Mahogany has always been the guiltiest of pleasures for me. It’s a throwback to the Joan-Crawford-shopgirl-makes-good-and-conquers-the-world formula, and Diana’s charisma, star power, chutzpah and cheekbones more than scratch that particular itch for me. She is, in the formulation of writer Hilton Als, “a populuxe Nefertiti” and then some. The wild and funky costumes are serious camp gold; I’m a sucker for the fashion montage. However, it’s decidedly not a feminist film; what woman in her right mind would give up being queen of the fashion world to get back together with a loser who stepped on her dreams at every turn, no matter how fine he is?! It’s gleefully out of step with the Virginia Slims era in which it originated.