The autumn chill at Toronto’s Princess of Wales Theatre couldn’t compete with the heat of flashbulbs as Angelina Jolie — Hollywood’s perpetual sphinx — swept onto the red carpet Sunday evening. At 50, she’s still serving lessons in star power, this time wrapped in a brown maxi coat that played peek-a-boo with a thigh-high split. Classic Jolie, really. Some things never change, and thank heaven for that.
“Couture” — the latest from French director Alice Winocour — promised a serious dive into fashion’s glittering pool. No “Zoolander” antics or Altman-style satire here, darlings. Though perhaps they should’ve kept a few sequins in their pocket for lighter moments.
The film weaves through Paris Fashion Week like a dropped strand of pearls, scattering storylines in its wake. Jolie plays Maxine, an indie-horror director somehow caught in haute couture’s web. It’s impossible not to see shadows of reality here — whispers about Jolie’s potential farewell to Hollywood have been swirling faster than a Dior ballgown, with sources hinting she’s house-hunting abroad once her twins hit 18 next year.
Winocour attempts to stitch together quite the tapestry: a South Sudanese model’s rise, a makeup artist’s behind-the-scenes poetry, a seamstress’s dedication to her craft. But it’s Jolie’s plotline — complete with a rather heavy-handed cancer diagnosis — that threatens to pull focus like a sequined gown at a funeral. Even scenes with the magnificent Vincent Lindon can’t quite balance the weight.
The film’s rain-soaked runway finale? Gorgeous, naturally. But even with Filip Leyman and Anna Von Hausswolff’s haunting score, this particular collection feels more ready-to-wear than haute couture.
Mind you, there are moments. Jolie and Louis Garrel crackle with the kind of chemistry that can’t be manufactured — rather like a perfect vintage find. Critics have noticed, with one particularly astute observer noting how she “brings palpable life to the role, complicating her otherworldly magnetism with a dawning dread and sorrow.”
The premiere itself became something of a metaphor — Jolie’s graceful red carpet pirouettes providing the glamour while more substantial fare beckoned nearby. Russell Crowe and Rami Malek’s “Nuremberg” held court at Roy Thomson Hall, while Guillermo del Toro lurked about with his “Frankenstein” adaptation (and honestly, who doesn’t love a good monster story?).
Still seeking U.S. distribution, “Couture” floats somewhere between art house ambition and mainstream appeal — rather like its star, eternally dancing between Hollywood goddess and serious artist. The end result? Like last season’s must-have bag, it’s gorgeous to look at but perhaps not quite as functional as one might hope. Sometimes beauty really is only skin deep, darling.
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