Word: castillos
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...tant," snapped Coco Chanel. "Now I know why men don't like women any more." And so Chanel stayed Chanel, with neatly fitted suits just covering the kneecap. Pierre Cardin dropped an inch, but was still airborne, two or three inches above the knee; Castillo showed dresses that fell just above the knee...
...Americans were dead. Embassy Stenographer Barbara Robbins, 21, who had come to Saigon from Denver six months before, died at her desk, a ballpoint pen still clutched in her hand. Navy Storekeeper 2/C Manolito W. Castillo, 26, a clerk at the embassy, was killed in the doorway of the building when the bomb exploded. Three Saigon policemen were blown to bits. In all, 22 persons, most of them innocent Vietnamese pedestrians, were killed, and 190 were hurt. The motor-scooter driver had raced out of the blast area, was shot twice and arrested by pursuing police. He claimed...
Other designers' offerings ran true to form: Grės' intricate chiffons, Castillo's long slim crepes, Capucci's stiff white collars. Pierre Cardin still reigned as Lord High Poohbah of Limp, displayed a group of floppy fashions and judged the season's loveliest. But with the Big Three-St. Laurent, Balenciaga and Givenchy-still three weeks away from showtime, the season was less past than prelude. The shape of things to come may still be drastically altered-but so, of course, can dresses already ordered...
...decide which is which. In it, Paul Newman gamely plays an oversexed newspaperman exiled to the Champs Elysées after meeting too many deadlines with his boss's wife. Joanne Woodward is a department store buyer who treks abroad to pinch designs from Dior, Lanvin-Castillo and Pierre Cardin. Naturellement, she herself wears mannish styles and spectacles-she's a sort of hemidemisemivirgin, "a girl who tried love once but didn't like...
When the two meet, crrraaaaazy things happen: Dior, Lanvin-Castillo and Cardin trot out their hautest couture; Maurice Chevalier sings a medley of old favorites; Thelma Ritter spouts excerpts from her treatise on contemporary mating habits. Soon all the 25-year-old virgins of Paris, apparently some 50 or 60 strong, go parading in homage to Catherine, patron saint of maidenhood. Woodward tags along, and St. Catherine tells her she'd better stop in at Elizabeth Arden's on the way home. Off go the glasses. On come the yawns...