Movie unravels fashion icon

THERE are two Alexander McQueens in McQueen, the fascinating documentary portrait of the acclaimed fashion designer, who committed suicide in 2010 at the age of 40.

One is the eternally boyish McQueen we see on-screen, in both archival footage of media interviews and behind-the-scenes glimpses of his creative process.

That McQueen – “Lee”, as this product of London’s East End was called by those who knew him, using his first name, and not the somewhat grander middle one he adopted for his clothing brand – resembles a pudgy child prodigy: brilliant, prone to button-pushing but pleasantly downto-earth, especially when talking about his meteoric rise to the heights of haute couture. That softness and sweetness remains, even when, late in the film, he appears much thinner and more brooding, the result of drugs and a gathering darkness.

But a second McQueen, one given to nasty outbursts toward his co-workers and occasional personal vendettas when he felt betrayed, is only spoken of in interviews with his friends, muses, mentors and creative colleagues, and never emerges on camera.

If there was a devil hiding inside McQueen – and it is not hard to imagine that there was, given his daring and controversial designs, which infamously evoked violence and rape in early shows – it remains hidden from our view. Oblique discussion of the sexual abuse McQueen suffered as a child at the hands of his brother-inlaw shed some light on his demons.

What does come under the spotlight are the clothes.

Just as the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s 2011 exhibition Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty focused on the oxymoronic nature of McQueen’s art – simultaneously punky and polished, nose-thumbing and deeply thoughtful – the film by Ian Bonhôte and Peter Ettedgui lavishes attention where it belongs: on the wearable, at times almost sculptural objects created by McQueen in his short 18-year career, first for his own namesake line and later for the house of Givenchy.

The fashion shows we see are risqué, angsty, intense and provocative, even questioning the nature of beauty. Robotic arms shoot spray-paint on the white dress (and body) of a twirling model in one.

McQueen, you see, wasn’t interested in pretty things. Or, rather, as McQueen makes clear, he wasn’t only interested in pretty things.

McQueen makes the case that its subject was an artist whose clay was clothing.