I am interested in the world of Glam Wham Bam as much as the next moderately overweight housewife. Nothing has given me greater thrills than skimming the cover of Vogue magazine at the checkout aisle. Nothing--until now!
I wish I could start this review of with these words, as indeed, I have. But scratch that! Instead, I have to begin like so, perched atop this wobbly stool that creaks every time I lean in for effect...with dim light shed from a solitary, dying bulb.
In a grim, preferably baritone, voice, I speak: This book isn't worth anyone's time. It is trash, copy-pasted umpteen times, disguised as ground-breaking, investigative journalism. That about covers it.
The introduction is quite confusing, hinting at noble intentions but then quickly swerving. Coward. Stick to your guns, have some sort of a point! But sensationalists never do. 'So uh..I'm gonna, at the risk of...of a great many unidentified risks, expose the dark side of modeling! This is for all you aspiring models out there, so that...so that you are inspired to further your careers in modeling! Yeah! That's right! Keep it up! You go girlfriend! May the Red Bull be with you!' etc.
In the beginning, Mr. Halperin resolves to go 'undercover' as a model; that part made me giggle. As he described how a flamboyant French hairdresser (except he was an American photographer) snapped picture after dazzling picture of his ravishing self, I sniggered.
It's funny when men preen, thasall.
There's a picture generously included, of the author's modeling efforts. There he is in all his glory, reeking of 'ishtyle,' sneering with the confidence of Napoleon. Only the cheap plastic of toy sunglasses stand between us and total annihilation from his piercing, Dumbledore-esque gaze. (The Indian cricket team undoubtedly come to this photo, time and time again, for inspiration.)
Also snigger-worthy were the bits in which he describes how various almost-supermodels come onto him. Poor guy! He has to let them down ever so gently. Still, they weep on his manly shoulder, pound on his chest with emaciated fists, screech like scorned banshees, and rage, rage, against their plight.
The rest is filled with a gajillion anecdotes, scant on solid fact. References go like this: "a top model of a very well-known agency told me, over a lot of cocaine, all the sordid details of her sorry life, and I was like wow." "A movie critic from a province I must not name, lest the modeling mafia come after me, ratted on his dirty clubbing pals." "Milan is a very, very bad place to be an unchaperoned girl, because this unknown model said so!"
This vagueness was meant to inspire awe. It's so secretive what this man's doing, so risky, he can't give much away, but even through such strain! He managed! He tried! Or...he made it up? Surely?
Stories about models being relentlessly abused are balanced with old news about models who went psycho and shot errrrrrybody! Or became 'exotic dancers'...or rebuilt their lives with accounting! Whoo hoo!
It's all badly written. He tries to come across as compassionate, but obviously he wants to exploit these survivors for their stories. By the way, the word "rape" gets old, fast. It's safe to presume, if this book is to be believed, that every single model is degraded to shreds within moments of being signed on. To speak out would mean that everyone, from her agency to any prospective clients, abandon her, so most play along. This book could be condensed into half its size if he'd left it at that.
Incidentally, Carre Otis' book Beauty, Disrupted, might be a good read for those who would like more on this subject. I'm not interested, having come across an excerpt, and feeling depressed afterwards. It's better written than Ian Halperin's book, though.
Reading between the lines, it sounds as though Mr. Halpe--scratch that--Mr. Dude, we'll say, had a good time with a lot of beautiful women, at nightclubs/beautifulwomens'apartments, where drugs were passed all around, and he DEFINITELY had some (despite staunch claims to the contrary).
A lot of women admired his...his....um...side-burns, probably, and tried to get naughty. (Perhaps, in that time, he also cultivated a lush handlebar moustache--give 'em more to swoon over, eh?)
Anyway, with sensitivity, tact and decency that many a diplomat would do well to emulate, Mr Dude lets these women down, whilst plying them, slyly, with drinks. They inevitably reveal to him all the tragic stories of their lives. (Hint: rape, rape, more rape). Every now and then, a drug-dealer conveniently passes by, to add to the plethora of dull characters that Mr Dude can populate the book with. Oh, lest we forget, there are homosexual escapades detailed, too. It's really, uh, ground-breaking, and stuff. Revo...revo...revlutionary. Hic.
In between booze and sleaze, and Godknowswhat, he scribbled it all down on some napkins. These were subsequently mailed to Mr. Dude's mother, who, bless her, pieced it all together, as, indeed, she used to piece together scraps of his old garments into prizewinning quilts. With the dove-grey typewriter Mr Dude had gifted her for Mother's Day, she wrote the bulk of the ex-po-zay.
Meanwhile, Mr. Dude recovered from his hangover(s), read up on Versace and the Supernova Models. ("Facts. I haz").
He then strained his wits over two VERY random chapters to prove he listened VERY CAREFULLY in Grade 5 when they were learning about research papers. These two chapters are tossed into the book, in a way that makes little sense. The Versace tribute ("he wasn't a model, but his story is CHOCK-FULLA sensationalist slobber, SHOCKING revelations, so WHY THE EFF NOT!" -Mr Dude) is the final chapter, the Naomi/Christy/Linda/Cindy/Claudia one is somewhere in the middle. Oh, I forgot, Kate Moss also gets a chapter all to herself, because, why not? She's iconic. She SURVIVED HERSELF. Dude.
Moral of the story: Don't let your daughters become models (said Jenny Shcimiziuuszui, who, incidentally, sums everything up in a few interesting paras near the end, commanding eloquence that Mr. Dude would kill for, if he realized he lacked it). But wait--Mr Dude interrupts--do! Because...uh...Versace...uh...artistry....uh...*hic hic*...all that jazz....
