Film review: McQueen is a thrilling periscope
I remember exactly where I was on the 11th of February, 2010, when I saw the shocking headline that Alexander McQueen, the sartorial world’s most infamous everyman, had died. Sat in my poxy, fashion-student flat, I hung my head solemnly, lit, in homage to the chain-smoking designer, one of a long line of Malboros, and grieved the passing of a the equal parts brilliant and dangerous supernova of talent.
Since his death, so much has been said of McQueen, again, that’s both darkly and brightly intoned. Rumours continue to circulate the influencing factors leading to his suicide, and of his madness that bled through the savage beauty of his work, opposing the celebrations and realisations that, much like the aforementioned supernova, we’ll be waiting many a millennia to see such an original, disruptive force again in this universe.
‘McQueen’ is Ian Bonhôte and Peter Ettedgui’s thrilling periscope into every side of the private world of Lee Mcqueen. It interplays a variety of shot styles as if mixing materials and prints, artfully matched and complimenting each other just as a rebellious McQueen runway gown would. Humble, heart felt in-home interviews with his nearest and dearest, including his beloved mother Joyce, and long-time friend and fashion royal Isabella Blow, are interwoven with vintage videocam shots by the designer himself. Rare TV appearances, and of course, footage of the ground-breaking, outré of his catwalk shows paint, chronologically, the ever-speeding dance and tragic crescendo of the McQueen story.
The legendary collections, that sometimes made headlines for their sheer shock value, are the structure upon which the timeline is built, however, the film, scored empathetically by Michael Nyman, really is a love song to the man behind the clothes. After the last models had skittered down the runway to rapturous applause, the chubby, Eastender clunked shyly down the runway to take his bows, in a baggy jeans and a tee-shirt, set off with a wave of his trademarked Malboro and sometimes his beloved dogs. As the years draw past, he draws thinner, and sadder, as if whittled and worn by the sandpaper-rough battle with his personal demons.
On the eve of his mother’s funeral, his battle finally ended: Alexander was discovered, hanged, at home in London’s Mayfair. As a true child of McQueen’s 90s London, I’m not ashamed to admit I shed a few bleak tears towards the end of the film’s powerful, eulogic close, at the thought of a bright star having flashed, from nothing into blinding brightness, and then snuffed out so quickly.
McQueen is in cinemas September 6
Review by Cherry Anna Brearley.
