I watched Terrence Malick's "Days of Heaven" when i was 15.
It was Sunday afternoon and i was curled up on the sofa inside my duvet. I had the flu that weekend, i was shivering and snotting everywhere. My only existing memory of the legendary film, amidst frequent vomit breaks and hallucinations, is Richard Gere dying and lots and lots of fields.
Despite critical acclaim, my "Days of Heaven" recall is infected with an ocean of mucus causing me to shudder at the very notion. eugh.
This probably explains the cloud of terror surrounding me whilst viewing Rodarte's "great american plains" inspired collection. shudder, shudder, shudder. However, when i was able to overcome my feverish disposition, i developed a fondness for the new countrified ideal; a vision far removed from the urban Rodarte city chic.
I appreciated the freshness of the raw organic setting; the blue sky placidity, golden hour sunsets and open corn fields, through the adoption of natural materials, folksy patchwork and pastoral prints under stormy skies. Americana was evoked further by means of a crisp sun-drenched palette upon prairie style pinafores, drindl-y aprons and slouchy mohair sweaters.
Mostly, i adored how the native ruralisation gradually darkened to ultimately be sucked up into a "Wizard of Oz" tornado and crash back into Kansas with modern geometric injections and a sprinkle of Swarovski crystals upon a bad-ass ruby-red dress that Dorothy would die for.
Rodarte intelligently concieved a vision of disturbed tranquility with an edgy rumble below the calm agricultured surface. The Mulleavy sisters are quickly ascertaining business savviness amidst their enviable talent.
It might be time to revisit Days of Heaven