteries first. For example: How is Project Runway filling 90 minutes? After all, it can barely do 60 without making Tim Gunn roam the workroom once as himself and a second time dressed in Diane von Furstenburg drag. The unfortunate truth is that Bunim-Murray just lengthens the familiar rigmarole wherever it can, lingering on harried stares a little longer and allowing Michael Kors to unleash a few more synonyms for "tacky" when eviscerating a sloppy hemline. It's not the solution I wanted. I wanted interstitial skits like "Gunn's Goin' Off" where Tim observes the designers on a monitor system and makes judgments about their upbringings for 15 minutes. "A.J.'s from St. Charles, Missouri? My pearly ass. That accent says 'Ozarks,' mark my words." Or a Big Brother 12 conceit where Michael Kors sabotages each challenge by coating the runway in slick urethane, planting cobras in the ceiling, or starting a grease fire in the Garnier hair salon.

I'll tell you what this season does have -- a diggable crop of contestants. Seventeen started the competition, and Heidi claimed that the first challenge was still an "audition," one last step for the contestants to overcome before getting on the show. Because... we're not already watching them on the show, or something? "PRECISELY," says always-correct Heidi while accidentally delivering a child.

Among the 17 combatants: the aforementioned A.J., a gaunt Midwesterner who wants to glue cupcakes to your breasts; 50-year-old Peach, a salty dame who lacks sartorial imagination; Casanova, a Latin dandy who doesn't understand English well but apparently knows it enough to call himself "Casanova" like he's Madonna or Enya or Mandisa. A lot of the other contestants have familiar plebeian names, so we'll get around to them if we have extra time.

The opening challenge smacks of season two: Bring along a favorite fabric or article of clothing and design something new with it. But wait, Heidi says, there's a twist. She orders every contestant to pass their choice fabrics to another competitor. They're forced to make a look using another design's materials, and in five measly hours. It sounds cruel, but this is how Heidi's new haircut was created. Roland Mouret passed a clump of citron jersey to Michael Kors, and he cut it up nice and affixed it to Heidi's face. Voila, a spritzy summer weave, and it doubles as a clutch.

Over the next 40 minutes, Tim mocks Casanova's skimpy design and provokes the effervescent, gratingly defensive Ivy to talk. Traditional Runway circus games.

As Casanova gets frustrated over his design, he sputters, "The idiom in the United States... sh*t happens." I tolerate that quip.

Tim also mentions that the group should make good use of the "Piperlime Accessory Wall." Piperlime. We're supposed to accept that non-word. To be fair, I'd believe anything out of Tim's shill mouth nowadays. If he said, "Designers, be sure to cavort in the Samsung Ideas Fountain outside," I wouldn't flinch. I'm sure it's located next to the Playtex Dreams Gazebo and just across from the Crayola Sex Menagerie. Tickle It Pink™."

So sorry.

On the runway, a Leanne Marshall-conjuring designer named Gretchen impresses the judges enough to be declared the winner on the spot. She turns out a pleasant if un-fabulous navy gown with sparkly cap sleeves. Guest judge Selma Blair stays awake long enough to call it elegant.

Heidi ruins six of the other designers' lives by proclaiming them big failures -- including Casanova, the dreadlocked McKell, chatterbox Ivy, nervous Nicholas, deflated April, and surly Mondo. Though other designers were clearly uglier, McKell won the ticket back to Utah. There's something unnerving about a white person with dreadlocks. If you're not a Musicology major at Oberlin, it doesn't make sense to me. McKell was sweet, but she's already gone. There's no time to nickname her "Tacky DiFranco" or "Please-a Bonet."

So OK: We'll be back next week with a more comprehensive review. Runway's runtime might become a chore, but for now, it still seems like the Varsity Poms coach we fell in love with all those years ago. Here's hoping this show finds ways to sell us on extra half hour without ordering us to "make it work" ourselves.