Vanessa Redgrave photographed by Bert Stern for Vogue Magazine, February 15, 1967.
First pic: Vanessa Redgrave modeling a silk tunic and tights by Ferro for Ferro Ettehadieh, in lavender, pink, yellow, blue and green, with Mimi di N bracelets and Miriam N necklace.
Second pic: Vanessa Redgrave modeling a Ban-Lon leotard in yellow, blue, and green, under a rhinestone studded, clear vinyl coat, both by Oscar de la Renta for Jane Derby, big earrings by Nucci, and cuff bracelets by Maison de Fou.
third and fourth pic: Vanessa Redgrave sits with both legs bend back wearing a Ban-Lon leopard; and Rochanbeau wool dirndl skirt all by Ginori with House of Joy chains and Omega watch on a Jacob-Bender watchband; Warner make-up.
Fifth, sixth and seventh pic: Vanessa Redgrave stands wearing a plaid dress and matching legs by Oscar de la Renta made with Caprolan nylon with Nucci earrings; Michael Hic and Mimi di N bracelets.
I mean, sure, we all know the soft, pink, satin-covered, porcelain Aphrodite with Her delicate lingerie and rosy cheeks but just imagine the leather-clad, rhinestone-studded, blood red, lipstick-stained Aphrodite with Her big hair, 6-inch heels, thick eyeliner and a cigarette hanging out of Her mouth stepping down from a jet black Harley outside a glam metal concert or some dingy inner-city bar with the taste of dark rum and sin on Her lips like wow, just imagine…
A Reville Ltd of Paris couture court dress and train, circa 1928,
Labelled Reville Ltd, and with inscribed ribbon label ‘Lady Holcroft’, the extensively beaded flapper-style dress in black and white seed beads with clear droplet beads, the bodice and waist defined by rhinestone studded bands, the matching train in dramatic black and white with foliate bands, edged in black velvet; together with court presentation plumes and veils and an ostrich feather fan (qty) This dress was worn by Lady Annie Holcroft at the Presentation Court of 9th May 1928.
A Gradence thing for Kinktober days 20 (Pet Play) and 22 (Collaring), on the principle that there’s never enough kitty Credence. Unduly pure-hearted, as usual. Whether pure-hearted smut will follow is TBD.
“Nicely done,” said Graves, with warmth in his voice, to the black cat seated by his feet. "Guess you didn’t need any pointers.“
The cat looked up at him with large, luminous eyes. It, or rather he, blinked once, then ducked his head to nudge it softly against Graves’ shin. Black hairs plastered themselves to Graves’ trouser leg. Graves’ mouth pulled to one side.
"I’m not miffed. I’m proud of you. It’s not an easy spell to pull off.”
Setting his glass of whiskey aside, he reached down to stroke the sleek black head. A purr thrummed. Graves drew back his hand. He draped an arm along the top of the sofa and let his legs stretch, then patted the cushion in invitation.
After a beat, Credence sprang onto the sofa. He made a fine-looking feline (to no one’s surprise): elegant, long-legged, with suggestions of Siamese about the face. His black tail swayed like the pendulum of a happy metronome. The line of his jaw was uncannily familiar. Graves crooked a finger underneath it and scratched the furry chin.
“Handsome boy,” he said.
The yellow eyes slitted in bliss. When minutes of purring passed, and Credence showed no sign of transforming back, Graves withdrew his finger and tilted an eyebrow. "You’re not stuck, are you?“
Credence’s eyes opened, then narrowed. He lifted his head and brought his forepaws together with prim dignity. Graves reached for the whiskey glass to hide his grin.
"Just checking. My Transfiguration teacher at Ilvermorny used to tell us stories about a kid who got stuck as a weasel. Cautionary tales. In my case they didn’t take.” One of the black ears flickered. Then Credence crouched and studied the expanse of Graves’ outstretched legs.
Graves watched in amusement. "Looking for a comfy spot?“
He was teasing, mostly, but Credence gave an indelible blink. Slowly, paw by tentative paw, he began to creep onto Graves’ lap.
Graves sat still, not quite breathing, as the small, warm weight circled and settled onto his thighs, assuming a small, rounded loaf shape. Like those pumpernickel rounds from Kowalski’s. At last Credence stopped moving, and Graves let himself exhale.
