The Chapel of Louis XIV at Versailles was resplendent on that morning in
1770 when the dauphin married Marie Antoinette of
Austria. Sunlight pierced the stained-glass windows, illuminating the frescoed
ceiling and the embroidered brocades and silks of the guests—the
aristocracy of Europe and a few lords from the colonies. It was a state
affair, too sublime for common folk. Only nobles whose coats of arms
bore many quarterings were permitted inside Versailles's marble walls
and mirrored hallways. All went smoothly until a thunderstorm rained
out a postnuptial display of fireworks. Some 200 years later, royalty's ragged remnant as well as the restless
rich and those who aspire to such status still crave an invitation to
Versailles. They are even willing to pay $235 a head for a floor show
and supper in the now-termite-infested palace. Of course, the servants
must be bewigged, the brocade and baubles as abundant as in the days of
Louis and Marie. And so it was last week, thanks to a whim of American
Fashion Publicist Eleanor Lambert. While summering in France, Lambert told Gerald van der Kemp, curator of
Versailles, that it would be “so nice” if American designers
could get some more exposure in France. Why not a joint showing with
their French counterparts? Why not indeed, said Van der Kemp, who
proposed that the royal palace, which needs restoration, be both the
site and the beneficiary. It was arranged: five top French couturiers, including Pierre Cardin and
Hubert de Givenchy, would reach across the Atlantic to Halston, Anne
Klein, Oscar de la Renta, Stephen Burrows and Bill Blass. Together they
would have a ball scarving, belting, bigskirting or otherwise adorning
the likes of Liza Minnelli, Josephine Baker and Capucine. The performers, together with
ordinary mannequins, would stage a kind of high-budget vaudeville called “Le Grand
Divertissement Versailles.” The money? Ah, yes, patrons like the Baroness
Marie-Hlne de Rothschild would angel the operation, and people like Amanda
Burden, Princess Grace, the Charles Revsons and Karim Aga Khan would lend their
glamorous names as sponsors. Last week it all happened, more or less as planned. But as
with the 1770 fireworks, there was rain on the big parade. In fact, the preparations preceding
the show demonstrated just how bad Franco-American relations can be even where NATO is
not involved. Worst Experience. The rehearsals were chaos, with virtually no
communications between U.S. and French organizers. The Baroness said
privately —but not privately enough to keep it a secret—that the
American acts were “cheap.” Anne Klein observed: “This
has been the worst experience of my life. When this is over we are all going to relax and have
a nervous breakdown.” Most of the Americans quickly got the perhaps paranoid feeling that the
French were out to humiliate them. The French performers and models
rehearsed first and consistently ran several hours late. While the
Americans waited their turn well into the first night, their hosts
provided no food, not even water. The next night, when a dinner break
was demanded, a femme Friday offered three petite cartons of finger
sandwiches; a ravenous crew of 60 came close to mutiny.
