The Untold Story Behind the Final Jacques Azagury Dress Princess Diana Never Got to Wear
'We didn't really talk about it,' Azagury tells Vogue of why it was kept hidden. 'Even when I did talks or exhibitions, I never did show that dress.'
Azagury does not refer to August 31, 1997 as the day Diana died—instead, he refers to it, poignantly, as 'when she left.' When asked if the Final Goodbye Dress was too painful to talk about for all of those years, he thinks for a moment before responding, 'I just found—I just feel it was very personal to me.' Now, though, he's ready to share.
Azagury first met Princess Diana in 1987, when he was working on his second fashion collection. British Vogue editor Anna Harvey, who was a fashion mentor to Diana throughout her royal life, made the introduction. 'Of course I was dumbstruck,' he says, 'but within seconds, within seconds, she put me at ease.'
A few weeks after their initial meeting, the palace called, saying that Diana would like to visit Azagury's atelier. She had noticed a dress from the collection that she ended up wearing—a black velvet creation with blue stars—which ultimately sold for $1.1 million, 11 times its estimated value, in 2023. 'So that was our very, very first meeting together,' Azagury says. 'And then, of course, we had a very good relationship right to literally two days before she left for Paris.'
Azagury estimates that he made about 20 dresses for Diana during their 10 years working together, but the Famous Five were when he 'achieved the look that I wanted for her,' he says. He helped modernized her image with these five creations, starting with the Venice Dress in June 1995, a red silk georgette two-piece tunic worn to a fundraiser in the Italian city to raise money for London's Serpentine Gallery. Three months later, she wore the Bashir Dress, a long black silk georgette dress with a fishtail hem, in London that September; she would wear it again to the Cancer Research Ball in New York City the following December. The last summer of her life, she wore the ice blue Swan Lake Dress to a performance of the ballet of the same name at Royal Albert Hall on June 3, 1997, and that same month, she wore the Washington Dress, a red silk georgette column gown, to a Red Cross Ball gala dinner in Washington, D.C. on June 18.
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Atlantic
34 minutes ago
- Atlantic
Why Is Everyone on Television So Rich Now?
Watching Carrie Bradshaw—erstwhile sex columnist, intrepid singleton, striver—float down the majestic staircase of her new Gramercy townhouse on a recent episode of And Just Like That while wearing a transparent tulle gown, on an errand to mail a letter, is one of the most cognitively dissonant television experiences I've had recently. And Just Like That has never been a particularly imaginative show with regard to women in midlife, but there's still something fundamentally off about seeing one of the canonical female characters of our era transformed into a Gilded Age archetype, worrying about a garden renovation and choosing back-ordered fabric for a chaise. Carrie, suddenly, has many hats. She communicates with a lover via handwritten notes while she waits for his liberation from the home front in Virginia. What's happened to Carrie, truly, is money. Two decades after Sex and the City rolled to a televised close, acknowledging that its own cultural relevance was waning, its characters continue in zombified form on And Just Like That, pickled in a state of extreme privilege where nothing can touch them. The drama is lifeless, involving rehashed old storylines about beeping alarm systems and 'a woman's right to shoes' that serve mostly as a backdrop for clothes. Charlotte, in a questionable lace workout jacket, worries that her dog has been unfairly canceled. Miranda, in one of a series of patterned blouses, gets really into a Love Island –style reality show. (Remember Jules and Mimi?) Lisa wears feathers to a fundraiser for her husband's political campaign. Seema, in lingerie, nearly burns her apartment down when she falls asleep with a lit cigarette, but in the end, all she loses is an inch or so of hair. The point of the show is no longer what happens, because nothing does. The point is to set up a series of visual tableaus showcasing all the things money can buy, as though the show were an animated special issue of Vogue or Architectural Digest. What's stranger still is that a series that once celebrated women in the workplace has succumbed to financial ideals right out of Edith Wharton: The women who earned their money themselves (Miranda and Seema) somehow don't have enough of it (spoiler—they still seem to have a lot), while the ones who married money (Carrie, Charlotte, Lisa) breeze through life as an array of lunches, fundraisers, and glamping trips, with some creative work dotted into the mix for