It wasn’t that having Credence on his lap was new. It wasn’t old, mind you, not enough to feel like old hat (though Graves, for all his worldly experience, couldn’t figure how it ever would), but the situation had arisen enough times that you’d think he might manage not to get winded when it did. Especially when Credence was technically a cat.
Graves abandoned his whiskey, afraid it might inflame the bubble of lightness rising in his chest. He laid a hand on Credence’s furry head, and the purring resumed, fit to rattle the old townhouse on its foundations.
Here’s 11 of the Killers’ biggest bangers that aren’t ‘Mr Brightside’
An absolute goldmine of tunes.
Bring out the polished sceptre and the golden, bejewelled headwear. ‘Mr Brightside’ has officially been crowned the king of all bangers. The head honcho.
If we weren’t all convinced of that already, then The Killers’ secret set at Glastonbury this year confirmed it when the crowd almost drowned out the band.
But here’s the thing. The Killers are a veritable banger factory. A goldmine of tunes. A treasure trove. They’re great, okay? We all know this. So what we’ve done for you, Dear Reader, is we’ve had a big ol’ debate and put together a list of some of their other greatest tracks in no particular order. We’re good like that.
Somebody Told Me
According to Brandon Flowers ‘Somebody Told Me’ is about trying to meet someone in a club, and yeah, those spaceship-style synths definitely bring to mind mid-2000s parties and all the neon blue alcopops that came with them. That said, it is absolutely still as danceable as it was the first time around. There’s just no arguing with that intro.
‘Are we human, or are we dancer?’ The eternal question springs up again. Technically ‘Human’ is examining our vices and virtues as people, which sounds like it could be dull in other hands. But let’s not forget we’re talking about the Killers here – those lads know how to craft a pop song. Moral crises have never been so catchy.
All These Things That I’ve Done
Let’s face it, ‘Hot Fuss’ is wall-to-wall bangers. Still, ‘All These Things That I’ve Done’ is a standout. It teeters between stiff-upper-lip and cry-for-help, and that bridge can swerve between vulnerable and defiant on any given day. We defy anyone to resist the urge to sing along.
When You Were Young
The Killers’ obviously faced a lot of pressure to perform after ‘Hot Fuss’. S’all right though, because they immediately blew any second album doubts out of the water with ‘When You Were Young’. Right from the opening riff this is Flowers & co. at their best, and the joyfully nostalgic chorus just cements the fact.
Smile Like You Mean It
Another absolute classic off the lads’ debut, with a belter of a guitar part and all. Knew what they were doing early, didn’t they? Are we allowed to sing along to guitar solos now? We might do it anyway.
Change Your Mind
Brandon Flowers has made no secret of his bands’ anglophile influences, and this one’s a pretty clear case. ‘Change Your Mind’ is more New Romantics than New Wave, though, and we kind of want those synths to soundtrack all our tentative flirtations for the rest of time.
If ‘Change You Mind’ is one of the Killers’ more British-inspired songs, then ‘Runaways’ is the other end of the scale. Despite the title ‘Runaways’ is more about sticking around than making a break for it – just imagine Brandon has grabbed you by the collar and is yelling at you to recognise a good thing when you have it (like when you hear an absolute banger, for example).
Read My Mind
Solidarity, dear reader. The Killers’ are big on it. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t mind, ‘cause I don’t shine if you don’t shine’ is a lovely lyric, isn’t it? We’re all in this together and that. Don’t mind us, we’ve just got something in our eye…
The World We Live In
All of the neon lights in Las Vegas have been condensed into this song. It makes us want to go and find a light-up dancefloor and a white rhinestone-studded suit, if we’re perfectly honest with you. We’d also have to have a serious think about the state of the world thanks to the lyrics here, but we’re sure we can multi-task.
Under the Gun
While it’s one of the band’s darker tracks, at its heart ‘Under the Gun’ still keeps the faith with the insistence that ‘heaven sends and heaven takes’. That said, the repeated ‘kill me now’ chorus is just the thing when you’ve said something stupid and kind of wish a cartoon anvil would fall on your head. We’ve all been there.
The Killer’s latest single is slick and shimmering, a musical disco ball throwing light all over the place. Oh, and a swaggering Brandon Flowers really wants you to know he’s ‘the man’. We’re inclined to agree. This is an officially certified banger.
