I believe the reason the film resonated and turned into a breakout theatrical success was that it was not just an inside look at the mechanics of running a couture house and growing and maintaining a global brand; it was about the relationship between two men who loved each other and the work they did side by side with equal passion. After decades of controlled press and image-crafting, they revealed a more authentic side of themselves, and the crowds loved it. I always believed that Giammetti wanted to tell more of their true story and get away from the narrative of Valentino, the solo genius that they had brilliantly marketed for decades, almost to a fare-thee-well. A story that explored their personal connection and did not skip over the romantic part—the gay part—would be more modern in a world on the verge of legalizing gay marriage. This was a world that Valentino, born in 1933 and running a fashion empire in the hometown of the Catholic Church, could not easily reconcile.
Even at the time, I believed the pair were extremely brave and trusting to let me in so close. I virtually moved in for two years while we filmed, and had camera crews in the offices and at their many homes. They were extremely warm and open with me. The sprawling work-life family they had built over the decades was like a Fellini circus, with all of its colorful characters—lovers, former lovers, muses, press liaisons, seamstresses, servants, bodyguards, and various minor or dethroned royals. Their world was so rarefied that it almost defied belief, although, like most people of great privilege who exist in gilded cages, they had ceased to recognize how over-the-top it all was. At least Valentino had; Giammetti always kept one foot in the real world.
As the cinéma vérité camera crew blended into the background, we captured everyday reality for Valentino, which translated as eye-popping opulence onscreen. Each meal was served by white-gloved butlers in gold-buttoned tunics (seersucker by day, white for dinner), often with Meissen porcelain table settings and voluminous monogrammed linen napkins the size of the shahtoosh scarves Valentino casually tucked into his suit pockets. The yacht was decorated with elegant restraint by Peter Marino, one of a legion of star interior designers who had outfitted Valentino’s homes around the world over decades. Others include Renzo Mongiardino, Jacques Grange, Henri Samuel, and François-Joseph Graf. The sheets at his homes were ironed on the bed. The mozzarella for dinners at the Château de Wideville, outside Paris, was flown in from Naples, where it was made that morning.
At the time I was following him with cameras, there were five pugs who traveled everywhere. Airport arrivals involved a motorcade, with a luggage van, a car for the pugs, and butlers, who escorted the dogs onto the waiting private jets. One of the more memorable shots in the film (and the only one where I was operating the camera) is of the dogs seated in a row on a flight.
At a lunch at Valentino’s chalet in Gstaad, where we had filmed him skiing down a glacier with rather shocking alacrity, he said to me, “Don’t ever have so many servants…. You become a prisoner.” Just then, a towering soufflé was brought out and served by a staff of four.
As we filmed over two years, it became clear that Valentino might soon retire, and we were able to capture his swan song at a 45th-anniversary gala in Rome in 2007. It was one of the last gatherings of the old 20th-century café society and fashion aristocracy. The three-day event was held across the city, with parties in the Villa Borghese and the Roman Forum, and the Colosseum as the backdrop. Giorgio Armani, Donatella Versace, Tom Ford, and Karl Lagerfeld all showed up to pay tribute. Backstage after the blowout runway show, the cameras captured Lagerfeld whispering to Valentino, “That’s the way it should be done. Compared to us, the rest are making rags.”
