This year has now produced two notable documentaries about British fashion designers. But where the recently released McQueen was a straight stare at a life that burnt bright, Westwood dials things back and is a more measured examination of a designer still working.
From the outset, the film makes it clear Westwood does not want to tell us her life story. In the film's only vagary, it's difficult to discern whether she is apologetically embarrassed about boring us with her stories, or unapologetically annoyed about boring herself with them. What is abundantly clear though, is that Westwood is a straight shooter offering some Gordon Ramsay-styled moments of non-minced vocabulary.
The documentary dispenses with her upbringing, beginning instead in the 70s when Westwood was busy confronting society with the self-proclaimed invention of punk. It was when punk became fashionable, rather than the middle finger to the establishment it was supposed to be, that Westwood branched off and seriously honed her skill as a clothes designer.
Unsurprisingly, her punk sensibility (still in evidence today) raised the ire of the British fashion fraternity. Her label independently forged on nonetheless, and even to this day its rapid expansion clashes with her desire to maintain control of it.
Westwood is a wonderful sensory experience and its fractured visual approach makes for an engaging experience. Fledgling Director Lorna Tucker has done a commendable job of harnessing the copious amount of archival footage, presenting it in an imaginative way. A tapestry of overlapping imagery and footage jumps around the screen, building on the film's larger canvas.
