Dear Sofia Coppola,

Well, I hope you're satisfied. You and your lousy little movie about the pop-ification of Kirsten Dunst, Baby Vampire/Reine de France have flooded every single thing there is to flood about popular culture and fashion this fall . What little is left after the complete enshrinement of women's bodies in overlarge, men's-wear stealing hideousness is inspired by Marie Antoinette, or in homage to Marie Antoinette, or because the designer is the big, fat best friend of yours and knows how much you love Marie Antoinette. Because of you, M.A. is on the hot list of every self-respecting magazine worthy of having a fall fashion issue. There are new biographies of M.A., there are articles galore praising your genius or lambasting your faulty sense of revisionist history ( and taste in books - I mean, Antonia Fraser? Really.), there are pictures of her EVERYWHERE. And that's where I have a problem with you, my little rockstar babymama.

My costume idea for Marie Antoinette was inspired. Halloween is all just a big excuse to dress up as sexy as possible, and there is nothing sexier than the good dying young. I was going to wow the crowds with the lusciousness of my constricted Orbs of Delight, I was going to shock them with my dramatic interpretation of her stately march to the guillotine, I was going to amuse them with my bon mots and double entendres, all of which had to do with cake. And I was going to do it in a manner that required little more research than a few viewings of Dangerous Liaisons, a novel by Rosalind Miles called To Dance with Kings, and what little I remember about the history of the Ancien Regime that I picked up while flirting with Jeremy Bailey in my World History class in 11th grade. But no. You had to come along and make a movie about her, and you had to do it in a really big, Oscar-buzz sort of way, and you had to debut it way early but not release it until the week before my big event. In short, you had to go and tutor the entire planet about MY ICON, so that every schmo I run into will engage me on my opinion of her political acumen while ogling my Orbs. Not only that, but half the town will be aware that the gown I am choosing to make and wear represents only the first decade of her reign, and is therefore entirely inaccurate for the aforementioned march to the Blades of Death. Shame on you! My weakness exposed! I hate being called on my knowledge of all things trivial, and if even one person, even one, so much as mentions that my meticulous robe a la francaise is made from synthetic material, well, I hold you wholly responsible.

My High Holiday will not be ruined because of your so-called masterpiece. I will hold my head high, and I will answer each and every question that I am asked, and each time someone begins with, "Well, in the movie...," I will make a mental tick against your name. Soon you will be seated in my mental principal's office, miss, with some explaining to do.

Sincerely yours,
S.

P.S. - If you are considering a biopic about the love affair between Gustav Klimt and anyone before next year, please reconsider. Otherwise I will get a restraining order. Thank you.