variety. The banal details of exorbitant wealth—well, it's all quite boring. Lately, most of television seems stuck in the same mode. Virtually everything I've watched recently has been some variation of rich people pottering around in 'aspirational' compounds. On Sirens and The Better Sister, glossy scenes of sleek couture and property porn upstage the intrigue of the plot. On Mountainhead, tech billionaires tussle in a Utah mountain retreat featuring 21,000 square feet of customized bowling alleys and basketball courts. On Your Friends & Neighbors, a disgraced hedge-fund manager sneers at the vacuous wealth of his gated community (where houses cost seven to eight figures), but also goes to criminal lengths to maintain his own living standards rather than lower them by even a smidge. And on With Love, Meghan, the humble cooking show has gotten a Montecito-money glow-up. 'I miss TV without rich people,' the writer Emily J. Smith noted last month on Substack, observing that even supposedly normie shows such as Tina Fey's marital comedy The Four Seasons and Erin Foster's unconventional rom-com Nobody Wants This seem to be playing out in worlds where money is just not an issue for anyone. This is a new development: As Smith points out, sitcoms including Roseanne and Married … With Children have historically featured families with recognizable financial constraints, and the more recent dramedies of the 2010s were riddled with economic anxiety. Reality television, it's worth noting, has been fixated on the lifestyles of the rich and bored virtually since its inception, but as its biggest stars have grown their own fortunes exponentially, the genre has mostly stopped documenting anything other than wealth, which it fetishizes via the gaudy enclaves and private jets of Selling Sunset and Bling Empire. Serialized shows, too, no longer seem interested in considering the stakes and subtleties of most people's lives. Television is preoccupied with literary adaptations about troubled rich white women, barbed satires about absurdly wealthy people on vacation, thrillers about billionaire enclaves at the end of the world. Even our contemporary workplace series (Severance, Shrinking) play out in fictional realms where people work not for the humble paychecks that sustain their lives, but to escape the grief that might otherwise consume them. What does it mean that our predominant fictional landscapes are all so undeniably 'elevated,' to use a word cribbed from the Duchess of Sussex? And Just Like That is evidence of how hard it is for shows that take wealth for granted to have narrative stakes, and how stultifying they become as a result. But we also lose something vital when we no longer see 99 percent of American lives reflected on the small screen. Money isn't just making TV boring. It's also reshaping our collective psyche—building a shared sense of wealth as the only marker of a significant life, and rich people as the only people worthy of our gaze. We're not supposed to be able to empathize with the characters on-screen, these strutting zoo animals in $1,200 shoes and $30,000-a-night villas. But we're not being encouraged to empathize with any other kinds of characters, either—to see the full humanity and complexity of so many average people whose lives feel ever more precarious in this moment, and ever more in need of our awareness. On an episode in the final season of Sex and the City, a socialite named Lexi Featherston cracks a floor-to-ceiling window, lights a cigarette, and declares that New York is over, O - V - E - R. 'When did everybody stop smoking?' she sneers. 'When did everybody pair off?' As the hostess glares at her, she continues: 'No one's fun anymore. Whatever happened to fun? God, I'm so bored I could die.' Famous last words: Lexi, of course, promptly trips on her stiletto, falls out the absurdly dangerous glass panel, and plummets to her death. Her arc—from exalted '80s It Girl to coked-up aging party girl—was supposed to represent finality, the termination of the city's relevance as a cultural nexus. 'It's the end of an era,' Carrie says at Lexi's funeral, where Stanford is elated to have scored VIP seats next to Hugh Jackman. 'The party's officially over,' Samantha agrees. After six seasons of transforming how a generation of women dated, dressed, even drank, Sex and the City seemed to be acknowledging that its own moment had come to an end. The characters were undeniably older, no longer seeking anthropological meaning in a SoHo nightclub at 3 a.m. But the city that the show documented—and popular culture more broadly—had shifted, too: toward less spontaneity, less rebellion, and infinitely higher incomes. The year that final season aired, 2004, is possibly when television's prurient obsession with rich people really kicked off, with the launch of shows including Desperate Housewives, Entourage, and, notably, The Apprentice. A year earlier, Fox had premiered a soapy drama called The O.C., which charted the rags–to–Range Rover adventures of a teen from Chino who ended up ensconced in the affluent coastal town of Newport Beach. Until then, it had never occurred to me that teenagers could wear Chanel or drive SUVs that cost six figures, although watching them rattle around in McMansions the size of the Met provided much of The O.C. 