"Fashion designers aren't supposed to die. In fact, it's probably the safest job in the world. They don't die in airplane crashes, they don't die in car crashes, they don't choke while eating a piece of steak." This profundity(from the editor of French Vogue) makes you wonder what the filmmakers chose not to include in this slapdash "documentary" that plays more like a poorly edited E! Hollywood True Story. It tells you very little about Versace (he was rich, he was nice, he liked beautiful people, he will be missed) and even less about his murderer, Cunanan (he was a "boytoy" whose dark side emerged when he gained weight). His father is convinced Cunanan was not gay but rather "enacted the role of a homosexual for his superiors"--whatever that means. Or even that he was murdered. He blames "organized crime." Cunanan's stepmother, "Boots" Cunanan, hauls out a phone and says, "this is the phone that Andrew called me on." She beams. The tragic, and sensational, true story has potential: sex, celebrity, fame, wealth, ambition, high style, low lives. Fashion Victim squanders all that, and wastes a pretty good title, too.
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