Michael Musto

  • Michael Musto


    Those CALVIN KLEIN ADS—the ones with young ’uns striking poses in suburban rec rooms and being asked leering questions by an off-screen male—were the most delicious media event of the year. Bringing teenage sexuality to the front half of everyone’s brains, they pushed buttons and made people livid, the way a great, nasty, confrontational ad campaign should. And, thanks to the controversy, the ads made Calvin cutting edge again, getting people to talk about the ethical limits of sexual pleading way beyond the campaign’s short life span. The only drawback was that so many people—some

  • Duracell

    DURACELL’S BRACING BATCH of current commercials earns points for having the chutzpah to tell us that the American family is propelled by the company’s products, and at the same time for showing us what a creepy bunch they are. Even the most erudite among us are discussing batteries now, in a way we haven’t since Eveready’s Energizer Bunny captivated the intelligentsia with its own surreal relentlessness. This time around we’re being engaged by the Puttermans—a cellular family, as it were, played by actors in prosthetic faces and sculptured clothing who go about banal everyday pursuits with sunny



    The worst fashion trend of ’94 was Anna Nicole Smith’s ascension as Seventh Avenue’s preeminent physical symbol, in apparent response to the worst fashion trend of ’93, Kate Moss’ hungry-looking waif skeleton. This was a case of replacing one tasteless stereotype (undernourished human coat-hanger) with another (big-busted vavoomy tart). Either way, women were made to feel inadequate. And suddenly the WonderBra became popular in accordance with this new urge toward full-figuredness, and the pressure was on Vogue readers to wipe away decades of feminism and go back to being