Premier Models are not only one of the most powerful agencies in the world, they are also staffed by some of the most delusional, self-serving tools to be seen on TV...
Yes, these people do decide whether models make the grade...
“Stop being an asshole idiot…you call him up and call him a cunt then!”
This is the climax of the eloquent argument in the latest in the fly-on-the-wall series following one of the most powerful model agencies in the world, Premier. One of their bookers has walked out in a hissy fit so they squabble over what to do next with all the diplomacy and decorum of a champagne spritzer fuelled cat fight. It’s like a real life incarnation of Absolutely Fabulous except it won’t make you laugh and you want the employees to contract fatal wasting diseases.
Nothing in the series should be of shock to anyone, from the body fascism to the flogging girls barely out of school like pit ponies- it’s no earth shattering revelation that models are treated as commodities. Yet it still leaves you dumbfounded at the unashamed shallowness and ugliness of the personalities involved. For all their protestations of late nights and being worked into the ground the team appear to spend large swathes of time weeping, smoking and slagging each other off.
Carole is the Edina of the series. You may remember her from the dirty diamonds trial where she dobbed in former protégée Naomi Campbell. She is the willowy, cackling, hooded-eye, chain smoking, hunched goblin at the helm of Premier who has built her empire on the ability to not feel any human empathy. There’s one moment where she’s standing outside sucking on a Malboro Light where she jests at how stressed she’s been and laughs “yeah, I mean I told him to go fuck himself this morning!” while jabbing at one of her appointed bottom-feeders. There’s sweet irony in that the woman so successful at exploiting the beauty of these teenagers so expertly looks like a haggard, tobacco stained ball-sack herself.
There’s sweet irony in that the woman so successful at exploiting the beauty of these teenagers so expertly looks like a haggard, tobacco stained ball-sack herself.
So far we’ve already seen them fawn over a 16 year old who had the audacity of wanting to go back to school. Weeping, pleading, cooing over a school girl until giving up and saying how “fucking outrageous” it was after all the time they wasted on her that they couldn’t now bleed her dry for money. Last night followed 18 year old Julia, the editorial model capable of making up to 150 grand per show season…ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND BRITISH POUNDS. While they talk cash the camera pans over a parade of models as they trot down the runway, stony faced as the audience of middle-aged hags in sunglasses applaud them like they were the second coming of Jesus. This is the only time it’s really struck me how completely deranged the fashion world really is. You can argue that it’s art but it still doesn’t make it any less weird that this microcosm of massive amounts of money essentially culminates each year into some teenagers walking in a line while you look at their clothes.
Julia looks like she is about to pull a whitey at a fitting as she mentions that she’s been awake for something like 48 hours to which some prick retorts, “isn’t that your job?” The same stocky prick then walks down the line of swaying, zombie like models commanding them to walk “strong, angry, strong, strong, strong walk, strong, angry, strong”, which apparently is his very demanding job. He, like everyone in the series, has a brazen sense of self-entitlement convinced that what they’re doing is extremely important and if they were to stop it would fuck up the world order. Depressingly you can’t really knock them for harbouring such huge egos because as everyone knows the glitz, glamour and astonishing amounts of money poured into the industry keeps it the most coveted and difficult worlds to break into.
The Model Agency will have you spitting venom at the telly so it’s best watched while slumped in a stained Snuggie, chomping on a Dominos pizza and most importantly taken with a pinch of salt. You’ll wonder if these people exist, scoff at the inner city types with their cocktail parties and macrobiotic diets and colonic irrigations. You’ll snigger at the absurdity of a grown man losing his shit over being told to “turn his frown upside down”. You’ll shake your head at some of the painfully skinny models while mumbling “she should get a bit of meat on ‘er bones”. You’ll want to pummel Carole and her winged monkeys faces in but, even after all that, you still won’t change the channel.
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