Karl Lagerfeld’s digs are gorgeous. Rodolphe Marconi’s award-winning documentary “Lagerfeld Confidential” lingers on details in the top fashion designer’s resplendent Paris apartment (a movie in itself), which is more art-installation sprawl of everything beautiful than an actual place to live.
In this apartment, on a delicately hued sofa, Lagerfeld reposes and holds forth on how he took over Chanel (“At the time she was a sleeping beauty, nearly dead and snoring”) and revived it to full glory; how his favorite drawing material is correction fluid, because “on paper, it most closely resembles satin,” and how he’s not interested in making an impact, or (shudder) being an important component of anyone’s life: “I’d much rather be a fantasy figure.” Away from this palace, Marconi’s camera dutifully follows Lagerfeld to his private jet, his runway collections and a fitting with Nicole Kidman.
Lagerfeld has a knack for coming in to a revered but perhaps stagnating maison, working his magic and moving on. He did it for Chanel, of course, and for Chloe, Fendi and even H&M. Marconi never attempts to dig below the surface of this fascinating artist; but then again, maybe there is nothing to find. Clothes made this man, and that about sums him up.