A voided velvet ceremonial train, probably Worth, late 19th century, probably worn by Lady Margaret Etienne Hannah, (Peggy) Primrose, daughter of the 5th Earl of Rosebery for her marriage to the 1st Marquess of Crewe, Robert Crewe-Milnes in 1899, woven with ivory velvet renaissance style palmettes on an ice-blue damask satin ground studded with rhinestone flowerheads, silver sequins
Hello! Love your blog sweetie ~:) Could you make something like the boys of RFA teaching MC how to drive a car? I'd be so cute.<3
Ok… he is super nervous here. He doesn’t even feel confident driving himself, but now he has to teach his datemate to drive? HOLY MOLY he’s being rocketed into adulthood w a y too fast.
(on the other hand tho he’s really excited to show you how manly and responsible he can be, so he puts on a brave face so you feel comfortable relying on him)
The first days in the car go fine - but it’s just parking lot practice. Turning, stopping, starting - it’s all the basic stuff.
Yoosung is entirely content to keep going like this forever but you’re getting impatient.
you want to drive.
He takes you out of the city into the backroads and
don’t freak out Yoosung
don’t freak out
you have to turn and shit don’t freak out
He ends up thinking of this as a driving game he’s trying to teach you. It makes it easier - and his reaction time is really good from his hobbies, so when you inevitably make a mistake, it’s easy for him to catch the wheel and correct you.
His legs are shaking each time he gets out of the car, but he keeps that straight face on while it’s important… and your smile each time he says you’re getting better makes it worth it.
Zen’s the perfect teacher, except when he gets distracted checking himself out in the rear view mirror.
In fact, you’re doing so well… that you drop the real reason why you wanted Zen to be your vehicular mentor.
“Zen, I want to drive the motorcycle.”
because it’s dangerous!
but it’s so cool.
(Zen gets a nosebleed thinking about you on his motorcycle. You’re right it’d be cool.)
You’ve sat behind him enough times while on the motorcycle that you know what you want, and you end up getting it.
Zen realizes the first time he rides with you - with him sitting behind you - that he’s been missing out on so much, and ohhh yeah you’re really attractive right now.
Insists on teaching you in one of his super expensive babies. You are understandably nervous because what if you ruin his car, but nope, only the best for his main babe.
this gets you stopped by the police at least once.
“no officer i’m not drunk i’m just learning to drive”
“NO SEVEN WE ARE NOT BOOKING IT AWAY FROM THE POLICE”
He’s actually making tons of jokes to cover up his nervousness at teaching you to drive and eventually you’ve got to snap at him to christ please focus I need to pay attention.
Once you get more comfortable though it’s lots of fun and you look forward to it.
One day, you and Seven are at the mall and you find sunglasses studded with rhinestones and you’re like
we need those
So you and Seven start wearing matching sunglasses in the car. He puts the top down. You feel totally fly.
(SEVEN WE ARE NOT GOING TO START A DRAG RACE)
Calm, cool, professional - basically always feels 100% in control and she’s really comforting to have in the passenger seat.
Though, when other drivers are shitty to you for your inexperience she gets really salty
Like if you get honked at for going at the speed limit or for staying at a light too long she’s like
haha yeah eat a bag of walnuts and die pal
Hangs a nice chart of your driving practice/goals on the refrigerator to motivate you.
Keeps stress-chocolate in the glove compartment. Whenever you take driving breaks she gives you one because learning to drive is scary.
super supportive when you’re discouraged like
“Think of how free you’ll be, being able to drive.”
“We’ll be able to take that road trip you’ve always wanted now.”
“When I finally burn down Jumin’s house in a final act of defiance, we’ll be able to live on the road like a pair of western outlaws.”
wait what Jaehee
(Jaehee says that was a joke she doesn’t advocate for arson.)
Anyway yeah, Jaehee is a 10/10 teacher and if someone calls her for work while she’s out with you, she can tell them this is important h e c k off
this is just me getting out some important meg turney feelings i love her v much okay thanks for listening
Meg Turney was an aesthetic sort of person. There was no doubt about that.
Baby doll dresses and heels that gave her walk an extra flirty, commanding lilt, her hair in pretty curls that framed her pretty face. She loved things that exuded luxury, she enjoyed when people knew she was one of the have’s, not the have-not’s. Probably a result of growing up one of eleven in a family that never had quite enough to suit her tastes and probably one of the reasons she got into this business.
