It must've been difficult to pen a biography with Anna Wintour as the subject. To be sure, she's notorious for being an icy, unsympathetic woman who has well-earned her nickname of 'Nuclear Wintour,' but one can't write a book purely on that vein - it'd be atrociously dull and you'd be marked for slander in five seconds flat. So the book spends as much time chronicling her troubled relationships with family and friends and lovers - just about everybody, really - and paints her as desperately needy, disturbingly clinging fragile butterfly of a woman. As a soap opera, this would work. This could even make brilliant fiction, if the tale was told from Anna's point of view, but Oppenheimer's journalistic approach gives this book over to endless lists of socialites, celebrities and fashion insiders. The style of writing is rather trashy tabloid, giving the book the overall feel of reading a page in People magazine - and there's a reason those articles are never 350+ pages. Front Row : Anna Wintour: The Cool Life and Hot Times of Vogue's Editor in Chief has its moments of interest, but by and large it's overkill. You'd have to be one hell of a fashionista to plow through the pages of repetative material and find this fascinating; I barely made it through.
Petty. Catty. Skip it. (And while you're at it, skip The Devil Wears Prada. I read that about a year ago and it was lackluster and trite.)