I wish I could start this review of with these words, as indeed, I have. But scratch that! Instead, I have to begin like so, perched atop this wobbly stool that creaks every time I lean in for effect...with dim light shed from a solitary, dying bulb.
In a grim, preferably baritone, voice, I speak: This book isn't worth anyone's time. It is trash, copy-pasted umpteen times, disguised as ground-breaking, investigative journalism. That about covers it.
The introduction is quite confusing, hinting at noble intentions but then quickly swerving. Coward. Stick to your guns, have some sort of a point! But sensationalists never do. 'So uh..I'm gonna, at the risk of...of a great many unidentified risks, expose the dark side of modeling! This is for all you aspiring models out there, so that...so that you are inspired to further your careers in modeling! Yeah! That's right! Keep it up! You go girlfriend! May the Red Bull be with you!' etc.
In the beginning, Mr. Halperin resolves to go 'undercover' as a model; that part made me giggle. As he described how a flamboyant French hairdresser (except he was an American photographer) snapped picture after dazzling picture of his ravishing self, I sniggered.
It's funny when men preen, thasall.
There's a picture generously included, of the author's modeling efforts. There he is in all his glory, reeking of 'ishtyle,' sneering with the confidence of Napoleon. Only the cheap plastic of toy sunglasses stand between us and total annihilation from his piercing, Dumbledore-esque gaze. (The Indian cricket team undoubtedly come to this photo, time and time again, for inspiration.)
"Wut is your style number?"
"Wut is mobile number?"
Also snigger-worthy were the bits in which he describes how various almost-supermodels come onto him. Poor guy! He has to let them down ever so gently. Still, they weep on his manly shoulder, pound on his chest with emaciated fists, screech like scorned banshees, and rage, rage, against their plight.
The rest is filled with a gajillion anecdotes, scant on solid fact. References go like this: "a top model of a very well-known agency told me, over a lot of cocaine, all the sordid details of her sorry life, and I was like wow." "A movie critic from a province I must not name, lest the modeling mafia come after me, ratted on his dirty clubbing pals." "Milan is a very, very bad place to be an unchaperoned girl, because this unknown model said so!"
This vagueness was meant to inspire awe. It's so secretive what this man's doing, so risky, he can't give much away, but even through such strain! He managed! He tried! Or...he made it up? Surely?
Stories about models being relentlessly abused are balanced with old news about models who went psycho and shot errrrrrybody! Or became 'exotic dancers'...or rebuilt their lives with accounting! Whoo hoo!
It's all badly written. He tries to come across as compassionate, but obviously he wants to exploit these survivors for their stories. By the way, the word "rape" gets old, fast. It's safe to presume, if this book is to be believed, that every single model is degraded to shreds within moments of being signed on. To speak out would mean that everyone, from her agency to any prospective clients, abandon her, so most play along. This book could be condensed into half its size if he'd left it at that.
Incidentally, Carre Otis' book Beauty, Disrupted, might be a good read for those who would like more on this subject. I'm not interested, having come across an excerpt, and feeling depressed afterwards. It's better written than Ian Halperin's book, though.
Reading between the lines, it sounds as though Mr. Halpe--scratch that--Mr. Dude, we'll say, had a good time with a lot of beautiful women, at nightclubs/beautifulwomens'apartments, where drugs were passed all around, and he DEFINITELY had some (despite staunch claims to the contrary).
A lot of women admired his...his....um...side-burns, probably, and tried to get naughty. (Perhaps, in that time, he also cultivated a lush handlebar moustache--give 'em more to swoon over, eh?)
Anyway, with sensitivity, tact and decency that many a diplomat would do well to emulate, Mr Dude lets these women down, whilst plying them, slyly, with drinks. They inevitably reveal to him all the tragic stories of their lives. (Hint: rape, rape, more rape). Every now and then, a drug-dealer conveniently passes by, to add to the plethora of dull characters that Mr Dude can populate the book with. Oh, lest we forget, there are homosexual escapades detailed, too. It's really, uh, ground-breaking, and stuff. Revo...revo...revlutionary. Hic.
In between booze and sleaze, and Godknowswhat, he scribbled it all down on some napkins. These were subsequently mailed to Mr. Dude's mother, who, bless her, pieced it all together, as, indeed, she used to piece together scraps of his old garments into prizewinning quilts. With the dove-grey typewriter Mr Dude had gifted her for Mother's Day, she wrote the bulk of the ex-po-zay.
Meanwhile, Mr. Dude recovered from his hangover(s), read up on Versace and the Supernova Models. ("Facts. I haz").
He then strained his wits over two VERY random chapters to prove he listened VERY CAREFULLY in Grade 5 when they were learning about research papers. These two chapters are tossed into the book, in a way that makes little sense. The Versace tribute ("he wasn't a model, but his story is CHOCK-FULLA sensationalist slobber, SHOCKING revelations, so WHY THE EFF NOT!" -Mr Dude) is the final chapter, the Naomi/Christy/Linda/Cindy/Claudia one is somewhere in the middle. Oh, I forgot, Kate Moss also gets a chapter all to herself, because, why not? She's iconic. She SURVIVED HERSELF. Dude.
Moral of the story: Don't let your daughters become models (said Jenny Shcimiziuuszui, who, incidentally, sums everything up in a few interesting paras near the end, commanding eloquence that Mr. Dude would kill for, if he realized he lacked it). But wait--Mr Dude interrupts--do! Because...uh...Versace...uh...artistry....uh...*hic hic*...all that jazz....
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