Project Runway Recap: Cut My Life Into Pieces. This Is My Best Resort Wear.
That might be the first time I've started a Project Runway recap with a Papa Roach reference, but it won't be the last. (Kidding.) Michael Kors harassed the designers into making resort wear in last night's episode, and in a twist, Tim Gunn raised his arm like a sorcerer and made everyone pair up to sew each others' garments. Ivy devolved into a shrieking hedgehog for a change, and some of the others were insufferable too. Let's see how it all went.
When we meet our challengers, they've just survived the fire Ivy set to the apartment complex because Michael C. won last week. Harried and slightly ashen, they scurry to the runway where Heidi-with-the-terrible-hair-this-season has news.
"Tim has a special guest waiting for you. He's a bitchy fashion designer who looks like an orangey softball mound wearing a blazer. No guesses? Byeeee." Bye, Heidi.
Well I'll be, the designers flee to a gorgeous riviera (transportable by Staten Island Ferry) and there's Tim Gunn and Michael Kors waiting for their attention. Tim Gunn introduces the shrinking violet who then dispenses with the challenge.
"Good morning, designers," says Kors. "Today you're going to be making resort wear. It can encompass bathing suits, dresses, evening gowns, or really anything that Casanova can't do. You'll be in the clear. Now, get on this ferry and pretend you're in Saint Tropez."
They oblige and start sketching as landmarks like the Statue of Liberty and the seasick stare of Tim Gunn bring great inspiration. After they disembark from the ferry and stock up on flirty prints at Mood, everyone is quite excited to outfit their models in outrageously skimpy Dynasty gear and make it seem relevant. Andy (who used to have Rihanna hair but is now trying a gay mohawk thing) wants to make a swimsuit and cover-up that would make Uli Herzner proud. Gretchen has some perfect idea you don't care about. And Michael Drummond is too busy gaping at the scenery (a man named HOT HOT HOT Christopher) to come up with a real plan. To the workroom, horndogs!
Everyone's acting a little bit boring in the workroom, so I'm sure that means nothing could go wrong. What could go wrong? What could go wrong? Ever? In this competition?
Tim Gunn bursts through the workroom doors dancing a boogaloo of superiority and waving around a velvet bag in the air. He'll be drawing names for something!
"I was so scared when I saw that bag," says Michael Costello. "I know this means I'll have to work with the others, and here's the thing about the others: They're going to kill me."
"I was-a-scared when I saw-a-bag," says Casanova. "No reason. I do not know what a bag could mean."
Tim pipes up and announces that designers will be pairing up and sewing each other's garments. "This is how it's done in the fashion indsutry!" Tim explains. "You come up with a design you like and then you hand it off to an incompetent simpleton like Michael Drummond to sew. That's the business."
Then the name-drawing commences. Gretchen is hilariously paired with Casanova, Ivy gets Michael Drummond, HOT HOT HOT Christopher gets SMIRKY SMIRKY SMIRKY April, Valerie gets Andy, and the egregiously disliked Michael Costello is paired with an unamused Mondo.
Mondo says he's used to making colorful garments and not embarrassing piles of horsesh*t, so he doesn't think this is going to be a good partnership. In fact, he tells Michael Costello to his face. "I'm worried because your craftsmanship is awful," Mondo says, direct as the gestapo in the climactic scene of Sophie's Choice.
Elsewhere in the workroom, April comes up with what appears to be an erratically strappy lingerie set. It's black with some sheer tulle covering the midsection, and her partner Christopher sews it sufficiently because that's one of his HOT powers. Michael Kors, who of course is touring the workroom today, tells her to pair it with a boy short to make it fabulous. April tried to make a boy short once that ended up resembling a clearance diaper from an H&M geriatrics section. She makes some Rosie the Riveter gesticulations at the camera and vows never to be horrible again.
But the biggest drama in the workroom is occurring between Ivy, who is the kind of person I might call "a hosebeast," and Michael Drummond, who can't sew or work very fast. She has him constructing a shapeless dress with a pale green top that looks neither resort-y nor fashionable. He has her making a black evening gown (for some reason) with trippy strappage on the shoulders. Ivy's stankfaced evil and Michael Drummond's gay babyvoiced trauma are not mixing into an agreeable stew.
Onto the runway! April and Andy and (of all people) Michael Drummond end up with the top garments. April's boy short came through for Michael Kors -- even if it was baggy in back -- and Andy produced a magnificent swimsuit and cover-up rendered in pale lavender and dark plum. Michael Drummond gave us that black evening gown. Whatever. April lands the win because lingerie is in right now and guest judge Kristen Bell is afraid to disagree with any of the mythological warlords on the panel.
In the bottom: Mondo (who graciously admitted he was mean to Michael Costello) Casanova, and Knivey Ivy, who may shank Michael Drummond in a hot minute. We could go into the specifics of how she tried to "throw Michael Drummond under the bus" -- a term Heidi uttered at least 40 times in under a minute -- but it can be best summed up as "whining at a screamy level." Looks like she's on her way home!
Oh no, wait: Casanova made a terrible dress for 120-year-olds. He said it was inspired by his grandma, because... oh God, I don't know. It's a crimped, old design that Dinah Shore could wear if she exhumes herself in time for her 120th birthday. Kristen Bell blows it by pretending to know things, but he is eventually sent home. Ivy lives, if only to kill Michael Costello, Michael Drummond, Michael Kors, and, what the hell, Michael Vartan (for being so agelessly debonair! Hey there, M-Var!). Can't wait until next week when the swirling Ivy twists around her next victim of rage. Until then, what the hell, let's see if Michael Vartan reads this.