By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Trevor Bach
By Kyle Munzenrieder
"When I started taking photographs, people were so open to situations," Bruce Weber recalls ruefully of his career's beginnings in the Seventies. The famed fashion photographer spears a forkful of rugelach inside the Rascal House restaurant in Sunny Isles Beach and continues. "You might tell a girl: 'I think you're going to have your top off in this next picture.' And years ago if you just thought it at that minute, you'd say it, and it would happen. Now the girl thinks about it, calls her agency, calls her boyfriend, calls her ex-boyfriend, she calls her parents back in Cologne -- then they call their relatives somewhere else in Germany." He puts his hands to his head in mock exasperation: "By the time you get involved with it, you don't even wantto do the picture anymore! All the mystery is taken away."
As if to dramatize Weber's lament, the fashion world has even spread to this bastion of old-school Miami and Yiddishkeit. In a corner of the Rascal House, amid tables of pickle-chomping seniors, a Houston crew from Neiman Marcus carefully arranges a pair of shoes before a tripod-mounted camera. A decade ago Weber brought Linda Evangelista here, seating her at the counter beside a flock of yarmulke-clad children for Italian Vogue. The secret, it seems, is out.
"I came here because itwasn't fashionable," Weber notes with a chuckle, an initial attraction that led him to purchase a winter home in Golden Beach -- the sun-drenched backdrop for many of his subsequent shoots.
Of course Weber has only himself to blame for transforming a decision to go topless from an artistic whim to a meticulously calculated business gambit. His past two decades of national advertising campaigns for the likes of Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Banana Republic helped fuel the explosive growth of the modeling milieu, filling teens from coast to coast with dreams of runway glory. Grabbing headlines and provoking controversy with their overt sexuality and homoerotica, Weber's fashion photos created as much interest in the models themselves as in the clothes they were wearing. Along the way Weber also helped to create a little place called South Beach.
It was Weber's 1985 Calvin Klein shoot atop Ocean Drive's Breakwater Hotel that sparked the international fashion world's interest in the area. "We were looking for a place we could afford to go to with a lot of models," Weber explains of his South Beach foray.
At the time little more than a mix of boarded-up buildings, crackhouses, aging retirees, and Marielitos, the forgotten burg soon became a magnet for fashion shoots, synonymous in the public mind with the supermodel craze of the Nineties. But the Beach's new growth industry gentrified out of existence much of what first drew Weber there. "The only sadness I have about Miami now is I miss that combustible thing of young and old people together," he says. "Down on South Beach you'd see some kid skateboarding past an older lady just rocking back and forth. That's the kind of mix of people I like in my life: a surfer and a 95-year-old artist."
Which is perhaps the best way to describe Weber's latest directorial effort, Chop Suey, which recently landed a national distribution deal after making the festival rounds. (The film opens February 1 at the Regal South Beach.) Chop Suey's title is a pretty good summation of the film itself: tangled, gooey, yet ultimately satisfying. A cinematic autobiography, it acts as a guided tour through, and a loving ode to, Weber's various muses and obsessions. Jumping between archival footage and Weber's own documentary film work, the director moves from actor Robert Mitchum to Vogue doyenne Diana Vreeland, from the criminally forgotten Fifties lounge singer Frances Faye to fellow photographers Larry Clark and Robert Mapplethorpe. Tying it all together is Weber's narration, explaining each icon's role in influencing his life.
And of course there's plenty of flesh, with beautifully chiseled young men drifting by the camera in gorgeous slow motion, or blithely romping around Weber's back-yard pool. One focal point is Peter Johnson, a fifteen-year-old who, in 1996, caught Weber's eye at a Wisconsin wrestling camp and went on to become a favored photographic subject, first in a book -- The Chop Suey Club -- and now onscreen.
But Johnson is more than a simple cinematic subject. He also serves as a kind of scrim upon which Weber projects his own idyllic visions. "We sometimes photograph things we can never be," Weber explains somewhat mournfully in a voice-over, referring both to his own tortured adolescence in a Pennsylvania farm town and the sheer youthful radiance that emanates from Johnson, whether he's enthusiastically soaping up in the shower or appearing sweetly vapid during an interview segment.
One of Chop Suey's more poignant moments arrives during a montage featuring Jeff Aquilon, discovered by Weber in 1979 at Malibu's Pepperdine University. Aquilon would revolutionize the very concept of male modeling after Weber took the radical approach of photographing this archetypal California golden boy in the same sexualized way one would shoot a female model. "At that time editors at magazines just didn't feel comfortable focusing on men in photographs," Weber narrates. "Even today they'll say, 'Let's just crop the man out of the picture.'But Donald was different."