What do they say? People who possess a true command of style dress for themselves? No one embodies this quite like 93-year-old Iris Apfel, who takes the eponymous role in a documentary debuting this week at the New York Film Festival.
Helmed by cinéma vérité master Al Maysles, the film chronicles New York's grand dame in a keenly felt rumination of what it means to be a true collector and sartorialist. For about a decade now, we've admired Ms. Apfel's sense of play from behind a museum case or afar, watching her fiddle with that lavender-tinged 'do and those Cleopatra-like gold bangles, and layer one flamboyant necklace over another, posing for the "pop, pop, pop" of photographer flashes. "How fey, how fun," we've said, wishing we could get inside her circle.
As if turning over a cut gem, the filmmaker captures his friend in various degrees of "Iris." The faces we know (yukking it up with Loehmann's customers, chatting with Tavi Gevinson, posing for Bruce Weber); and the faces we don't (makeup-free and plainly-dressed, haggling at a swap meet alongside her doting, longtime partner, Carl, and the many tender moments between husband and wife).
For the most part, Iris doles out full-phoenix splendor, with copious long shots of the whippersnapper dripping in costume jewelry and piquant wit. You get a feeling that this could be her secret to youth: the thirst for discovery and the hunt for new-old treasure (i.e. a parrot-colored knit sweater, decorated in cacti, from a Palm Beach vintage store).
The film is also full of Apfelisms, like "life is grand doll; you might as well have a little fun when you dress," "color can raise the dead," "they have no sense of history, these kids," and "I don't like pretty." "I could feel the pulse, of her life, of her excitement about living," Weber says, and we can, too.
Iris is part of a nostalgic, pre-selfie era—and is more than surprised by her happenstance celebrity (at a party, Kanye West introduces himself as a fan). And we love her for it. We're reminded of playing dress-up in bougainvillea-print blazers and Mom's kitten heels, unaware of what's trending or "cool," blotting our teensy, Elizabeth Arden-painted lips in front of the vanity, choking on Aquanet, and thinking... Now, this is fabulous.
"With me, it's not intellectual; it's all gut," Iris says in one scene, surrounded by a mecca of curios and far-flung treasures in her Park Avenue apartment. The "gut" she refers to—in essence, a singular style—is one thing; her spirit is another. Combine the two and she becomes her famed moniker: "the rare bird of fashion."
Iris screens at NYFF Sunday, October 12, at 12:15 PM![]()
Helmed by cinéma vérité master Al Maysles, the film chronicles New York's grand dame in a keenly felt rumination of what it means to be a true collector and sartorialist. For about a decade now, we've admired Ms. Apfel's sense of play from behind a museum case or afar, watching her fiddle with that lavender-tinged 'do and those Cleopatra-like gold bangles, and layer one flamboyant necklace over another, posing for the "pop, pop, pop" of photographer flashes. "How fey, how fun," we've said, wishing we could get inside her circle.
The film achieves this want, flirting like an inside joke between old pals—not surprising considering Maysles, now 87, is around the same age as the former interior designer and has lived in NYC just as long, when he was making breakthrough pictures like Grey Gardens and Gimme Shelter. (In fact, there are a handful of cutaway shots where you see Al filming, or his laughter and dialogue are worked in, home video style.)
For the most part, Iris doles out full-phoenix splendor, with copious long shots of the whippersnapper dripping in costume jewelry and piquant wit. You get a feeling that this could be her secret to youth: the thirst for discovery and the hunt for new-old treasure (i.e. a parrot-colored knit sweater, decorated in cacti, from a Palm Beach vintage store).
The film is also full of Apfelisms, like "life is grand doll; you might as well have a little fun when you dress," "color can raise the dead," "they have no sense of history, these kids," and "I don't like pretty." "I could feel the pulse, of her life, of her excitement about living," Weber says, and we can, too.
Iris is part of a nostalgic, pre-selfie era—and is more than surprised by her happenstance celebrity (at a party, Kanye West introduces himself as a fan). And we love her for it. We're reminded of playing dress-up in bougainvillea-print blazers and Mom's kitten heels, unaware of what's trending or "cool," blotting our teensy, Elizabeth Arden-painted lips in front of the vanity, choking on Aquanet, and thinking... Now, this is fabulous.
"With me, it's not intellectual; it's all gut," Iris says in one scene, surrounded by a mecca of curios and far-flung treasures in her Park Avenue apartment. The "gut" she refers to—in essence, a singular style—is one thing; her spirit is another. Combine the two and she becomes her famed moniker: "the rare bird of fashion."
Iris screens at NYFF Sunday, October 12, at 12:15 PM