It could be something left over from her modeling days, when aestheticism was her bread and butter, but she had always had an appreciation for things that were pretty.
She also had a penchant for irony, which is probably why she was an ex-model turned criminal and why beauty was laced into everything she did.
She had lots of glitter in her wardrobe, but accessories were her favorite. She had guns in all sorts of pastel colors, her favorite car was a baby pink mustang with an all-white interior that she’d 100% gut someone for getting dirty, and she has a special person in the nearby laundromat who takes special care of all her blood-and-other-gore-stained clothes. “Like a mob doctor, but for clothes,” as Jack always teased.
Her favorite example, however, was her knife collection. Griffon sometimes questioned the logic of having beautifully-crafted and easily identifiable knives as one of her weapons of choice, especially considering she insisted on going back to retrieve most of them (the only ones she left behind were ones she left as calling cards) because they were expensive as fuck and she was really attached to them. But to her, it was all worth it.
The sight of some huge lug, who very clearly underestimated her and thought he would simply scare her into submission, bleeding out on the floor with one of her beautiful knives, with roses carved into the marble hilt, lodged in his chest, some of the white petals getting painted in red with his retreating life, gave her such a rush.
Meg didn’t just use her knives for killing, though that was probably her favorite use for them (perhaps that’s why her and Ryan got along so well.)
Meg loved to scare everyone she knew and loved just a little bit, so she liked to show off her knives, her pretty, delicate killing tools as much as possible. She would peel fruit with them, hem dresses with them (“Cosplay isn’t cheap, you know, and I’d rather spend money on fabric than a new pair of scissors”,) and, on one memorable occasion, had enlisted Mica and Lindsay who had graciously trusted her enough to let her trim their ends with her favorite blade while the boys watched.
Besides that, she especially liked leaving them around specifically with the intention of them being found by people she wanted to find them.
The first time she’d ever left a knife for someone to find, it had been in the center of the bed of some frat boy asshole whose dad owned the jewelry shop she’d been scoping out for weeks. All she’d had to do was flutter her eyelashes and ask for a drink before she’d trapped him, acting captivated all night as he bragged endlessly about his dad’s store and spilling what he thought to be inconsequential information in the hands of some random, ditzy girl he’d met in a bar.
She’d let him take her home, let him eat her out for his troubles before looting the place and sneaking out before dawn, but not before leaving her blade hilt-deep in his bedsheets, with a note that said “Made you look <3” in red lipstick under the blade.
Meg found she liked using her blades as a calling card when the situation called for it, a signature all her own.
She left behind notes tacked to the walls by knives quite often while she was freelancing. More often than not, the notes were for The Vagabond, with whom she was frequently partnered for jobs (because the results were usually impeccable) and whom she’d grown very fond of very quickly.
She didn’t tend to stick around after jobs she collaborated on, just took her share and left without stopping to exchange pleasantries once her part was finished. The Vagabond, or Ryan, as she’d come to know him as, privileged information she was honored to know, was the only person who made her wish she would.
She couldn’t though, she knew that, not yet. There was still too much at stake for her, knew that no one was truly here to make friends and she was not about to lose everything she’d worked for because she’d wanted a companion.
So Meg left little notes where she knew he’d find them, little goodbyes that became “see you later’s” that became just any old thought that popped into her mind because she knew she’d see Ryan again.
“I saw all the Diet Coke cans you have stashed in the backseat of your car. Savage.”
“I’m always peckish right after these jobs. Next time, you bring coffee, I’ll bring doughnuts?”
“I don’t care how comfortable they are. I will not be seen on a job with you in those disgusting Dad shoes again.”
(That was a particular favorite, because she knew Ryan woke up the next morning with a video on his phone of his gross waiter shoes going up on flames in the middle of an undisclosed warehouse in West Los Santos. He’d shown up to their next job in, unsurprisingly, another pair of Dad shoes, she’d shown up with a shoebox and a pair of custom Diet Coke converse for him to wear. To her delight, he did.)
Every time they met up for a new job, he would hand her back the knife she’d left behind on the last one, a smile sparkling in the eyes behind the mask.
Then Ryan settled down with a crew and she went from seeing him a couple of times a month to not at all, and that was awful.
