In an era when fashion icons were as fleeting as a miniskirt hemline, Twiggy—born Lesley Hornby in the suburbs of Neasden—emerged as a supernova of youth and rebellion. Sadie Frost’s 2024 documentary Twiggy captures this era, blending archival footage with heartfelt testimonials from the likes of Joanna Lumley and Paul McCartney. It’s a love letter to the woman who redefined beauty not through smoldering sensuality but with wide-eyed innocence and a pixie cut that screamed “youthquake.” At 75, Twiggy herself narrates much of her story, her Cockney voice as warm and unpretentious as ever, reminding us why she remains a cultural rolemodel rather than a faded snapshot.
From the film’s opening frames, we’re plunged into the optimism of post-war Britain, where Hornby’s transformation begins at 16 in Leonard of Mayfair’s salon, where a bold haircut sparks a photoshoot with Barry Lategan. Those images land in the Daily Express, dubbing her “The Face of ‘66.” As Swinging London made fashion more accessible, Twiggy broke the stereotype of tall, upper-class models. Frost explains that this wasn’t just her personal success, but a huge change in the fashion world. Edward Enninful adds that her slim, androgynous look represented a move away from the flashy style of the 1950s.
The documentary speeds up as Twiggy becomes a global sensation. Her nickname, a playful reference to her very thin legs, was given by her manager Justin de Villeneuve. By age 17, she was appearing on the cover of Vogue, promoting doll lines, and avoiding paparazzi in New York. There, a surreal photoshoot by Melvin Sokolsky shows her among crowds wearing Twiggy masks, highlighting how crazy fame can be. Clips from her TV appearances show the lively mod style of the time: mini skirts from Mary Quant and Beatles music. But Frost doesn’t just focus on nostalgia. She includes Pattie Boyd’s stories of walking the runway with Twiggy and shows the darker side of the industry—the constant hustle that turned a schoolgirl into a millionaire before she was old enough to drink champagne.
This film doesn’t sugarcoat the era’s casual cruelty. Twiggy’s slim, boyish figure was often unfairly scrutinized in ways that seem disgusting today. Clips show male hosts questioning her weight, chest, and “boyish” look—examples of misogyny. A particularly awkward 1967 interview with Woody Allen has him pestering her about philosophers, but his paternal tone hides something darker. Throughout it all, Twiggy stays graceful, responding with humor and poise, as if brushing away gnats. Her calm shows her strength, but also reminds us how objectification was common—turning a young woman’s body into public property under the guise of journalism.
At the center of her rise is de Villeneuve, the 25-year-old who discovered her at 15 and shaped her image with both skill and control. Frost handles this carefully, showing him as both protector and oppressor: he kept out bad influences but also watched over her photoshoots and interviews. Their relationship was a mix of business and almost romance. Twiggy openly admits this wasn’t ideal, calling it “not politically correct,” but she credits him with protecting her from worse problems. He’s not shown directly in the film, but his presence still looms as a warning about the power struggles that almost brought her down.
Moving from modeling to acting, Twiggy made a brave switch at 22, leaving fashion just as her popularity was peaking. Her role in Ken Russell’s The Boy Friend won her a Golden Globe, and restored clips show her transforming from awkward to lively and funny. She also starred on Broadway in My One and Only and appeared on a BBC variety show, singing with Bryan Ferry and Bing Crosby—her voice surprisingly warm and smooth. Dustin Hoffman, her co-star in The Boy Friend, says she “lives to be alive,” capturing her lively spirit. The film doesn’t pretend her career was perfect—there were flops and doubts—but her hard work and determination remain her true mark.
Behind her success, there is sadness. Her marriage to actor Michael Witney fell apart because of his alcoholism, ending with his tragic heart attack—seen by their young daughter Carly at a restaurant. Frost approaches this gently, letting Twiggy’s straightforward narration show her quiet strength, without drama. A haunting moment describes her fleeing Phil Spector’s mansion when he brandished a gun, animated with jagged cartoon images that highlight the strange dangers of fame. These stories make her more human—showing a woman who took hits like a flexible branch, bending but never breaking.
The second half of the film moves faster, covering her later achievements: judging America’s Next Top Model, designing clothes for Marks & Spencer, and receiving her DBE in 2019. Now married to Leigh Lawson for over 30 years, Twiggy still carries the same humility that won her fans at 16. Celebrities like Brooke Shields and Sienna Miller praise her influence, but it’s Lumley’s sharp comment on the harshness of the fashion world that hits hardest: surviving in this industry requires strength hidden beneath elegance.
Ultimately, Twiggy isn’t just a career scrapbook; it’s a mirror to our obsessions with reinvention and authenticity. At 90 minutes, it’s a swift, satisfying sashay through six decades of dazzle, leaving you grinning at the sheer improbability of it all. In her own words, “It’s all in the eyes”—and through Frost’s lens, those eyes still sparkle with unquenchable fire.
Screening at Luna Palace Cinemas Now.
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