Yet a humourless catalogue of historical facts for fashion groupies it is not. She was certainly a guru - "Pink", she announces, "is the navy blue of India" - but her style was her own. "The only thing I ever learnt was how to dance," she says, and it shows.
With a grand manner shared by Wallis Simpson and dressed in basic black lit up by high-rouged cheekbones and a slash of richest red on lips and nails, Wilson slithers across the set of Vreeland's Park Avenue home like a panther.
In the wake of her sacking from Vogue, she fills vases with lilies, prepares for a dinner party, gives great phone, and recounts her thoughts. No, not recounts, brays. Wilson's outrageously entertaining manner hits you like a cross between Katharine Hepburn and the growling, whiplash wit of Elaine Stritch.
The beautifully tailored script - by Mark Hampton and Wilson - is strewn with drop-dead one-liners, most of them culled from Vreeland's words.
Exaggeration is her hallmark - "We all need a splash of bad taste ... no taste is what I'm against" - but Wilson pulls off an extraordinary coup. Reading aloud a profile of her in the New York Post she reads that she is in her -gasp - "seventies" and hurls the paper across the room. It is high comedy but, against all the odds, Wilson's superb solo is tremendously touching.Reuse content