's visual thrill. In direct response to the show's success, MTV debuted the reality show Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County a year later, and in 2006, Bravo countered with its own voyeuristic peek into the lives of the rich and fabulous— The Real Housewives of Orange County. Documenting wealth enticingly on television is a difficult balancing act: You want to stoke enough envy that people are inspired to buy things (gratifying advertisers along the way), but not so much that you risk alienating the viewer. Reality TV pulled it off by starting small. The women on the first season of Real Housewives were well off, but not unimaginably so. They lived in high-end family homes, not sprawling temples of megawealth. Similarly, when Keeping Up With the Kardashians debuted in 2007, the family lived in a generous but chintzy bungalow, having not yet generated the billions of dollars that would later pay for their minimalist compounds in Calabasas and Hidden Hills. During the 2008 financial crisis, a critic for The New York Times wondered whether the tanking global economy might doom the prospects of shows such as The Real Housewives of Atlanta, which had just premiered, and turn them into 'a time capsule of the Bling Decade.' But the fragility of viewers' own finances, oddly, seemed to make them more eager to watch. Shows about money gratified both people's escapist impulses and the desire to critique those who didn't seem worthy of their blessings. As Jennifer O'Connell, a producer for The Real Housewives of New York City, put it to the Times a year later: 'Everyone likes to judge.' The toxic, unhappy, rich-people shows that have more recently proliferated on prestige TV—the Succession and White Lotus and Big Little Lies variation—cover their backs with cynicism. Money doesn't make you happy, they assert over and over, even though studies suggest otherwise. The documentation of extreme wealth on television with such clarifying bitterness, they imply, surely inoculates audiences from pernicious aspiration. Except it doesn't: The Four Seasons San Domenico Palace in Sicily was fully booked for a good six months following the second season of The White Lotus, despite the fictional bodies floating in the water. And a study conducted at the London School of Economics in 2018 found that a person's increased exposure to shows that regularly 'glamourize fame, luxury, and the accumulation of wealth' made them more inclined to support welfare cuts; it also noted other studies that found that the more people watched materialistic media, the more anxious and unhappy they were likely to be in their own lives. Watching shows about wealth does, however, seem to stimulate the desire to shop, which is maybe why this latest season of And Just Like That feels intended for an audience watching with a second screen in their hand—all the better to harvest the aspirational consumption the show's lifestyles might generate. Streaming services are already tapping into the reams of data they have on viewers by serving them customized ads related to the series they might be watching, and many are also experimenting with e-commerce. You could argue that And Just Like That is honoring the spirit of Sex and the City by putting fashion front and center. But the vacant dullness of the new season feels wholly of its time: This is television for the skin-deep influencer age, not the messy, pioneering drama it once was. More crucially, Carrie and company take up space that deprives us of more shows like The Pitt, one of a sparse handful of series documenting the workers trying to patch up the holes in an ever more unequal America. No one seems to have anticipated that the Max series would be such a success. As workers today are being squeezed 'for all their worth, no more chit-chatting at the water cooler, we've gotten to a point where reality for most people is quite unpleasant,' Smith writes on Substack. 'And executives are betting that we don't actually want to watch it.' The reality of the TV business also underscores why shows that sell us something—even if it's just the illusion of exceptional prosperity as a default—are easier to commission. But audiences will always be drawn to drama, and the stakes of defiantly deglamorized series such as The Bear and Slow Horses feel necessary in this moment, when the state of the future relies so much on the direction and quality of our attention.
