On April 13th, the fashion supplement to The New York Times (called “T Beauty”) ran a piece of mine on the self-loathing fashion awards. (Click the image at left to see a legible version.) A few of these images benefit from still further enlargement, both visually and mentally, because of the playful way they violate human dignity. Since dignity is one of those things we must often abandon to survive (or even to charm those whose baser affections we seek), it’s worth a self-loather’s time to study these costumes further.

The men’s outfits were particularly delightful for self-loathers this spring because they so wittily elaborated upon what sort of things men might want to loathe themselves for. Specifically, for being either a pussy or a brute. In times of war, it’s tempting to go for one or the other, even if you aren’t a man.

According to numerous sloppy thinkers in government and the academy, when faced with a vague, power-seeking enemy who wants to turn tables on you, you must agree to do terrible things to these enemies in order to protect your friends. Shackles and hoods, orange jumpsuits and women’s panties, all kinds of fashion accoutrements have been deployed in assaults on the dignity of war captives in the hope that once they are dignity-free they will be willing to help us. Both our willing interrogation teams and those of us exposed to images and tales of their exploits, are also frequently dressed down by those who still cling feebly to decency.

The Thom Browne fashion plate is a man who refuses to let his manhood bloom, lest it take him into such murky waters. This outfit’s frilly gray roses—at once tender and dead looking—so beautifully express the terror of cowardice we all feel that I think we should all spend a day or two wearing them. Galliano’s gladiator, conversely, is a lord of flies and carnage, a man less likely to sip a martini than to guzzle a goblet of bull’s blood. He has renounced the civilizing principle, refusees community; he has abandoned any trust in refinement, in pencil skirts and purses and bouquets, and so thoroug is his fear of femininity that his mighty hose has turned on him and now pumps him full of his own toxic juices. Galliano sees this warrior as a figure of fun, a grotesque, an object lesson, but also a curious object of desire. That hose may be useless, but it is impressively large, and I imagine that it would be hard to get it out of your mind once it came strutting down the runway at you. But the point is, that these are the outfits we’re all metaphorically wearing these days, and it’s always a joy to see our general discomfort (malaise? revulsion? embarrassment?) so amusingly caricatured.

In Eastern Promises, Viggo Mortensen’s “Nikolai” had to become London’s top Russian mafioso in order to fight crime effectively. He ended up defaced by sinister tattoos and the splatter of underworld butchery, feeling too slimey to claim a woman’s love. That was also, more or less, the plot of Sweeney Todd, the vengeful barber and class warrior, magnificently portrayed in puddles of stage blood by Johnny Depp. Both actors were quite convincing and, more importantly, attractively miserable.

So was George Clooney’s “Michael Clayton” as a giant law firm’s fixer, a character who felt compromised (a) from the start and (b) to the core. After Clayton’s equally self-loathing friend, Arthur Edens (pb Tom Wilkenson), generously teaches him to put his self-loathing to work saving innocent maidens, (much like mob infiltrator Nikolai), Clayton ends up loathing himself for trading his livelihood (and ability to pay child support) for a hollow moral victory. He communicates this without lines, thank God, by slouching and looking empty, plus sad, palpably conveyong that the alternative to feeling compromised is feeling fired.

Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood and Tilda Swinton in Michael Clayton both played ambitious strivers who spend their lives desperately running from themselves towards something they wrongly assume will be better. Swinton achieves a shivering state of free fall, and maintains it brilliantly, while Lewis keeps shooting black bile skyward as if we will never run out of the stuff. Bravo.

So who wins the SLOscar for best portrayal of making one’s self want to puke? Subtle Viggo? Operatic Johnnie? Suffering George? High strung Tilde or the explosive D.D.?

Well I just can’t decide. Isn’t that pathetic? Except I will say that Daniel Day Lewis’s Daniel Plainview does a little bit too much eye-crossing, shouting and turning red in the face to make a credible self-loather. When he famously bellows “I’ve abandoned my boy!” at a revival meeting, you suspect what he’s really feeling is tired of ingratiating himself with the saps he’s fleecing. There’s never a moment in which Lewis’s Plainview sees the worst in himself and figures it’ll be hard to live with. You can imagine him pouring himself a stiff one and cutting himself some slack, like, “Hey: At least I didn’t invade Iraq.” The giants of self-loathing don’t hedge like that. It was a fine performance, but less a portrait of a self-loather than of someone interestingly loathsome.

So, while we end up with an awkward number of SLOscar winners, I’m happy to say that we could at least pick a loser.