Then she’d gotten an offer from Geoff and Griffon Ramsey, patriarch and matriarch of one of the most infamous organized crime syndicates on the West Coast, who claimed an “anonymous” tip led them to her, and she decided that maybe she’d spent enough time on her own.
Meg moved into the Ramseys’ enormous penthouse, got her own room just down the hall from Ryan, and suddenly the infamous Baby Doll had a dollhouse all her own.
The Fake AH Crew quickly became accustomed to finding painstakingly detailed and jewel-encrusted knives in random places, almost always with notes attached.
She left a rhinestone-studded knife stuck in the center of a plate of leftover lasagna, claiming it as her own. She then left the same knife, now blood-stained, speared in the center of the stainless steel refrigerator with a note that read “WHOEVER ATE MY LASAGNA, I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL DESTROY YOU.”
She stuck notes on Trevor’s door, reminding him that Galavant was on that night at eight and he’d better be ready for some show tunes. When Galavant was on break, she made sure he knew that Reign was on in a few hours.
When Jack was out on recon, she left the curling iron she’d borrowed with its cord wrapped around the knife stuck in her bedroom door, with a note telling her thanks for letting me use this, there’s cookies on the counter if she was hungry, also they were out of tampons. Jack delicately reminded her that that information may be better shared via text, while she was still out and able to pick some up before coming home, and Meg agreed.
Meg got on with the Fake AH Crew like a house on fire, they were the family she thought she wouldn’t have after she let hers behind, but as much as she loved them, they only saw a fraction of her knife post-its. Most of her messages were left behind explicitly for Gavin, Michael, and Lindsay.
If leaving L.A., becoming a criminal, and joining the Fake AH Crew felt like a puzzle piece sliding into place, meeting Lindsay, Gavin, and Michael felt like three more puzzle pieces connecting themselves to her and completing the whole damn picture.
A good chunk of their conversations were verbally continuing a thought Meg had left on a piece of paper tacked to a wall somewhere.
It might be a “I don’t know if Birdo is transgender, Meg, but I do know that you’re coming to bed and we’re taking a nap right now” or a “Turney, I don’t care if you don’t like it, I’m keeping the beard” or a “Hey, I got your note, I’m at the store now and I don’t see Land Before Time VIII, will you settle for Cats Don’t Dance?” Sometimes they would forget to tell Meg that they were answering a question she’d asked on a note and they’d have to backtrack and remind her.
Even worse, they had developed what Ray sneeringly referred to as their “super secret queer knife language,” which didn’t even require any paper notes. Meg would just leave certain knives around their room or the penthouse and miraculously, the other three were able to decipher what she wanted based off of it.
Meg’s switchblade with the hilt designed to look like a marble column was met with a text from Michael asking her what kind of food she wants him to bring her, he’ll head out in a minute.
Her black knife with the grip that was carved to look like a black cat wedged into the wall right next to the front door let Lindsay know she had a cat video to show her and to come to their room immediately. Her butterfly knife decorated with actual, crystallized butterfly wings (a gift from when some of the Starbomb gang had visited) lodged in their door meant she was having some sort of emotional breakdown, “butterflies” in her stomach and that she needed one, two, or all of them, whoever was available, for cuddles, STAT.
Her double-sided knife that had flowers carved into the hilt was a promise, a tease, a request to have all the necessary supplies for a fun night, and Geoff gagged every time he saw it.
The best, however, was when Michael, Lindsay, and Gavin found one of her hundreds of throwing knives, small, compact, with pastel ribbons wrapped about the grip and hanging like streamers from the ring on the end. She left them discreetly, in places only they would find them.
Holding up Michael’s leather jacket on a hanger in the wall, letting him know she’d been able to use club soda to get the bloodstains out, or snuck into his duffel bag when he had to go away for a few days (he now had one of them hanging from his rearview mirror.)
She left one standing upright in the desk next to Gavin’s mouse of his ridiculous computer set-up, with a cupcake and a note reminding him to “take a shower for Christ’s sake, it’s been days and you are ready for this heist, I promise.”
Shoved into the mattress next to a brand new dress Meg had bought for Lindsay, a pair of matching shoes and purse lying next to it, with a note that read “Be ready by 7, I’m taking you out on a date <3.” Little “I love you’s” and reminders that she was thinking of them, relayed to them with the same tools she’d used to stop someone’s heart. A “you take my breath away” with something she’d used to do just that.
i might put this on ao3 i don’t know let me know if y’all like that
p.s. the butterfly butterfly knife was given to meg by suzy from game grumps if you couldn’t tell bc she sells bug things
p.p.s. made a cats don’t dance reference bc natalie cole just died rip
That could be a wondrous thing, or a terrible, terrible thing.
