*Not Ms. Taft's real name. Not looking it up.
Michael Drummond, this year's stealth-hilarious cast member, begins the episode by noting how much "quieter" the apartment is without Casanova. He shouldn't talk like that, because I believe there's a Cheshire Cat quality to Casanova, and we may end up seeing his devious, disembodied eyebrows floating around the apartment. Careful, Drummond.
After Michael Costello kvetches about Ivy for two minutes and giggles through his tears, we watch the designers crowd the runway -- and Heidi's got news for everyone. "Hello!" she says. "Designers, today I don't feel like speaking, so Tim will take you out back and give you a passionate monologue about Jackie Kennedy. Bye."
Obliging, the designers find Tim and notice he's carrying 50 index cards, welling up, and standing in front of a massive screen projection of Jackie Kennedy's fashions.
"Designers," he begins, "I am standing in front of a magnificent collage of Ms. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. Woman. Wife. Mother. First lady. Mythological empress. Vital fashion life force. Pillar of grace, sophistication, and cavalier ease who personifies taste. Renaissance sorceress. Sun owner. The prism through which we are given light. The real me. The --"
Tim bursts into tears and the other designers show concern.
"Just make some sportswear," he sniffles. "Leave me and Jackie alone. Get out of here."
Off to Mood! Mondo claims that bolts of fabric are "speaking to him," which is something Rachel Zoe would say if she ever went to a store. Andy claims that Jackie Kennedy -- who, apparently, the designers are supposed to reference in their designs -- "was a fashion risk-taker without even knowing it." That turns out to be code for, "I'm going to make my model wear big pants."
When the designers return to the workroom, Gretchen takes 0.0672 seconds to drop what she's doing and "consult" with the other designers about their materials.
"I'm worried for Mondo," she coos, with full-on Regina George faux-sympathy. "He might not be hitting this one on the head."
In fact, Mondo has chosen a striking black-white-and-magenta herringbone material for his skirt. At first glance it looks a little dated -- and not very Jackie, which, again, we care about or something -- but he doesn't seem daunted. Michael Drummond, on the other hand, describes what he's doing to his baggy gray fabric as something out of The Crucible. Gretchen, please aim your condescending flair his way. Call yourself "Goody Badass" and say you're on a hunt for b*tches.
Tim Gunn enters the workroom in a pearly white coat and apparently has gotten over the emotional exhaustion of discussing Jackie Kennedy. But that doesn't mean he's too tired to hate on every dress in sight.
"Christopher!" he says. "Bad job. Valerie! I'm an old fuddy-duddy, but this purple sh*t you made is vulgar. Michael C! You paired a primary blue dress with a gold neckerchief, so I have to ask you to clean up your workspace and kill yourself. Mondo! It's very -- you. It's very you. I'm sorry. Michael Drummond! The cartridge pleating on this godforsaken skirt belongs in Annie Get Your Gun. I bet you like that. Bye, everyone!"
The designers wave goodbye to Tim, who turns around at the last moment.
"Oh, and one more thing, freaks," he says with perfect elocution. "You need to design a piece of outerwear for this look. I'm serious. Put on your Mood boots. I don't care if you already designed a coat, Valerie. Jackie doesn't care either."
This was puzzling. The challenge is to create sportswear, a concept that already encompasses coats and sweaters and so forth, and now they're being asked to add something on top? I declare the challenge unfair. I also declare myself a fashion expert, for the hell of it.
You know the drill. They head back to Mood and get stressed out and Michael Costello forgets how to sew. To the final runway! January Jones is the guest judge, and since she wears 1960s dresses on a popular cable television series, she is a leading fashion authority. She's heading to the Learning Annex after this to teach a seminar on making hemlines an extension of your lifeline. Let's break down the final designs that mattered.
· The judges hate Valerie. Heidi squawks inquisitively like Miss Marple: "Is that a jacket over a jacket?" Yeah, Heidi, you made her do that, remember? January Jones is confused by the ankle boot Valerie picked, and Nina Garcia thinks her "zippers and seams" shtick is a thing of embarrassment.
· Christopher made a conventional silver dress with a stuffed animal carcass for a shrug. Heidi calls it a dirty old rug and "unreadable" (?), but January declares the gown her favorite one on the runway. And that's why Don Draper cheated on you, honey.
· Michael Drummond paired a cropped Chanel-type jacket with a nimbus cloud of a gray pleated skirt. Michael Kors calls it "old lady on top, cheerleader on the bottom." January Jones bleats, "Sloppy!" out of turn and the producers restrain her just out of frame.
· Mondo killed it -- a perfect black-and-white-striped tee with that magenta-print skirt and a cute jacket. Because the judges like it a lot, they move onto another garment they can scratch and sneer at like upset hyenas.
· Andy makes what I can only describe as a harem pant spewing mushroom clouds. There's a bolero jacket too, for the hell of it. Michael Kors concurs: "Did I miss someting? Are you a grand couturier? This is MC Hammer meets the Beverly Hillbillies grandmother." And Ms. Irene Ryan is not even alive to defend herself! U can't touch her, Kors!
· Ivy made a tolerable, if quite old-fashioned Katharine Hepburn slack with an airy white top and light coat. January Jones loves the twisted tuxedo pant, because she heard someone else on the panel say "twisted tuxedo pant" and that really changed her.
Ultimately, Mondo wins, and our sissily twee and hilarious Michael Drummond is eliminated. I am upset, but I am also not an idiot. As Tim Gunn notes during the final moments, Drummond's commitment to his horrible skirt was his "waterloo." It's the saddest waterloo-tinged ending I've seen since Mamma Mia. That's saying something.