Rhadika Jones is soon to exit the Vanity Fair editorship. Thank goodness for that. She seeks to climb a new career Matterhorn, as you usually do when the bosses leave the exit door ajar. Ages back I wondered aloud at the sheer dullness of her VF. Cover after cover out-wallflowered the last on the magazine shelves, desperate not to excite or be noticed. Quite why she was appointed in the first place is a mystery to me, though I suspect Anna Wintour had a lot to do with it. Darling Anna will have wanted le total Graydon Carter Exorcism, a ridding of vulgar political engagement, controversy, and funny hair (Graydon's). In its/his place? The joys of just-so. Rhadika strikes me as awfully just-so. She and I could spend an hour together over a Matcha Three Mint tea in a Dorchester tea room and t(w)inkle in light convo. Faint giggles. Not one reputation would be pulled apart. No gossip exchanged. We would depart the hotel in a state of sobriety, before I rushed headlong to a local boozer for restoration of stupefied clarity.
It is then a surprise to discover the latest VF with Gwyneth Paltrow as its star image. In her dying days as editor Radhika decides at long last to produce a not-uninteresting cover. Gwyneth is nonchalance itself seated (not sat) on a carpeted staircase, long seemingly bare legs crossed in Saint Laurent elegance. The SL scanty torso clobber is a tease: the cliched sexy tropes may give rise to sub-Hefner concern, but are struck dead in an instant by Gwyneth's unsmiling countenance. The hauteur of self-possession (or CEO power display - a male [XY!] thing for too long). Her expression is fuck you with a touch of Miss Whiplash admonition. What have we peeping toms done to be admonished about? For causing Gwyneth to pose in high-end lingerie? Which has been volunteered into our lives courtesy of mega-stardom? Courtesy of VF? Punish me!
Smile-seekers will be disappointed when they turn to the fawning, almost unreadable PR piece on (sorry, interview with) Madame Goop. More flesh is revealed yet the face remains inert, joyless, wrinkle-free strategic. Commercial. More lingerie is displayed out in the garden on a sun-lounger, and in other places. She is saying: I don't have to smile or please/I don't have to say cheese. It all seems so novel not to smile until you recollect that runway models rarely smile, either. What could Gwyneth be selling?
It's not a cover to ignite the world. Not like Tina Brown's Demi Moore one or Carter's Caitlyn Jenner. But in its own terms, the Paltrow triggers a low-wattage glance on the just-so spectrum. A pulse is detectable on the gurney. It's elegant, dry, sexless and noir-glam. It's a welcome spritzer after a tiring day before the cocktail hour. That's about as nice as I can be about our Radhika's editorship. See, I am all heart. Almost.
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