Proko wasn’t sure which possibility he liked more, and he snuggled deeper into Kavinsky’s chest, both of them sprawled out on the sofa, chest to chest beneath a mass of blankets, the TV blaring some oversexed rap video that neither of them were paying any attention to.
When it was clear that Proko was interested, K reached beneath the couch to pull out a parcel wrapped in glittering purple tissue paper, and he promptly pressed it into Proko’s hands.
“You dreamed it for me?”
“Gotta take care of my baby, yeah?”
Wondrous or terrible. It was a risk Proko was willing to take. He was always willing to take a risk for K. Turning onto his side and pressing his fingers to glitter, he shot K a sidelong glance, saying, “If it’s another sex toy–”
“Enough is never enough when it comes to sex toys,” was K’s defense.
It was as sound as any, Proko supposed, and with a roll of frosty eyes, he tore through the layers of tissue paper to the large circle at the heart of the mass.
It was pale pink, made of soft, buttery leather and studded with rhinestones. Opposite the buckle was a D-ring large enough to fit a leash through. Hanging from it was a tag, heart-shaped, which read Daddy’s Little Princess.
It was a collar, it was thoroughly demeaning, and Proko pressed it back into K’s hands, pleading, “Put it on me.”
The film Blow Dry directed by Paddy Breathnach, and written by Simon Beaufoy is the heartwarming tale of a Northern town brought together by a sports competition. The sport? Hairdressing. The star? Alan Rickman! Of course!
This movie has several things to recommend it. First, it has a stellar cast: Alan Rickman, Natasha Richardson, Bill Nighy and Hugh Bonneville come together to bring us a comic masterpiece. Second, the storyline is ridiculous: high drama at the British hairdressing competition featuring a lesbian affair, nefarious conspiracies and a decades-old rivalry - what’s not to like? Finally, it is possibly the campest movie I have ever seen.
Warren Clarke delivers an excellent performance as the mayor of Keighley, where the movie is set, growing more glamorous with every round of the competition. Bill Nighy is perfectly coiffed as villain Raymond Robertson, who conspires with his minion Hugh Bonneville (with FROSTED TIPS) to cheat his way to victory. Alan Rickman is sublime as grumpy, jilted barber Phil Allen. This is genuinely one of my favourite Rickman performances, with all his trademark aloofness and charm, now with added Northern twang. Natasha Richardson, the true heart of the piece, ads grace and warmth to a film overflowing with glitter and sequins, which is no easy feat. Josh Hartnett, Heidi Klum and Rachel Leigh cook also join the ensemble - adding horrific accent work, comic relief and girl-next-door charm respectively.
This film may remind Mitchell and Webb fans of the “sports film” sketch, where a small Northern town become cricket champions, as the well observed tropes of the sports film genre all apply to Blow Dry. Phil Allen is the one time Champion, retreating into obscurity following his wife’s affair with his model (played with wit and charm by queen of the nineties Rachel Griffiths). Bill Nighy is his team-mate turned nemesis, out to steal the cup by any means possible. The story unfolds with rhinestone-studded twists and backcombed turns, with romance and catharsis thrown in.
You have to be in the right frame of mind for Blow Dry. It is far from perfect: Josh Hartnett’s accent wanders the British Isles aimlessly, never stopping off at the same region twice. The fashion is incredibly dated (I guess some people would consider it a bad thing, not a glorious showcase of horrendous early noughties style). With all its flaws, though, the film has heart. Alan Rickman takes on the role with the same seriousness and commitment that he brought to Snape, or Colonel Brandon, while we see a whole new side to Hugh Bonneville, one that wouldn’t say no to a leopard skin coat. There are a few laugh out loud moments, and some real tear-jerkers too. For me, this film sits squarely in the same category as Calendar Girls, The Full Monty and the lesser known On A Clear Day - films that all combine regional accents with heartwarming stories to bring something truly special.
Blow Dry is a film that doesn’t take itself seriously, and yet has an elegance and joy to it that is missing from so many cult classics and Hollywood blockbusters.