‘New vistas opened up in my greedy mind' — when Rupert Everett met Valentino

Times

2 days ago

I first met Valentino one February night in 1985. There was an exotic model agent freak in those days called Calvin French who operated out of Milan. God knows how he found me, and God knows how he found me the gig (and God is probably the only one who knows where he is now), but all praise to Lordy because Calvin called me up one day to ask if I would like to do pictures for a Valentino Men's campaign in Rome. Would I like to? I was ecstatic. I had made one film, was syphilitically ambitious and anxious to spread my wares in foreign climes. Dates, fees and an extra ticket were quickly contracted, and soon I was on the plane to Rome with my best friend Vivienne who had recently broken her neck and wore a strange sort of traction collar decorated with pink ostrich feathers. Everyone thought we were lovers. We weren't, but we made a good couple, both over six feet tall, extremely thin, from military backgrounds (Vivienne's grandfather had masterminded the First World War) and in the full flush of rebellion from our families, under the impression that we had seen it all. But nothing prepared us for the opulence of Italian fashion and I'm afraid to say we reacted rather like two spinsters abducted on a sketching holiday as we were driven into the Valentino compound on the Via Appia Antica through magic wrought-iron bulletproof gates into a park of backlit trees.
Inside the front door was a staircase covered in white linen. Two miniature liveried footmen were busy changing it like a tablecloth between courses. On the old one a huge set of footprints (construction boots) next to the dot of an accompanying stiletto led the way to the party upstairs. As the new cloth was smoothed down we gingerly climbed the virgin slopes towards Valentino who stood at the top. From our gigantesque perspective he seemed small and perfectly formed like an Inca Sun King, ageless and splendidly groomed in a microclimate of delicious perfume. His arms extended towards us, graceful and balletic. One step behind him stood his business partner, the formidable Signor Giammetti, also immaculately dressed, and as the little footmen scuttled off through an invisible door in a leopard-skin wall, one felt even more spinsterish than ever, suddenly aware of our ridiculous colonial rags, totally unsuitable in this hidden kingdom upon which we had stumbled.
Valentino's eyes were pale and profound, and surveyed us from inside his physical form like a lady in purdah regards the world through a crack in the palace wall. Giammetti's, more impertinent and enquiring, surveyed Vivienne from top to toe and then turned his attention to me and clearly came to certain conclusions that had possibly been the subject of debate during the moments preceding our entrance. Another gesture from Valentino and we were ushered into the party. I caught a glance from Giammetti to the boy king which said, 'I was right!'
In the middle of the room stood Gina Lollobrigida surrounded by glossy men in black tie. She wore a dress of her own construction (she made all her own clothes) from a pattern she had made famous and which had never changed. A bustier over a tiny waist. Billowing skirts covered in lace and rustling with hidden petticoats. When we shook hands I got a massive shock from the static of these undergarments.
'Sono elettrica!' she confided through lowered eyes, with a gurgle. She was sensational and had a pair of the smallest feet I have ever seen on a human being. She lived down the road on the Appian Way.
Looking back, the whole Valentino crowd was present that night. In 20 years I would come to know some of them quite well. A Roman lady named Marina Palma, with clusters of diamonds clinging to her ears, sat talking to a beautiful young man with long blond hair. He was called Bruce and seemed to be Valentino's boyfriend. Perched on the arm of a chair was the famous Marina Cicogna, in black trousers and polo neck. She was like Cat Woman, with short frosted hair, sharp handsome features, and serious pearls. Paintings by Chagall peeked out discreetly from behind potted palms and the whole image, lit for skin by low lamps and picture lights, was impossibly glossy, and that was my first real impression of the eternal city.
Dinner was in a kind of conservatory next to the drawing room and we all sat on wicker chairs, which I remember finding rather strange. Conversation was polite and conducted in several languages. At a certain point a pack of pugs bounded into the room. One sweet little puppy was named Rupert. Valentino blushed slightly (quite a feat) and glanced sideways at me through almond-shaped eyes.
Suddenly new vistas opened up in my greedy ambitious mind, and I pictured myself as Lady Valentino, rushing back for dinner from Cinecittà from the set where Gina was my mother in some marvellous movie version of Ibsen's Ghosts. It was a short-lived dream because during the photo shoot the next day all hell broke loose.
Quite possibly I was mad, but I hadn't properly grasped that I was actually there to do a job, and that the shoot wasn't just about me, so I played up. I complained. I refused to wear some of the clothes. The photographer huffed and puffed. A ghastly tension engulfed the set like a thick fog. Having created it, I pretended I couldn't feel it. (Classic diva move.) Vassals disappeared to make emergency phone calls. Giammetti stalked onto the set. His eyes were icy gold now. I was blissfully unaware but he could be incredibly evil and was a legendary foe, second only to his French counterpart Pierre Bergé. I quickly shrivelled in the heat of his clipped enquiries and soon the day was back on track. An incredible lunch was served. Finally it was all over, and I never heard another word from any of them, except that two years later, staying with the art dealer Thomas Ammann in Gstaad for Christmas, we were unable to go to the Valentino chalet on Boxing Day because I was at the party. (Bianca Jagger was furious.)
But time, as they say, is a great healer. Feuds are forgotten. Or if they are not, then the arguments from which they once exploded are soon lost in the night sky like the barely perceptible smears of distant supernovae, and that is one of the great things about growing older. So one evening, 10 years later, there I was again, climbing the white stair carpet towards Valentino and Giammetti at the top.
They hadn't changed at all but I had. Everything was forgotten and a new friendship was born. Since then Valentino has never ceased to amaze. He has a curiosity and energy for life that is inspirational. At dinner in Ibiza, Paris, London, or New York he never misses a beat and can monitor the whole table's conversation while chatting languidly himself at one end. He is old fashioned and modern at the same time. His personal style is timeless, conventional but totally 'out there'. (Only word I can think of.) He has combined business with integrity, a rare feat, and, along with his French nemesis Saint Laurent, is without doubt the outstanding couturier of our times.
An edited excerpt from Valentino: A Grand Italian Epic by Matt Tyrnauer and Suzy Menkes (edited by Armando Chitolina); published by Taschen; taschen.com