Word: yves
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What, then, are social historians to make of the "revolution" that overwrought fashion editors were declaring last week (see MODERN LIVING) after Yves Saint Laurent revealed his fall collection? What mysteries of the Zeitgeist were riding on the mannequins' shoulders? Saint Laurent's muse told him women will now look like czarist imitations of gypsies, booted peasants in $5,000 velvets and taffetas, long-limbed and slightly fantastic creatures. The feminine mystique becomes the feminine muzhik...
...this way is a refreshing and salutary experience," says Yves Montand. No wonder. Of late, he has been assassinated in Z, tortured in The Confession and kidnaped and murdered in State of Siege, but in the comedy he is now filming in Italy, Le Grand Esco-griffe (an exuberant man too clever for his own good), Montand is permitted the luxury of survival. "This comedy is sublime," he says. Ridiculous, too: the hopelessly ill-fated kidnaper-star ends up stuck with the kidnapee...
...single designer speaks for the American look. None of the Americans, for example, as cunningly and consistently divines what women crave as France's Yves St. Laurent; none shows the innovative brilliance of such younger Parisian stars as Japanese-born Kenzo Takada. Fashion historians will probably look back not on any individual but on American designer-entrepreneurs in general as the School of the '70s-and a very savvy school at that...
...viewed by some experts as the most perceptive U.S. designer. A supercharged worker (13 hours a day), he graduated from New York's Fashion Institute of Technology and opened his own house in 1968. His clothes are comfortable and uncluttered. Seemingly influenced early in his career by Yves St. Laurent-though he denies it -three-time Coty Winner Klein has the French master's pipeline to the female fancy. Describing a typical Klein ensemble of skirt, skinny coat and cowled sweater as "the best basic look in fashion today," Vogue last September pronounced: "If you were around...
...would seem folly to cast Mastroianni as a nonentity were it not for his wonderfully bemused talents for self-effacement. Many of his best performances (8½, say, or The Organizer) have challenged and contradicted the popular notion of him as a kind of languid Lothario. Director Yves Robert makes no heavy demands of Mastroianni here, which is unfortunate. Nicholas' infrequent bouts with despair are as frivolous as anything else in his life, but Mastroianni has worked enough by now to know about making major moments out of minor incidents. There is at least one such here. Split with...