The Valentino show took place in a bathroom.
Or not a bathroom, exactly, but a big box in the courtyard of the Institut du Monde Arabe constructed to look like a large genderless public bathroom. One lined in toilet stalls and sinks (no urinals) and glowing luridly Valentino red. The models emerged from the toilet stalls in full, kooky Valentino-by-Alessandro-Michele glory: long lace dresses with cats’ faces on torso or waist and short bourgeois skirt suits over bike shorts; polka dot pants with floral neckties; balaclavas and handbags galore.
Why? Well, according to Mr. Michele, it had to do with peeking into what he called the “metatheater” of intimacy and the liminal space where we transform our private self into our public self through dress. Though a stage set that suggests a brand, or at least its heritage, is in the toilet is perhaps not the metaphor he really should have been going for.
Instead it seemed more like a potent example of the current problem with fashion’s amateur theatrics.
Once upon a time that sort of fantasy role-play framed a bigger point; one that gave an origin story to the garments and created a dazzling emotive connection. Or so it was at the turn of the millennium when these sorts of productions transformed the catwalks of Alexander McQueen and John Galliano, the masters of the craft (that’s also why that Galliano Margiela couture from January 2024 is still a reference point).
Increasingly, however, as shows have gotten ever closer to entertainment, designers seem to have lost sight of that connection, using visual histrionics and grandiosity to get attention (and break through the chaos of social media), rather than focusing on the reason the collections exist in the first place: to offer succinct propositions for how we want to look next. It’s as if they believe that, with enough decoration, no one will notice that they haven’t actually come up with any new ideas.
As Demna, the mononymic designer of Balenciaga and formerly one of the great practitioners of fashion stagecraft said after a show that focused on “standards”: “We live in the time where everybody wants to be a main character. But costume is something that I have a problem with currently, because it doesn’t make me dream.”
It’s just a distraction, when what is going on beyond the runways is more than distracting enough.
Pomp and Pterodactyls
That problem was clearly apparent in the McQueen show, where the designer Seán McGirr, in his third outing for the brand, seemed to be doing his best to go through the old McQueen motions. He dutifully built an elaborate set that included a towering mahogany cabinet like something out of Wonderland, complete with a staircase to nowhere and a mirrored tunnel, as if a wormhole from another dimension (maybe Dickens’ England). Then he also dutifully populated it with a series of damsels and dandies in ruffled chiffon, sharp-shouldered jackets, high ruffs and bullion-encrusted evening wear.
Shearling jackets had winglike collars so large one model was temporarily blinded by a flap and banged into the edge of the wormhole. The effect was “Game of Thrones” set in Queen Victoria’s court, with a dose of Saint Laurent thrown in, but there was a hollowness at its core. A lot of sound and brocade, signifying not much. Or not much that seemed relevant to today.
That was certainly the case at Valentino, where Mr. Michele’s trademark maximalism was on full display. As were, thanks to a number of sheer lace gowns and unsnapped bodysuits atop more lace tights, bodies themselves, many of them painfully skinny. It’s hard to focus on the elegance of a high-necked black velvet gown, cut to loop down to the waist in the front, when you are distracted by the jutting breastbones of the woman inside.
Hidden beneath the muchness were actually some potentially compelling ideas: the understatement of a metallic bustier worn with an old pair of jeans; a perfectly cut plaid pantsuit, with just a puff of feathers at the neck. But they were hard to see amid all the sartorial scenery-chewing.
Just as, at Dior, the fact that Maria Grazia Chiuri did have a fashion proposal, and quite a good one, was lost in the surreal dreamscape of a collaboration with Robert Wilson, the experimental director and playwright.
The result was a show in five acts, involving a voice-over sonorously intoning “Once upon a time … Once upon a time,” some lasers, asteroids lit in blood red that descended from above, and scattered crystal icebergs that popped up from the floor. There was a flying pterodactyl.
Oh yeah — and there were clothes. Largely “Orlando”-derived: breeches, doublets, ruffled shirts and redingotes, mostly in black, white and the beige of rough linen. But they were also clever, because, as Ms. Chiuri revealed in a preview, those big ruffles and crisp cuffs, the frills at the neck and corsets at the waist, were all detachable, allowing the wearer to adapt her look at will. Just as what resembled lacy little nothings were actually knits, and camo trench coats were jacquard. These are pieces that have to be seen up close to be appreciated, though in the bombast of the show, they seemed boring.
But hey: Look at the pterodactyl!
Backstage Truths
It is precisely that attitude that made the Balenciaga show so unexpected. Demna, whose October 2024 ready-to-wear show took place on a 154-foot table, this time stripped all the theatrics away, creating a narrow maze of black curtained corridors, the better to frame what was essentially a career retrospective of Balenciaga-isms. One not exactly calculated to quell the speculation that this could be his final show for the brand, but one that functioned as a reminder of how strategically he has subverted the status quo over the past 10 years, and shifted fashion.
There were banker suits (there’s some sort of office-wear trend going on) with the wrinkles and moth holes built-in, the fit just slightly tweaked to be less constricting but no less tailored. A periwinkle-blue hoodie gown that swept the floor like the house’s famously austere 1967 wedding dress. And a lilac puffer quilted into a corset.
There was the requisite streetwear, somewhat more languorous than usual. Also a Puma collaboration; a hoodie labeled “luxury”; silly swim dresses that were essentially bathing suits with trains; and evening coats — including another puffer — with the grandeur of couture. As a whole it was straightforward, and staked its turf.
“Standards are the hardest things to do,” Demna said backstage. He was wearing one of his suits, rather than his usual oversize T-shirt, and referred to his new look as “Demna 2.0.” It was a joke, but also a signifier. An acknowledgment that he understood this was a moment to buckle down and focus.
“It’s easy to put a chair on the head and make wearable art,” he said, “but what I want to do now is just to make great clothes for someone who understands them through wearing them. To make a jacket with two sleeves that looks good on many different people — this is, for me, fashion in its most important state.”
He’s right.
