What if Anna Wintour dressed the King of Queens?

So here I am watching The September Issue–last year’s highly hyped documentary about the making of the Vogue magazine super-seller–with a guy attired in a Philadelphia Flyers hoodie, Yankees cap, Rangers sweats, white socks and green crocs. Did I mention the $12 Rite-Aid reading glasses? Okay, so he’s not from Queens, but they haven’t yet made The King of Unbelievably Bad Dressing.

“I never thought to buy you something like that,” he says as a Jean-Paul Gaultier silver mullet head-dress floats across the screen.

Well, even a King of Bad Dressing can have some fashion sense.

Not that I can look at the documentary’s clothes. I’m too busy marveling at Anna Wintour’s fragile frame (do you really think she eats a whole steak for lunch?)  and noting that just about anybody in any decision-making position on this masthead looks like a crazy person. That’s almost a prerequisite to becoming a fashion editor–choosing a look that no normal person would wear.

I mean, Vogue’s creative director, Grace Coddington, may be a genius–she sure knows how to direct a phot0 shoot–but just check out this wild-eyed, frizzy-haired spectre, breaking all the rules at age 69. With all due respect, she looks insane.

Sometimes, Coddington talks crazy, too. “She looks like she’s wearing a plastic bag,” she gleefully observes of one model. “But it looks good. A plastic garbage bag.”

Yep. A style worth every thousand dollar.

I’m not quite sure what these documentary makers were up to. They flash in photos of Wintour in her 20s, Coddington in her teens. Sort of The Picture of Dorian Gray in reverse. And then we segue to more shots of intense, gaunt Vogue staffers arguing over color blocks and Coliseums.

“Why can’t I have arms like that?” I want to know, staring at Wintour’s triceps.

“Because you eat,” says the King, dipping his bread into the lemon-caper sauce surrounding his fish.

“She’s really pissed,” he points out, needlessly. Onscreen, Wintour squints and fumes, furious that the photo shoot she had assigned in Rome has pretty much fizzled. (And as a former editor, I have to say my little heart leaps–God, this happens to Anna Wintour??? I am so vindicated.)

“Why her?” the King asks, alarmed at the appearance of actress Sienna Miller, who is the designated September issue cover girl.

Why indeed? From the moment the poor kid appears onscreen, the editors trash her. “Her hair is just completely lackluster,” says one blonde with better years–to say nothing of better hair–behind her. “She’s growing it out. It would be easier to do a wig.”

In the end, Sienna so strikes out as a model that she can’t even convincingly wear fake hair; they have to pull her puny tresses back, away from that pretty face.

Well! Ninety minutes into this, and that’s pretty much what I’ve learned. The Devil Wears Prada was so much more fun.

“I liked it,” says The King. “I didn’t know anything about that stuff.”

Pause. “Lagerfeld was my favorite.”

I am too afraid to ask what, when it comes to the King’s future attire, this will mean.