It started in NY with Marc Jacobs, gained decibels with the resort collections, and now in Milan, it’s a can’t-miss-it blaring: Glamour is back. With Veronica Lake waves cascading down her shoulders and a dangerously precise red lip, the Gucci girl (or is she a woman?) was transformed into a polished English countess for fall.
It was lacquered glamour not without the sporty equestrian references Frida continuously gravitates to. For daywear, she delivered fur-trimmed bombers, tartan jodhpurs, and shawl collared knits layered over cranberry turtlenecks and men’s shirting. It was shamelessly opulent and justifiably stale. At times, the results felt suited solely for “les femmes d’un certain age”. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just not comprehendible in the Gucci umbrella. It’s yet another season of limbo for the designer, struggling to commit herself to a unique vision. Unlike her predecessor, Frida’s fundamental fault lies in determining who the Gucci persona is. Is she the graphic-lovin’ girl of the spring show? The slinky rock ‘n roll siren of last year? Please, Frida, do tell.
The eveningwear – graphically printed and draped floor sweeping gowns – showed the most promise and will no doubt trickle its way onto an awards show red carpet or two. For the most part, however, Frida’s greatest consistency comes in delivering inadvertent confusion. It’s ironic that a house synonymous with the spotlight is standing increasingly farther from it.
That third dress reminds me of Rochas. Oh, the good old days.