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OBSESSIONS. DECORATION. SALIENT FACTS. It's surprising Marc Jacobs hasn't already been immortalized in a glossy, high-fashion documentary. Sure, Loïc Prigent's Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton (2007) gave us a glimpse of the designer during his Parisian heyday, but in this era of fashion films — Dior and I, Martin Margiela: In His Own Words, High & Low — John Galliano — Jacobs' maximalist, pop-infused world has been waiting for a film as vivid and layered as he is. Enter Sofia Coppola, longtime friend and muse, now director of Marc by Sofia, which premiered at Venice Film Festival in early September. Her first documentary, and perhaps her most personal, it defies traditional f a s h i o n - d o c c l i c h é s . N o talking heads, no rigid timelines. Instead, it's a lush, cinematic collage — part love letter, part portrait — immersing you in the restless beauty of creative o b s e s s i o n a n d friendship. The film begins with vapor: Jacobs — sharp bob, silver nails, vape in hand — gliding through fabric s w a t c h e s a n d fittings, the anxiety of creation stitched tightly into every moment. He's preparing his Spring 2024 show, marking his 40th anniversary. Sofia, camera poised, watches quietly like a confidante who knows the rhythm of this story intimately. But Marc by Sofia isn't a biography. It's a mood, an atmosphere. Coppola's camera captures Jacobs' world — his influences, his chosen family, the city that shaped him — without explanation, inviting you to feel rather than analyze. Their bond, forged in early '90s downtown New York and anchored by shared loves — Fiorucci, Fassbinder, Fosse — runs like silk throughout the film. The creative shorthand between them lets Marc by Sofia unfold like an intimate conversation, not a recap. Shot in the intense months before the 2024 runway, where giant Alice in Wonderland-style furniture transformed the Park Avenue Armory, the film layers backstage chaos, archival clips, Marc by Sofia A Love Letter to the Process of Fashion By Steven Hempel personal recollections, and visual references straight from Jacobs' mood-board mind. There are no chapters, only long silences and loaded glances. If Lost in Translation was a fashion film, this would be it. We glimpse Jacobs' earliest influences: his impeccably stylish grandmother, glamorous '70s babysitters, the femme fatales of Cabaret, the raw emotion of The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant. Coppola doesn't just name-check these icons; she weaves them into the film's fabric. Jacobs' glittering gowns and towering bouffants aren't just spectacle — they're echoes of a cultural history he's been remixing with love for decades. Most striking is the vulnerability Coppola captures — the backstage panic when wigs slip and timing fails, but also the quieter, deeper tension of being a lifelong artist. Coppola doesn't shy away from these moments. She's lived this life and this is her superpower: bringing together a film that captures the art of creation itself, from soaring highs and crushing lows and all the influences that shape us. The film's structure mirrors Jacobs' own process. "I like having a plan and going into something knowing what you're going to be doing — but there was no script, and I was under pressure to make something good, because it's Marc Jacobs," says Coppola. Archival boxes became treasure troves; images filled emotional gaps. Without conventional storytelling, she found shape in mood, texture, and memory — the same way Jacobs crafts his shows. Fittingly, a film about fashion refuses a neat ending. Marc by Sofia drifts and unfurls like a garment stitched from memory — nostalgic, imperfect, and full of heart. It won't answer every question, but it will leave you wanting to call that one friend who truly gets you — the one who makes your style, and your story, make sense. Because, after all, isn't that what fashion is about? COURTESY A24 Sofia Coppola, Marc Jacobs in Marc By Sofia 52