Project Runway, you baffling puzzle of contradictions, you. You nag the contestants about taste levels, reminding them they are here to make capital-f Fashion, the stuff that fills the pages of Vogue, Elle, and even Nina Garcia's own Marie Claire, and inspires Miranda Priestly to give dazzling monologues on the provenance of azure belts. And then what do you do? You send the weary souls to hang out with a bunch of flame-throwers, jugglers, and trapeze artists all rolling around in wood chips under the big top. And yet you act offended that some of them may return with sartorial visions too costume-y for your delicate sensibility.
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