San Francisco Chronicle
an hour ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
One of Napa Valley's oldest winemaking families debuts a major tasting room transformation
It's a story made for Hallmark Channel: Tired of the hustle in Hollywood, a screenwriter returns to his sleepy hometown, realizes the story of his career was right in front of him all along and decides to tell it through the revitalization of his family's historic wine business. It sounds scripted, but that's exactly what Greg Pestoni has spent the past decade doing. Now, the transformation of St. Helena's charming Pestoni Family Estate Winery is ready for its premiere. Pestoni credits famed director and winery owner Francis Ford Coppola for inspiring his move from his native Napa Valley to Hollywood after high school in the 1980s. Since the third grade, he was friends with Coppola's son, Roman, and recalls watching rough cuts of 'Apocalypse Now' on a Betamax before it was released. Napa was a quiet agricultural valley, and he was anxious to get out. 'You didn't idolize (your friends) who worked in the vineyard,' said Pestoni.'It was as sexy as picking walnuts.' But after 27 years in the film industry and two discouraging Guild strikes, the screenwriter, who worked on 'The Godfather' movies, returned to a very different Napa Valley, one that felt a lot more like Hollywood than when he left it. There, he found a story he desperately wanted to tell: His family's 130-year-old wine journey. 'This was an unsung period of winemaking,' Pestoni said. 'When you think of the 1890s and the bunch that was making wine, who is still here doing it? Just a few.' In the 1880s, the Swiss-Italian Pestonis arrived in Napa Valley. In 1892, Greg Pestoni's great-grandfather, Albino Pestoni, planted vineyards and built a winery in the Eastern hills on Howell Mountain. The winery shut down due to Prohibition and was sold in the early 1920s; a few years later, Greg Pestoni's grandfather, Henry Pestoni, purchased a property on Whitehall Lane in the Rutherford wine region, now the home of Pestoni's Sauvignon Blanc vineyard. Like many wine families, the Pestonis picked up other agricultural pursuits during Prohibition. Over the years, the family raised chickens, hogs and dairy cows, but it also grew grapes and made bootleg brandy. Henry Pestoni allegedly sold his brandy to staff at the Napa County courthouse and, in return, they'd tip him off about upcoming federal raids. Greg Pestoni's uncles also owned a Napa Valley winery and bootlegged alcohol; the original stone building is now the home of Ehlers Estate. In the early 1960s, Greg Pestoni's father, composting pioneer Bob Pestoni, founded the Upper Valley Disposal Service, revolutionizing winery waste recycling. He went on to own a second operation, the Clover Flat Landfill just south of Calistoga. (The family sold both companies in 2023; last month, federal prosecutors closed an investigation into environmental crimes and obstruction of justice related to both properties, now owned by a company called Waste Connections.) The family went decades without commercially producing wine, but they continued to grow and sell grapes. Then, in 1994, the winery next door came up for sale. Bob Pestoni bought it, and Greg Pestoni's brother, Andy Pestoni, became the winemaker. They named the winery Rutherford Grove after a eucalyptus grove on the property, but it created confusion with two other local businesses, the Rutherford Grill restaurant and Rutherford Hill Winery. 'Someone would ask if we served the duck burger,' joked Greg Pestoni, adding that he felt the name 'sounded like a big operation,' when the winery only makes a few thousand cases of wine a year. Shortly after Greg Pestoni returned home in 2014, he convinced his father to change the name to Pestoni Family Estate Winery. He called relatives to compile old family photos and wrote up the family's history for the website. 'It helped make it a much more personal experience,' Greg Pestoni said. 'I think what's really missing in Napa these days is the people behind something and the story behind something.' The winery has been one of the last remaining embodiments of a down-home era in Napa Valley, before luxury resorts, Michelin-starred restaurants and multi-million-dollar tasting rooms, like its flashy new neighbor, Bella Union. 'You get the feeling of going to somebody's house or being in somebody's yard,' said Greg Pestoni. 'People would say, 'You're like a Sonoma winery in Napa.' They don't want the secret to get out of this place, they don't want to tell anybody.' But remaining a secret isn't good for business, especially during a global downturn in wine sales. Despite Pestoni's prime positioning off Napa Valley's busy Highway 29, the winery has remained under the radar, and like many of the region's older wineries, the family decided to renovate. 'We're in Napa,' Greg Pestoni said. 