Style hero of the month : julia roberts in mystic pizza

As anyone with Netflix or Amazon Prime knows all too well, choosing a movie from their plethora of cinematic possibilities is akin to choosing a seat on a plane – even when you eventually choose one, there’s always a possibility you’ll end up regretting your decision. You might end up sitting next to a family with three screaming children on the plane and coming to the end of a movie depressed and empty (thanks for the massive downer, Still Alice). Most of the time when I’m scrolling through the minefield of motion pictures, I end up closing it down and putting on an episode of Seinfeld.

So the other night, after finishing and handing in my last university assessment for this term after weeks of stress, I decided to have a chilled one with a glass of red and a good flick. Something I hadn’t seen before. After a few scrolls, a title caught my eye – Mystic Pizza. I’d always meant to watch it, hearing of its cult status as well as being known for launching the career of Notting Hill darling Julia Roberts, but it was only until now that I happened to be in the right frame of mind for something new.

This is not a movie review of Mystic Pizza. I am not going to dissect the storylines of the three women it centres around or evaluate the minutae of each scene. This is a post about the character of Daisy Arujo (Roberts) and why she is my new style icon.

This is the 1980’s glory days of big hair and big collars. It is also the decade of notoriously horrific bridesmaids dresses. This is the dress in which we first see Daisy.


The main feature here, of course, is the hair. Even scraped up in a fussy updo, it refuses to be tamed.

Then it comes down and looks in. Cred.


This girl looks good working the long hours at a pizza joint. The hair should always be down, really. That said, I worry for the customers. I can’t imagine they’d appreciate on of those auburn tendrils in their 10-inch Quattro Formaggi.

What does Daisy do once she’s finished her shift? Head to the pub to sink a pint or four, obviously.


Okay, so more specfically, she heads to the bar to shoot pool and a couple of Coors Lights. But look at what she’s wearing – a red cardigan that looks like she nicked it off her gran, teamed with a tight black mini? The 80’s, man. It was a wild time.

Of course, this is where she has some serious eye – sex with the dreamy posho she’s been lusting after for a while.


Subsequently kicking his privileged arse at pool.


Looking foxy as per.

Fast-forward to when she’s showing off her new swag to her more reserved sister, hair looking sheeny-shiny and wild. The dress is killer, obviously. I sorely long for the days when women could wear a dress with a massive white bow stretched over their cleavage and nobody would give them a weird look.


You can see vibes of Vivian Ward here. You almost wonder where Richard Gere has buggered off to, leaving his paramour to buy a gorgeous dress with her own card and having to return it afterwards, too.


Again, another aran knit she probably shares with her auntie Maude. But teamed with an unruly ponytail, theatrical gold earrings and a cold one, it looks chic AND cosy. The dream. Shoutout to her sister Jojo for setting the ’90s flannel trend before it happened. Thanks for the ugliest fashion trend that won’t go away, Jo.


Pink stonewashed oversized denim jacket. Because what else does one wear when introducing your country-club boy to yer ma?


It is an understood fact that nobody wore smart/casual in the ’80s without a Big Belt. It was like the rosary beads of ’80s fashion.


Daisy is invited to Posho’s cabin in the country, which means she’s likely to get lucky. What does Daisy wear to bring that boy to the yard? A purple-and-black striped poloneck looking like a reject from the Beetlejuice costume closet and a sheepskin-lined aviator jacket. With supersleek hair. What kind of game is this woman playing? What is her deal? Can she pull?


Can she heck.

Because God is good and true, we get another scene to appreciate that aviator jacket. Over a denim jacket.


Then we get to appreciate Daisy being a crazy badass


Pouring sewage over Posho’s car because you mistaked his sister for his bit on the side is inadvisable, but at least she’s looking damn fashionable doing it.


Making a mental note to always wear my t-shirt sleeves rolled up. Also, where can I buy this t-shirt?!

Dinner with the Posho’s family. Wearing another massive bow.


Also, approximately how much hairspray would it take to get my hair into a poofy crown like that? It’s divine.

It just occurred to me that all this may all sound like I’m being sarcastic or ironic. But I don’t think you understand my fascination with the OTT-ness of the ’80s. The bigger and brighter, the better!


