I am aghast. As I sit here at 11:16 p.m., the minutes piling up before I get to go to bed and try to forget the travesty that was tonight’s finale, I am at a loss as to what to say. Other than this: Project Runway has betrayed me. Nina and Michael have betrayed me. No, they’ve betrayed us, we the faithful Runway nuts who have stuck with the show through thick and thin, even when it went off the rails in L.A.
I’m heartbroken. Disillusioned. And no amount of Heidi arguing that “this was the toughest decision in Project Runway history” is going to make me feel any better. Heidi, you should have put on those boxing gloves and knocked some sense into your fellow judges.
Gretchen. Not Mondo. Gretchen. She’s the winner of Project Runway. No matter how many times I say it, it doesn’t sound any less wrong.
I could stew in this mystifying reality for the next three pages, but I’ll probably wake up the neighbors with my ANGRY LOUD YELLING TYPING. So lest I get kicked out of my co-op, let me take a breath, step back, and start at the beginning of this sh** show. If I can.
The first twenty minutes of the finale were eaten up by a reunion show that was about as zesty as soggy lettuce. What a missed opportunity. After the season we’ve had — backstabbing bitchery up the wazoo, sociopaths in the workroom — I was looking forward to a wooly-balls-to-the-wall blowout. Instead, we got Gretchen attempting humor (“I’m not a bitch; I just play one on TV” — hardy har har) and playing the sexism card. Which — sorry — this proud feminist thinks was a total cop-out. I’d have laid on the snark just as thick had those delusions of grandeur been voiced by a megalomaniacal man. But anyway… The closest we got to a confrontation over the rumbles between clashing personalities was Ivy claiming that Gretchen’s I’m-actually-really-nice-when-you-get-to-know-me routine was “fake” and April (whose hair sprouted a second bun) accusing Ms. Jones of being two-faced. There was nothing, not a word, about Ivy’s vendetta against Michael C., nor for that matter, her display of generalized nastiness. Poison Ivy was the snarling, growling, feral elephant in the room, and the producers lamely looked the other way.
Back to the workroom the finalists went, followed by Tim, who relayed the news that they’d only be showing 10 looks, not 11. He then moved on to his check-ins with each designer. When he got to Andy, he unsuccessfully tried to convince the unbeweavably coiffed guy to rethink a one-piece bathing suit that looked like it had hair growing from the bikini area. Classy! A sartorial first: swimwear in need of a Brazilian!
Other than Mondo getting stood up by three of his models on fitting day, the workroom was pretty low on drama. (Well, there was also Gretchen’s announcement that she’d be adding some drama to her collection by…putting her models in high heels.) The gang went back to their hotel to wax tearful about how badly they all want a career in fashion. It’s their dreeeeam! The next day, they all rose at the crack and got all spiffed up — Mondo especially. After sculpting his hair into a shiny Eddie Munster pompadour, he hair-sprayed his socks. Can’t have any unsightly stickage on finale day.
NEXT: Michael and Nina throw a Haterade slushie at Mondo’s collection.