Starry ense of syle

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Be it grotesquely grungy or gorgeously glamorous, it’s all there. And like it or not, Bollywood fashion does majorly influence the dress code of the nation. Even hoity-toity designers score a hit at the Fashion Weeks (which are multiplying faster than frisky rabbits), only when a film personality assents to be their show-stopper. Of course, the

tinsel celebrities charge a bomb to do the honours. Notable exceptions, like Salman Khan donate their ramp fees to charity. And on occasion, Kareena Kapoor, the Bachchans, and Katrina Kaif add their star power gratis to designers like Manish Malhotra, Abu-Sandeep, Rocky S, Neeta Lulla and Vikram
Phadnis. Such generosity apart, ramp struts ensure cheques in lakhs.
Vis-à-vis film fashion of the heroines, there’s a glut of excessive embroidery suitable for bridal wear, blingy jackets, fussy folds-’n’-pleats, retro layers, and studded denim skirts as well as hot pants which far too often reveal murderous thighs.
At the B-town parties, inevitably, scores of paparazzi jostle to flash-click photos of the new gowns in town. Instantaneously, the self-appointed media fashion police zero in on uncoordinated accessories or boo-boos like Shilpa Shetty and some wanna- impress starlet fetching up, at the same hour, in lookalie tomato-red tunics. Perhaps great figures dress alike.
The point is that at this very moment, Bollywood couture has gone stagnant. Brochures and high-end catalogues from New York, Milano and Paris aren’t inspiring our movie designers any more — perhaps because the styles du jour in the west are either starkly minimalist or over-the-top funky.
TV soap operas persist in flaunting mostly tubby women in gold and brocade sarees. Moanwhile the movies opt for the anything-goes mode. Since no one designer supervises the entire look of any film, brinjal purples collide with strawberry pinks. And sunflower yellows combat ripe tangerines. Honestly ever so often, you wish you’d carried glares to the multiplex. Proof: Golmaal 3, Tees Maar Khan, Dil Toh Bacha Hai Ji, Patiala House and Thank You. Er, no thank you really.
Kolkata’s much-celebrated whiz kid, Sabyasachi Mukherejee is associated with the admittedly eye-catching saris draped around Rani Mukherjee and Vidya Balan. Still, that’s where it’s been since the last three years: the ethnic chic six-yards of Balan are now, as predictable as mangoes in summer. As for Mukherjee, she has moved on, eye-bogglingly to satiny, ankle-covering, cleavage-hinting gowns more appropriate for red-carpet walks at award ceremonies than for afternoon-tea-‘n’-biscuit press conferences.
Quite curiously, earlier this year Sridevi showed up at an awards do in a satiny number, revealing shoulder blades and her back right down to the waistline. And to think, she had once set the trend of single colour chiffons and figure-camouflaging Amrapali ensembles via smouldering dances in Jaanbaaz, Chandni and Mr India. Sigh. Madhuri Dixit strives to keep her glamour quotient switched on with saris that are much too fussy and loud (canary yellow, if you please). A decade and a half ago, she could have carried off any colour — including that wedding sangeet sari in purple in Hum Aapke Hain Kaun! Today, at the age of 43, she could do with subtler dress sense and elegant accessories.
Now, why on earth am I carping about fashion of all things? Simply because filmmakers spend lakhs and lakhs on the colours-‘n’-cuts you see up there in larger-than-life 35 mm. For Yash and Aditya Chopra, Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Karan Johar, clothes maketh the movies, as much as the dramatic twists and turns in their scripts. They have a point. After all, viewers crave to escape into silken fantasies. On the other hand, Ram Gopal Varma, Madhur Bhandarkar (okay, his Fashion was all frilled up because of its theme), and Anurag Kashyap don’t care a fit whether their heroines wear gunny sacks or slit sarongs.
Incidentally, western wear is rarely designed. Pret-a-porter is ‘sourced’ from sales in the stores of New York, London, Dubai, Bangkok and even some stores in Mumbai’s suburb of Bandra. ‘Sourced’ means shopping sprees by top-name designers, accompanied by their assistants to carry the stuffed bags from the shops to the airports and then to the studios. An absurdly lazy designer once even showed up just an hour before a film’s shoot, carrying a ‘choice’ of dozen jeans of exactly the same size, colour and brand. “Guess I was pubbing too much in London,” he murmured in self-defence.
Film fashion from the 1960s onwards has been influential, be it the salwar kameezes of Saira Banu in Junglee, Sadhana’s swishy shararas in Mere Mehboob, Rekha’s entire wardrobe in Silsila, Urmila Matondkar’s leg-friendly minis in Rangeela, and Aishwarya Rai Bachchan’s saris in Devdas.
Today, film designers may be owners of swishy retail boutique owners and Page 3 staples. Clearly, this makes them a must-buy on the list of NRIs visiting India. Yet, these designers lack that distinctive signature of master creators. Sorry to say, but nine times out of ten, the heaps of kurtis, tunics, salwars and saris are of the copycat variety. No meows intended.
Sonam Kapoor (accent on the young and trendy), Lara Dutta (on occasion) and Deepika Padukone (white becomes her) are about the only heroines who come close to being fashion savvy. Preity Zinta was pretty sharp too, but knock knock, where is she?
Lately Kangana Ranaut has been yelling from the terracetops that she’s a fashion diva. Priyanka Chopra, Kareena Kapoor and Katrina Kaif preen and pout incessantly. Frankly, they merely make you yearn for that era when fashion was synonymous with that natural born attitude — of being dressed to kill.