How does she get that one errant tendril to fall perfectly from the poof? What kind of mystic?(sorry)


Finally, the wedding is back on and we get a better look at just how atrocious and awesome the bridesmaid dress is. Off-the-shoulder taffeta will never not cause a stir. I also love the flower crown, reminding me of an era where flower crowns weren’t ridiculously overdone and cloying, associated with Pinterest boards and hipster bridezillas.

Now do you see? Do you see how Julia Roberts single-handedly won the crown of “smalltown girl living in a lonely world” ’80s fashion icon status? The film was a pleasure but the style, oh the style, was a revolution. People will always credit Pretty Woman for Roberts’ mark on fashion history, but I think Mystic Pizza has a strong case for making it cool to wear your sister’s skirt with your granny’s cardi.






Rihanna’s Diamond-Studded Ass isn’t the Problem; This Society of Slut-Shamers Is

Unless you’re a hermit or had a family thing going on this week, you’ll have heard/seen/talked about Rihanna at the CFDA Awards held in the United States on Monday. While everyone else at the ceremony dressed according to the Inoffensive Non-controversial Beigeness dress code, Rihanna arrived as a Barbadian goddess draped completely in diamonds, top to bottom, along with a gorgeous diamond headdress. Beautiful as ever, she lived up to her name as a fashion icon by surpassing all expectations (once again) and going for the biggest statement she could think of (as ever). The second I laid eyes on the look I fell in love with it. Girl, ya look good I thought in sisterly solidarity.

But there’s always a party pooper.

Following her appearance on the red carpet, there appeared a hive of naysayers and pearl-clutchers to crow, “Won’t someone think of the children?!” While many found the look dramatic, decadent and fashion-forward, there were several stick-in-the-muds who found it necessary to voice that they feared for the sanctity of childhood and innocence of youth. There are bombs going off in Afghanistan and the US president is doing very little about it, but sure, let’s focus on the female popstar showing some skin.

One of the most hilarious reactions came from Andrea Peyser of the New York Post, bleating that she looked like a “poorly put-together streetwalker” (I don’t know how many streetwalkers can afford to drape themselves in Swarovski crystals, but whatever, logic clearly isn’t your strong point) and how “female modesty and decency have been on the decline for years.” So true! Why, just the other day I saw a young girl display her bare ankles in public, like a common whore!

Peyser goes on to decry how female celebrities such as Miley Cyrus have joined in on this provocateur parade by “twerking indecently against singer Robin Thicke, then a married man of 36”, never questioning why a married man of 36 was grinding on a girl 16 years younger than him. I’m no Miley fan, but the double standard of expression of sexuality here is disgusting.

Oh, quelle horreur! She displayed her nipples! She displayed her breasts, these things that also give babies life! Disgusting! Lock her in a tower and throw away thon key!

The bright side of this admittedly horrific representation of our overly-conservative, slut-shaming, patriarchal society is that the object of the controversy remains completely undeterred. Rihanna has remained unapologetic about her outfit, even joining in on the joke by changing her Twitter display picture to a Peter Griffin parody of her dress. She responded to a question on her provocative dress on the red carpet at the awards with “Do my tits bother you? They’re covered in Swarovski crystals, girl.” After a fan tweeted a Maya Angelou (R.I.P.) quote in relation to her dress, Rihanna clearly resonated with the comparison by retweeting the quote “Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise that I dance like I’ve got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs?” Damn straight.

The constant censorship of the female body is nothing new, and it would seem that there will always be people trying to tell women what they can and cannot do with their bodies, disguising their judgement and dictation as “concern for children” and “in the name of preserving the sanctity of society.” Fuck off. Target the rape culture, the subtle sexism, the media’s consistent oxymoronic objectification of women in men’s magazines and simultaneous shaming of those who dare to show flesh in public and on their own terms, because that’s what’s polluting the minds of society’s youth. Stop taking the moral high ground when it comes to the “offensive nature” of the naked female form, and start taking issue with what is really going to harm your children. Because I guarantee you it’s not Rihanna’s nipples,