'We needed to step up.' They started with the large, grassy picnic area surrounded by eucalyptus and redwood trees, which became a COVID-19 pandemic hot spot. 'Saturdays and Sundays were bananas. We were serving on picnic tables and our staff were crossing the lawn in 100-degree heat,' recalled Aimee Pestoni, Greg Pestoni's wife. 'People wanted to be outside, and they still do.' Pestoni kept its picnic lawn — one of the few kid-friendly spots in Napa Valley — but built a new pavilion for more formal tastings. The striking cedar pavilion, featuring a bar, tables and heaters, was designed by the same architect behind San Francisco's Rolex boutiques. Yet a much more significant transformation took place inside the 1995 tasting room. 'There were no seats, you'd slam (the wine) down and go on your way,' said Aimee Pestoni. While the lawn maintains Pestoni's classic, old Napa feel, the new tasting room interior catapults visitors to the present: It's moody, sophisticated and edgy, designed like a cozy study found within a luxurious mountain escape. The space features dark wood, a stone fireplace, velvet bar stools and leather armchairs with fur throws. Geometric fur rugs look like tile from a distance, while custom wallpaper features layers of burlap, hand-painted and then fringed, by an Alaskan artist. The change is a jarring departure from the family's humble roots, but upon closer observation, visitors will find ties to the Pestoni story in every nook and cranny. There's a wall of black and white family photos, including a 1919 capture of Henry Pestoni at his coming home party from World War I, taken at the William Tell Hotel in St. Helena. Historic documents sit underneath the glass top of a coffee table, including the assessment taxes for the original 1892 winery ($2 for four gallons of wine) and a corn sales ledger. A bookshelf displays an antique winemaking tool and remnants of a wooden backpack, which Albino Pestoni made and used while herding in the Swiss Alps in the 1870s. Noted Napa Valley designer Erin Martin also incorporated eclectic homages to the family's history, like an ornate, hand-carved cuckoo clock that nods to their Swiss-Italian heritage. The centerpiece is a massive chandelier constructed from a round, wooden form, which was used to make wine casks in the 19th century. A black crow sculpture sits on the chandelier, a quirky tribute to Joe, Greg Pestoni's pet crow that the family rescued and fed when he was growing up. Andy Pestoni recently retired, so his brother hired renowned consulting winemaker Aaron Pott to help craft the wines, which include classic Napa grapes like Petite Sirah, Sangiovese and Barbera. Fancier tasting experiences ($50-$125) launched with the renovation, but the winery can still accommodate walk-ins and kids. Those looking for something casual can opt for a self-guided tasting at a picnic table ($45) and bring their own provisions, which most Napa Valley wineries don't allow. 'We want to keep that vibe,' said Aimee Pestoni.
Yahoo
8 hours ago
- Yahoo
'I Don't Understand You': Nick Kroll, Andrew Rannells movie inspired by adoption fraud story from filmmakers
While Nick Kroll and Andrew Rannells voice some pretty hysterical characters in Big Mouth, they're now sharing the screen in the horror-comedy I Don't Understand You (now in theatres). Written and directed by married filmmakers David Joseph Craig and Brian Crano, the movie had a particularly interesting starting point. In I Don't Understand You Kroll and Rannells play a couple, Dom and Cole, who have just fallen victim to adoption fraud, but things are looking up. A pregnant woman named Candace (Amanda Seyfried) thinks they're the right fit for the family to adopt her child. But just before that happens, Dom and Cole take a romantic Italian vacation. Things take a turn when they get lost outside of Rome, trying to find a restaurant. As their stranded in an unknown location, the trip turns to bloody Italian chaos. As Craig and Crano identified, the first portion of the movie, up until the couple gets stuck going to the restaurant, is quite close to the real experience the filmmakers had. "We were adopting a child. We had been through an adoption scam, which was heartbreaking, and then had a completely different experience when we matched with the birth mother of our son," Crano told Yahoo. "But we found out that we were going to have him literally like two days before we were going on our 10th anniversary trip." "And we were like, 'Shit, should we not go?' But we decided to do it, and you're so emotionally opened up and vulnerable in that moment that it felt like a very similar experience to being in a horror movie, even though it's a joyful kind of situation." A key element of I Don't Understand You is that feeling of shock once the story turns from a romance-comedy to something much bloodier. It feels abrupt, but it's that jolt of the contrast that also makes that moment feel particularly impactful to watch. "Our sense of filmmaking is so ... based on surprise," Craig said. "As a cinephile, my main decade to go to are outlandish '90s movies, because they just take you to a different space, and as long as you have a reality to the characters that are already at hand, you can kind of take them wherever." "Personally, the situation of adoption was a constant jolt [from] one emotion to another that we felt like that was the right way to tell a story like this, which was literally, fall in love with a couple and then send them into a complete nightmare. And I think you can only get that if you do it abruptly, and kind of manically." While Rannells and Kroll have that funny and sweet chemistry the story needs, these were roles that weren't written for them. But it works because Crano and Craig know how to write in each other's voices so well, that's where a lot of the dialogue is pulled from. Additionally, the filmmakers had the "creative trust" in each other to pitch any idea, as random as it may have seemed, to see if it could work for the film. "When you're with somebody you've lived with for 15 years, there is very little that I can do that would embarrass me in front of David," Crano said. "So that level of creative freedom is very generative." "We were able to screw up in front of each other a lot without it affecting the rest of our day," Craig added. Of course, with the language barrier between the filmmakers and the Italian cast, it was a real collaboration to help make the script feel authentic for those characters. "All of the Italian actors and crew were very helpful in terms of being like, 'Well I feel like my character is from the south and wouldn't say it in this way.' And helped us build the language," Crano said. "And it was just a very trusting process, because neither of us are fluent enough to have that kind of dialectical specificity that you would in English." "It was super cool to just be watching an actor perform a scene that you've written in English that has been translated a couple of times, but you still completely understand it, just by the generosity of their performance." For Craig, he has an extensive resume of acting roles, including projects like Boy Erased and episodes of Dropout. Among the esteemed alumni of the Upright Citizens Brigade, he had a writing "itch" for a long time, and was "in awe" of Crano's work as a director. "Truthfully, in a weird way, it felt like such a far off, distant job, because everything felt really difficult, and I think with this project it just made me understand that it was just something I truly love and truly wanted to do," Craig said. "I love the idea of creative control and being in a really collaborative situation. Acting allows you to do that momentarily, but I think like every other job that you can do on a film is much longer lasting, and I think that's something I was truly seeking." For Crano, he also grew up as a theatre kid, moving on to writing plays in college. "The first time I got laughs for jokes I was like, 'Oh, this is it. Let's figure out how to do this,'" he said. "I was playwriting in London, my mom got sick in the States, so I came back, and I started writing a movie, because I was living in [Los Angeles] and I thought, well there are no playwrights in L.A., I better write a movie.'" That's when Crano found a mentor in Peter Friedlander, who's currently the head of scripted series, U.S. and Canada, at Netflix. "I had written this feature and ... we met with a bunch of directors, great directors, directors I truly admire, and they would be like, 'It should be like this.' And I'd be like, 'Yeah, that's fine, but maybe it's more like this.' And after about five of those Peter was like, 'You're going to direct it. We'll make some shorts. We'll see if you can do it.' He just sort of saw it," Crano recalled. "It's nice to be seen in any capacity for your ability, but [I started to realize] this is not so different from writing, it's just sort of writing and physical space and storytelling, and I love to do it. ... It is a very difficult job, because it requires so much money to test the theory, to even see if you can." But being able to work together on I Don't Understand You, the couple were able to learn things about and from each other through the filmmaking process. "David is lovely to everyone," Crano said. "He is much nicer than I am at a sort of base level, and makes everyone feel that they can perform at the best of their ability. And that's a really good lesson." "Brian literally doesn't take anything personally," Craig added. "Almost to a fault." "And it's very helpful in an environment where you're getting a lot of no's, to have a partner who's literally like, 'Oh, it's just no for now. Great, let's move on. Let's find somebody who's going to say yes, maybe we'll come back to that no later.' I'm the pessimist who's sitting in the corner going, 'Somebody just rejected me, I don't know what to do.' ... It just makes you move, and that's that's very helpful for me."
